The Naughty Professor by Ian O. Lewis

Author:Ian O. Lewis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cruz Publishing

Chapter Thirteen

Thorne

I didn’t belong here.

That was the thought that kept circling as I sat at a tiny table next to the stage in Badlands, surrounded by pulsing lights, half-naked men, and the roar of music that was more vibration than sound.

Men were everywhere—lean, muscled, sweaty under the colored strobes. Some wore harnesses, some wore leather chaps, some wore nothing but underwear. They laughed too loudly, leaned into each other too close. I was supposed to find this exciting. Liberating. Something.

Instead, I was bored.

I tugged at the collar of my button-down shirt, wishing I’d worn something that didn’t make me look like I’d gotten lost on my way to the golf course. The drink Sean had shoved into my hand had long since gone watery, and even the bourbon hadn’t dulled the awkwardness settling into my bones.

Sean, of course, was in his element. He leaned against the bar a few feet away, already chatting up two shirtless men with smiles that promised they wouldn’t be going home alone. Every time I caught his eye, he gave me the same look: loosen up. Live a little.

But Badlands wasn’t my scene. It was too loud, too bright, too raw. I wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and I’d never been the kind of man who shouted across a bar to make a connection. Even after four years of being single, the thought of a one-night stand left me cold.

And yet—I was here.

When Sean had called and insisted I join him, I hadn’t had an excuse. Plus, there was always hope that maybe I’d meet someone new, though that never, ever happened. Joan had cancelled our dinner. Claimed she wasn’t feeling well. Her message had popped up on my phone, and I’d felt a sharp, guilty relief. No boring dinner at Stella’s. No pretending through another stiff, exhausting meal. I was free.

Free and bored.

I took another sip of the drink and scanned the crowd, wondering how long I needed to stay before I could slip out without being rude.

That was when I saw her.

At first I thought I was imagining things, because it made no sense. Joan Stanwyk didn’t belong here. She was fine dining and opera tickets, silk scarves and disdain for anything less than “cultured.” Joan didn’t do dive bars, and she sure as hell didn’t do gay bars.

But there she was.

And she looked…different. Her hair was styled the same, her makeup sharp, but she was wearing a black mini-skirt and a top that looked like it belonged to someone half her age. For a second, my brain short-circuited. Joan, in a skirt that short? When had that ever happened?

She saw me at the same time I saw her. Her eyes widened, and then she came striding across the room, weaving between tables and men with the same imperious air she used to command her students and faculty.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” She demanded as soon as she was within earshot.

I blinked at her, stunned not only by the sight of her outfit but by the sheer hypocrisy of the question.

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