4 The Professor is a Crackhead

Her mirth faded and anxiety took its place and squeezed her chest. She looked up at the professor and instantly recoiled at his expression.

Actually, it was his face that made the healthy pitter-patter of her heart speed up to a noisy gallop. And it rarely happened.

It was Handcock from the club. Handcock, as in… the guy with the cock in his hand? Right, the nickname didn't even make her laugh.

He stared at her, his face full of resentment. It pinned her to her chair. She tried her best to camouflage and act like everyone else. The bleary eyes and haggard look were the best way to blend in and professors rarely called people out.

This was her first Classical philosophy class with Ladislas Forester. The course was overbooked but she had managed to slide into class without anyone noticing. Professor Ladislas Forester's brilliance was only matched by his infamous charms.

Her legs bounced against the floor as she realized she was alone. The others had filed out and she had heard Maria murmur something about waiting at the café, but she hadn't realized it.

So much for being inconspicuous.

He walked towards her, eyes narrowed and it took everything for her not to bolt in embarrassment. By the time he stopped in front of her, handing resting on his hip, she found it difficult to meet his eyes.

"You name?"

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. The power dynamic between professor and student was different. Surely, she could lash out in this situation. Bad for her image.

She wanted to slap her face. She should have researched the class before dropping in.

"What's your name?" he said it again, each word enunciated as if she was inept.

"Anna. Anna Dunn."

"Miss Dunn," the professor said pointedly, his voice hoarse and low.

She looked at him and his expression trembled. Her dark eyes rimmed with red, the light stench of weed on her body. To think this girl had sparked interest in him back in the washroom.

He scrunched his nose in disgust.

When he spoke again, it came as a shock. Not so much what he said but how he said it. He curled his finger around her wrist, his voice thick with venom when he asked her the question:

"Why are you here?"

She scrambled for words.

"Uh, your course is highly sought after," she said quietly.

"It's the middle of the semester and no one has dropped out for another student to come in. I have never seen you in my class before, either. Did you figure out who I was after our little stint in the restroom?" he inquired.

Her eyes unfocused as she remembered the scene and she shook her head to erase it from her head. "No!" she protested. "I am dropping in because I heard it was good."

"But you didn't sign up for it, did you?" he interrogated.

"I didn't get a slot before," she stressed. Actually, she hadn't even tried. She didn't even like studying Philosophy. This guy taught these delicious courses that held no excitement for her. She just studied for the sake of it.

"And you used it so usefully. Sleeping through my class, eh?" A cruel smirk took up space in his face. "Is it because my lecture is too boring compared to everything you have already seen of me?"

What a crock of nonsense. She was here to catch some sleep, okay? Sitting at the end of the class was a good plan and she could see everyone from there. Moreover, everyone had raved about how laidback Professor Forester was, giving everyone full attendance.

So much for those women who raved about how beautiful he was and wrote fanfiction to get some of the dick they imagined he had. Not that she had to imagine anything.

"I'm sorry," she said shortly, not offering any excuses.

"What is your excuse?" he pressed.

"I didn't sleep last night?" she offered only because she had to.

"Of course," he said, his tone scathing. "To think I was curious about you. Just like everyone else, aren't you? Smocking weed and sleeping in class." He shook his head.

If she had no new way to have fun and was like every other college student, what use was it?

"Tell me, do you go into men's restrooms for fun, or was that night the first?" he asked curiously, clinging on to some shred of hope.

"It was the first time," she announced blandly. He huffed.

"Great." Now he couldn't even do it himself. Or could he.

"What a crackhead," she muttered under her breath. His eyes flashed.

"I heard that," he said, a form of mirth hidden in the words. "What a bore. You may leave." She ducked away and ran.

He watched her do so. She did not have the controlled cadence of a jogger or the graceful elegance of a long-distance athlete, but she flailed like a child as she ran. She ran as though she was being chased and as if she had no choice. She ran because she had to.

He rolled his eyes and went back inside the room to collect his things. Another inconsequential human added to the long list of people he had met in his long life.