Otherworldly Bad Boys: Three Complete Novels Page 32

  “But...” I gripped the phone. “In my dream, Aunt Kate, he doesn’t seem evil.” In my dream, he seemed perfect. I was always right on the edge of a mind-bending orgasm in the dream.

  “No man seems evil while he’s seducing you,” she said. “It’s only after, when he’s left you without your senses and heavy with his child that you realize that he was only using you. You can’t give into the temptations of the flesh, Teagan. Coupling with men only leads to pain and suffering.”

  I rolled my eyes. Not this again. My aunts were celibate, and they were convinced that I should remain so as well. A long time ago, I’d tested out their theory to see if sex was really so bad. It wasn’t like I was a virgin or something. There had been three co-stars in my community theater productions that had been willing to experiment with me backstage or in the parking lot behind the theater.

  The guy who’d played Rolf in The Sound of Music had even made me come. Sort of. I thought so. I honestly wasn’t sure if it counted if you had doubts.

  The point was, sex wasn’t evil like my aunts thought. It maybe never quite reached the ecstatic heights of my dream with the dark man, but if sex itself had faults, it was only that it was messy and embarrassing and clumsy. Men didn’t try it out of an attempt to hurt women either. I was convinced that most of them genuinely wanted to make women happy. If they weren’t particularly good at making me feel happy, well... Maybe I was abnormal.

  Of course, if I told my aunts that I’d had sex, they’d freak out.

  “You know, Aunt Kate,” I said. “Um, I don’t think he’s the guy from my dream after all.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I think was confused.”

  “Listen, Teagan—”

  “Um, give my love to Libby and Sarah,” I said. “And Mom. Bye.” I hung up the phone.

  Maybe my aunts did serve some weird sky goddess. Maybe I did have prophetic dreams. But that didn’t mean that the dark man was evil. My aunts thought sex was evil.

  And I...

  I stood up.

  Oh, God. What was I thinking? I couldn’t have sex with Professor Alexander. He was a professor. I was a student. It was completely forbidden.

  But I mean, he couldn’t really be that much older than me, could he?

  I’d had sex with the guy who played Harold in The Music Man (oh, his voice was divine) and he was at least thirty-three. There was no way that Professor Alexander was that old.

  So, I mean, it wasn’t really that gross, was it?

  Didn’t matter. It was forbidden. He’d probably lose his job or something. There was no way...

  He sure was gorgeous though. Even more gorgeous in real life than he had been in my dream. He had very broad shoulders, and his eyes were even more blue than I’d thought. And his lips were full, and I knew the way they felt against mine in the dream. Would they feel like that in real life?

  I started walking away from the building. I had to stop thinking about this.

  I was gratified to discover that I hadn’t gotten myself as lost as I’d thought. I managed to find my way back to the dorms, where Nell was waiting for me, worried.

  I made her believe that I was overwhelmed by my new surroundings.

  But she did finish giving me a tour of the campus after we went to the dining hall for supper. And having seen Thornfield in its entirety, I could describe it. Stately. Ancient.

  And gloomy. Somehow, there was an undercurrent here. Something sad. Something frightening.

  * * *

  “Well,” I said, “I guess I like acting because I like pretending.” I was sitting in one of the black box theaters that Nell had told me about, attending my first day of my freshman acting class. The black box theater was exactly that—a large black box. There were risers on three sides, looking down on a stage area. Professor Alexander was standing there, his arms folded over his chest. He was staring at me like he could see through my clothes, and it was making me feel tingly and nervous. “Um, because when you’re an actor, you get to be different people.”

  I genuinely wished I had something original to say, something to impress him with. But under his gaze, I found myself parroting back a feeble imitation of what everyone else in the class had said in response to the question, “Why do you want to be an actor?”

  I bit my lip. “And it’s exciting because you get to be part of places and people that you never would have otherwise.”

  Professor Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Are you finished, Miss Moss?”

  “Um...” I nodded, feeling like an idiot. Why did he have to look at me like that? He should stop. I wondered if he’d dreamed about me too.

  No. That was ridiculous.

  “That’s everyone, then?” He was addressing the whole class now. We’d gone around the room, and everyone had spoken. I was the last person to give my opinion. He rubbed his hands together in front of him. “It’s interesting to me that so many of you give a response quite like what Miss Moss said.” He gestured to me. “Miss Moss, I wonder if you’d join me on stage.”

  My heart soared into my throat. He was making an example of me? But I was an actor, wasn’t I? I wasn’t afraid of being in front of people.

  I got up and made my way down the risers until I was standing next to Professor Alexander. I caught the scent of his cologne. It was understated and masculine, and I liked it.

  I flashed on my dream of him, his lips against my fingers, his body moving in mine.

  Stop it! I screamed at myself.

  I was blushing. I had to be blushing. My face felt hot.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Miss Moss, up until now, I am to assume that your process for acting has involved only pretending to be other people. Is that correct?”

  I nodded. My mouth felt dry. Was there something wrong with that?

  “I’d like you to pretend to be angry with me,” he said. “Do you think you can do that?”

  My jaw worked. On cue? I was just supposed to be mad at him? “Um...”

  “Go on,” he said. “Ad lib something. Be mad at me. Pretend to.”

  I licked my lips. Fine. I could do this. I was an actor. I took a deep breath. I clenched my fists together. I screamed at him, “How dare you! You colossal jerk. I’ll never forgive you.”

  He held up his hand for me to stop. “Thank you, Miss Moss.” He applauded, and the rest of the class applauded too.

  I let out a breath. Had I done well?

  He took a step closer to me, but he still stared out at the class. “Now, as some of you may not know, Miss Moss is the recipient of the Cross Scholarship. Which she so clearly deserved, didn’t she?”

  There was silence.

  “Don’t you agree?” he asked the class. “Did you believe that Miss Moss was angry?”

  What was he doing? I folded my arms over my chest.

  “Anyone,” he said. “Did you believe that Miss Moss was angry?”

  Someone raised a hand. “Well, it was a little forced.”

  “Was it?” said Professor Alexander. “Anyone else agree?”

  I looked out at my fellow classmates, who were all nodding. Seriously? How dare he do this to me? I’d had no preparation. How could I possibly pull an exceptional performance out of nowhere? He wasn’t being fair.

  “Really? Hmm.” He looked at me. He was grinning. It was a cocky, self-assured grin, and I hated it. Sure, it was actually kind of hot. But it was also really annoying. “What do you think of that, Miss Moss?”

  I was shaking. I didn’t say anything.

  “Miss Moss, do you have a response?”

  “I...” I tried to steady my breath. “I did the best I could.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He looked me up and down. “I’m sure there’s no truth to the rumors that I’ve been hearing that you received the scholarship due to your... assets as opposed to your talents.” His gaze settled on my breasts.

  My jaw dropped. “Well, Professor Alexander, since you admit you were on the committee to decide the sch
olarship, I suppose you’d be the person to ask.”

  His smile widened. “Yes!” He pointed at me. He applauded again, high above his head.

  The rest of the class slowly applauded too.

  We were all confused.

  He turned back to the class. “Did you believe Miss Moss was angry?”

  “I was angry,” I said. “I’m still angry.”

  “Exactly,” he said. He came over to me and patted me on the back gently. “You’ve been a very good sport, Miss Moss. You can sit down. Thank you so much for your assistance.”

  I gaped at him. What? That was some kind of joke? I made my way back to my seat, seething, still shaking. I wanted to kill him.

  Professor Alexander was talking to the class. “I’d like to propose to you a completely different way of thinking about acting, everyone. It’s called the method.”

  I sat down. I struggled to control my breathing.

  “Now, I’m sure Miss Moss didn’t find that experience very fun, and for that I apologize.” He shot a smile at me. It was half his cocky smile, half something else. Abashment? Shame? “But I needed to illustrate something to you, and that’s the best way that I know to do it. Genuine emotion is always more believable than pretend emotion. So, to be an actor is not to pretend, but it is in fact to feel. You won’t be playing games on stage here at Thornfield. You will be suffering for your art. If your character is in pain, you will be in pain. If your character is angry, you will be angry. If your character feels joy, then you will feel joy. Because anything less is not excellence. And that’s what we strive for here.”

  I closed my eyes. He’d made me angry to prove a point?

  “Let’s have another hand for the very talented Miss Moss,” he said. “Thank you again for helping out.”

  I glared at him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “That sounds like something Professor Alexander would do,” said Nell. She was sitting at one of the tables in the dining hall that evening at dinner. Above her, loomed a huge painting of a woman in the arms of a vampire. It was surrounded by a thick, elaborate frame. The painting seemed oppressive, and I tried only to look at Nell, not at it, but it was so big.

  I pushed cooked carrots around on my tray. “He basically pointed out the size of my boobs to the entire class. I mean, that’s like sexual harassment or something, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” said Nell. “But I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. He was trying to make you mad. That was probably the easiest way he could think of to do it.”

  “He’s horrible.” I set down my fork.

  She drank some of her soda. “He is. But he’s also good. And... I mean, he taught you how to be believably angry on stage today. All you have to do is call up that memory the next time you have to do it. He’s supposed to be teaching you, and he did.”

  “Why are you taking his side?” I said. “He should probably be fired or something.”

  “Well, the thing with your boobs maybe was going a little far.” She made a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry. Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “About my boobs?” Heat rushed to my face. “Yeah, right.” I picked up my fork again and started stabbing my carrots.

  “Well, Teagan, I know that this is your first year at college, but... this is the theater department, you know?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, last year, I was in one of the plays that the seniors directed? And you know Alexander teaches the directing seminar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There was totally nudity in the play. And during rehearsals and stuff, people talked about it with the actors. No one was rude, not exactly, but... I’m just saying you can’t afford to be sensitive about stuff like this. After all, it’s not like you don’t have boobs.”

  I slumped in my chair.

  “I’m just saying you shouldn’t be self-conscious about it. You’re freaking hot, you know?”

  I sighed. “I didn’t think professors were supposed to notice.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s harmless. Rumors are that he only has the hots for women who are old enough to be his mother.”

  “How do you know stuff like that?”

  “It’s the theater department, Teagan. Everyone knows everything. We’re one big dysfunctional family.” She smiled. “And I guess we’re kind of incestuous.”

  * * *

  When I pulled aside the covers of my bed to go to sleep that night, there was a note on my pillow. It was written in calligraphy on creamy stationery, which had a stylized striking snake in one corner and the letters S and F underneath it on a banner.

  The note said, Hide this note immediately. Tell no one of its existence.

  What?

  Completely confused, I shoved it underneath the covers and climbed in bed. Under my blankets, I turned it over.

  It said, Watch and wait. You will be called upon soon. The serpent smiles on its faithful servants.

  What the hell?

  “You have a note too,” whispered Nell.

  She was sitting across the room from me, sitting on her bed, holding an identical note.

  “What is it?” I whispered back.

  She grinned. “We’ve been tapped.”

  “Tapped?”

  “For Scales and Fangs.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  She scampered across the room and climbed on my bed. “You don’t know about Scales and Fangs?”

  I shook my head. “Should I?”

  “It’s Thornfield’s secret society. If you get in, you’re almost guaranteed a long, lucrative career in the arts. Everyone who’s graduated from this school who’s made it big has been a member.”

  I bit my lip. Secret society? “Like the Masons?”

  “Not that weird,” she said. “It’s more like a fraternity, but it’s not all about keg parties and stuff. Scales and Fangs is devoted to the arts—to painting and dancing and publishing and performance. And if you get tapped, then you go through an initiation process. Then you get to be part of the society, and you meet everyone else who’s ever been in it. Which are Broadway directors, owners of theaters, influential actresses. It’s our golden ticket, Teagan.”

  I peered down at the note. A secret society? Weird. “So, it’s good.”

  “Good? Hell, it’s awesome. You’re lucky that you’re older. Most people don’t get tapped in their freshman year, because you have to be twenty-one to be part of the society.” She looked at me, impressed. “You must be really talented, Teagan. First you get the scholarship, then you get tapped for Scales and Fangs. You’ve only been here a few days.”

  Was I talented? I bit my lip. “Why are we whispering?”

  She giggled. “I don’t know.” But she kept her voice low. “Don’t tell anyone you got tapped. It’s a secret for a reason, you know.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  * * *

  I woke sweaty and frustrated in the darkness of my dorm room.

  I’d had the dream again.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  It had been the same as it had always been except for one tiny difference. The dark man had spoken. He’d never said words before. He always just kissed my fingers and let his smoldering eyes blaze into mine.

  This time, he’d murmured my name.

  But it hadn’t been my first name.

  No.

  He’d said, “Miss Moss.”

  I felt sick.

  My dorm room lit up suddenly. Lightning. Outside. A storm was coming.

  I got out of my bed and tiptoed over the hard wood floor of my dorm. It was cold against my bare feet. I peered out the window. Lamp posts lit up the sidewalks outside. I could see wind blowing tree branches around.

  But it wasn’t raining. Not yet, at least.

  I slipped on a pair of sandals and flung open the door to my room. I needed to go for a walk.

  I scampered down the stairs to the bottom floor of the d
ormitory, and then I ran outside into the night air.

  It was warm outside, late August heat. The air was pregnant with rain, muggy and sticky. But the breeze was powerful, pushing my hair away from my face, plastering my white nightgown against my skin.

  I closed my eyes.

  I had hoped that fresh air would clear my head.

  But I still felt confused.

  Miss Moss.

  I heard his voice in my head. I thought of the way he’d looked at me the other day in class. His gazed had raked my body, settling on my breasts.

  The wind blew against me, brushing my nightgown against my nipples.

  I was aroused from the dream. That was all. It was only the dream.

  I started to walk. I’d walk it away, walk into the night wind. The breeze would pound into me, blow on me until it was gone.

  Professor Alexander had ignored me ever since that first day. He hadn’t called on me to volunteer again. When he looked out over the class, his gaze never settled on me.

  Thunder exploded overhead. Loud. Imminent.

  The storm was close. I probably shouldn’t be out walking like this. If I didn’t get back to the dorm, I was going to be soaked.

  But I didn’t turn back.

  I kept walking.

  Miss Moss.

  It was like he was calling me. And if I was honest with myself, that was what I was doing. I was going to him. Wasn’t I?

  Wasn’t I walking down the street where he lived, strolling past the antique, stately houses with their dark windows and looming pillared porches? Each surrounded by dark trees, shadowed leaves dripping down over their eaves?

  A gust of wind blew down the street, ripping leaves from the trees, swirling them around me.

  My hair was blown into my eyes, my mouth.

  I brushed it away, struggled against it.

  The wind stopped.

  And there I was, standing in front of his house.

  He was on his porch, the way he’d been the first time I saw him, as if he’d been waiting for me.

  I started for him.

  As I got closer, I realized he was only half dressed. His chest was bare. He wore a pair of plaid pajama pants that hung low on his hips. He was chiseled and perfect, just like in my dream.