Chapter 1
1
“So how’d your summer go?” Eric was organizing the tutor sign-up forms and a motley collection of beat-up pencils on a bright Monday morning, the first day of fall session.
Steve shrugged. Two more semesters at Vermillion College, and he’d be out of there, degree in hand. Even now he was applying for a few internships that might transfer into a real job, with any luck one writing for a Silicon Valley giant with lots of fun perks. Maybe not the Google bus, but as close as he could get. He definitely wanted to stay in Northern California.
As Eric explained the new filing system—and there was always a new filing system at the beginning of each semester—Steve listened with one ear while watching a guy who could only be his nine o’clock amble across the library toward the tutoring center.
He was huge, a good six foot six and beefy, one of those men whose muscles are all anyone sees and who have no neck like a human fireplug. As he walked their way, students and faculty patted the guy on the back and said something to him. He ignored them, his serious frown carrying him forward as if he were breaking through an opponent’s line.
“I’m Jason Woodard. Call me Jase. I’m looking for Steve Smith.” The hulk stood tall and assured.
Steve stuck his hand out over the desk.
“I’m Steve. Welcome to the…”
“No, you’re not.”
“What? No? Yes, I am. I’m Steve.” He looked around at Eric, who shrugged, but seemed to be laughing.
“You can’t be Steve Smith. You’re Chinese.”
It wasn’t said in a mean way, but more like Jase was confused and thought Steve was, too.
“No. Yes, I’m Steve.” He pointed to the cheesy yellow name badge with its bright green letters.
The school’s head librarian thought the name badges were welcoming and cheery as well as calming for students who were reluctant to use the writing lab. As usual, the head librarian didn’t have a clue. Students rarely looked at the badges, and most of them had no idea who their tutors were, even at the end of the semester after spending months with them.
“Really, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. I’m Steve. Have a seat.”
Steve watched as Jase sat on the wood and steel student chair, and he waited for it to collapse under the man. When it didn’t, Steve pulled one of the blank forms from the pile and handed it with a pencil to Jase.
“I need you to fill in this schedule. Be sure to block out any part-time jobs or internships as well as your classes and your practice times. Then we can schedule the best hours for you to come in for tutoring.”
Jase looked down at the paper.
“Right now, after English class is best. That’s why I’m here.” He seemed to be ignoring the pencil and the form.
Slowly Jase took the messenger bag from his shoulder and his hand disappeared inside it and retrieved a stapled bunch of papers.
“Here’s a copy of the syllabus. I got an essay due in four weeks.”
Jase put the stapled sheets on the desk and then sat back, looking at Steve as if evaluating him.
Steve squirmed. He was all too aware of what Jase saw. Unlike many of the Asian men on campus, Steve was tall at six feet. Like most of them, however, he was slender, with beautiful long-fingered hands. He was clean-shaven, and his coal-black short hair was gelled to stick up in an array of artful spikes. Unlike Jase, whose tight T-shirt and form-fitting jeans gave him the look of a sexy stud, Steve’s button-down cotton shirt and chinos screamed nerd.
Disconcerted, Steve picked up the syllabus, then without looking at it, he glanced again at Jase. He wasn’t filling out the form.
“Uh, could you at least put down your name, address, and a phone number where we can get in touch with you? In case we have to reschedule.”
“Do you cancel a lot?” Jase frowned.
“Not usually, but sometimes things come up. A couple of semesters ago I got the flu and had to reschedule a bunch of appointments.” Steve tried to be patient as he explained.
Jase nodded as if this made sense and picked up the pencil.
“You’re not going to give my phone number to anyone, are you?”
“What? No. No, of course not. It’s just in case we have to get in touch with you.”
Jase nodded again and bent over, the pencil looking like a doll’s toy in his beefy hand.
As Jase filled out the information, very neatly and in very precise handwriting, Steve glanced at the syllabus and groaned. Fuck. Jase’s instructor was Trish Phillips, one of the toughest composition instructors at the college.