Off Limits (23 page)

C
heck
out the first chapter of my last book, TEACH ME!
Available now! Free on KU!

* * *

“
L
ooks
like you dressed for the occasion."

“You said I should come prepared, professor." She wriggles beneath me.

I bring my hand down on her bare ass, just sharp enough to make her feel it, not enough to leave a mark. She inhales sharply, her hips bucking.

“And have you, Ms. Reed? Or will I need to reprimand you more thoroughly?”

When Harper Reed came to Oxford, her dream was to study modern poetry with the infamous Professor Jack Kingston, NOT to sleep with him. But his lectures are intoxicating, his knowledge captivating, and his accent drops panties faster than Charlie Hunnam on a Saturday night.

Harper has never made good decisions when it comes to sex and Jack has never been able to commit, yet there’s something between them that neither of them has felt before. But students and teachers are not supposed to fraternize, even as this out of control connection puts both of their futures on the line.

When their forbidden love is tested, can they make the grade?

* * *

I
’m late
.

I force my legs to move faster, hugging my sheepskin coat around my body as I hurry through the cobblestone streets. By day, I’ve gotten decent at navigating Oxford—it’s not as big as London, so I can remember most of the major streets around the colleges. But it’s not as well-organized as London, either, so when I try to guess where a side street ought to be based on which road it runs parallel to, it doesn’t end well.

And, of course, I still haven’t fixed my US cell phone, so I don’t have GPS service either, only a basic text and call plan. I am actually using a paper map to get around.

Mary Kate had better be grateful I’m coming to this damn party.

I pause in the glow of windows from a corner pub to study the paper.

“Need a hand there?” drawls a Scottish guy, a cigarette drooping from one lip and a foamy beer cooling in his fist. Beside him, an older guy is chugging a Guinness like there’s a prize for first to finish.

“I’m looking for, um.” I squint at the text she sent me once again.

Hey there my favorite USian pen pal. So excited you are finally coming to Englandia for more than just a week! You’re gonna love Oxford. I get into town the night before term starts—my friends are having a fancy dress party at 5 Pusey St. You better come or else!!! How long has it been since you were last in London, 2 years? You owe me a visit Xoxo. P.S.
—
wear your best habit! ;)

“5 Pusey Street?” I say.

The man shakes his head and takes the map from me. “This is us.” He points at one side. “You gotta go back up Broad to St. Giles, hang a right—you know where the Bird and Baby is?”

I shake my head.

His friend finishes his beer and belches. “The Eagle and Child,” he corrects the first guy. “Can’t you hear she’s not from around here?”

“You don’t sound like you are either,” I snap, though I feel bad the moment I do. He’s from closer to here than I am. “Sorry. I know it. Thanks,” I tell them both. I’m just grumpy because it means I walked fifteen minutes in the dead wrong direction.

I trudge past the row of stately buildings and colleges that look like they were plucked from a medieval movie set and plunked down in a modern-day parking lot. The Eagle and Child was the first pub I visited on my first day in Oxford. I’ve been trying to soak up the literary scene here, and that pub is famous for being Tolkien and C.S. Lewis’s haunt back in the day.

My grumpiness eases as I study the side streets I pass, where old-fashioned street lamps illuminate cobblestones and chatty gaggles of students, voices loud from drink and white with smoke. Even the air smells inspiring. Fall mixed with the faint musk of rain on its way later.

If there’s anywhere in the world I’m going to forget about Derrick—
no, don’t even think his name,
I scold myself—it’s here. If there’s anywhere I can find my inspiration again, anywhere I can start to write the poetry that I’m starving without, it’s here.

And now I’m on my way to my first-ever British college party, to meet up with the girl I’ve been best pen pals with since we were 11 years old.

Life is good.

I have a huge grin on my face once more by the time I find the turn off of St. Giles and onto the side street where she sent me. At the entrance, I ring the buzzer and unbutton my jacket to smooth down my gray silk blouse and knee-length black skirt. It hugs my hips just right to show I’m fun, not enough to show I can’t handle myself at a high society event.

Mary Kate said
fancy dress party
, after all, and her joke about me dressing like a nun aside, I assume she meant I should wear my classiest outfit.

This is, after all, my fresh start. Things are going to be different here.
I’m
going to be different. No more screw-ups. No more sneaking past Derrick’s roommates because I need to be kept secret; no more hooking up with that jerk film major who, it turns out, was just using me for my key to the English House. No more any assholes like that. I’m starting over here.

A buzzer sounds from somewhere inside the building. I push open the door and follow MK’s text directions upstairs to the third floor. Even through the door, I can hear the sound of raised voices and loud music.

I guess fancy parties can still be fun ones. I try the knob, find it open, and push open the door.

Then I freeze like a deer in headlights, and gape at the scene within.

The first people to catch my eye are a trio of guys in pope hats, fishnet leggings and black high heels. A girl in a nun habit and what looks like a bathing suit bikini takes photos of the guys while they perform a chorus kick line.

“Welcome, welcome!” Another girl, this one in a low-cut shirt and bodice that look like something out of Oktoberfest, sweeps toward the door. “Don’t be shy, come on in!”

“Sorry, I—I think I have the wrong address,” I stammer, fumbling in my coat pockets for my cell.

“Don’t be silly! You must be Harper—MK’s in the kitchen.” Oktoberfest girl grabs my jacket from my shoulders and slides it off me and onto a coatrack nearby. “Can I get you anything? Some Pope Juice maybe?”

I blink at her in confusion, and my gaze drifts back to the guys in pope hats.

She giggles. “It’s punch, darling, don’t worry. Nothing sinister.” She grabs my hand and leads me through an old, rundown looking apartment toward a dingy kitchen. “I’m Amber, I went to school with MK. She was always talking about you, you know. I gotta admit, you aren’t what I expected.” Amber’s eyes dart up and down my long skirt, and the conservative, expensive blouse I picked out for this occasion, which I clearly and totally misunderstood. “What are you supposed to be, an actual nun?”

“Escaped from a convent,” I manage.

We reach the kitchen, and a mass of boobs and hair assaults me in a giant, bone-crushing hug. Mary Kate is dressed in her sluttiest best. Somehow she makes the skin-tight neon red miniskirt and matching pleather bustier totally work. It probably helps that she’s 5’10” of Victoria’s Secret model proportions.

“Hi MK,” I manage to squeak out.

“I thought you’d
never
get here!” she exclaims dramatically, still squeezing all the air from my lungs while she plants a wet kiss on my cheek. Someone’s already been at the pope juice, I see.

When she finally lets me go to breathe, I grin up at her. I could never stay mad at MK for long. She’s the one friend I could always pour my soul out to, ever since we were kids and our parents arranged for us to write letters through a pen pal program so we could both “experience new cultures” through each other.

She’s the only person who knows the whole story about he-who-must-not-be-named, too.

“Me?” I exclaim. “I thought
you
would never get here! You left me wandering around Oxford alone and confused for a whole
week
of foreign student orientation.”

“I’m
sorry
darling—you know how the Mother can be. Punch?” She extends a fistful of some sort of violently red beverage.

“You also didn’t explain the whole fancy dress thing,” I point out as I accept the punch.

“I honestly thought you knew.” She pouts. She does look sorry. “Tarts and Vicars is a tradition on campus. Haven’t you ever seen Bridget Jones?”

I snort into my cup of punch. Mm. The drink is pretty damn tasty. Pure sugar, just the way I like.

MK spins to face the rest of the kitchen. A gaggle of guys and girls in various stages of undress smile at us expectantly.

“Now. Let me introduce the crew.”

* * *

T
hree sips
into my second round of punch, I realize my mistake. This stuff is
strong
. Mary Kate has migrated upstairs to the roof with a hot American guy I vaguely recognize from exchange orientation. Even though she paused to wink over his shoulder at me before going, I feel a little bit abandoned. First she brings me here without explaining what the hell “fancy dress” parties really entail, then she skips out with the first hot guy who winks at her? I mean, yes, her new boytoy displays an impressive arsenal of temptation, but really, she couldn’t have made sure I was okay first?

Her friends from the kitchen have dissipated, and to be honest, I didn’t remember any of their names yet anyway.

I walk (okay, stumble) toward the confessional booth in the corner. I haven’t seen anyone go in and out of it all night—it seems more like a party prop than anything else. Adding to the atmosphere. I only wish I’d known what that atmosphere would be before I agreed to meet MK tonight.

This is everything I swore I would avoid this semester.

I slide open the door to the right-hand booth of the confessional. I have to hand it to whoever designed this thing—it looks just like the real deal. I stare down at a red-cushioned seat, complete with a kneeler in front of it. Between this confessional booth and the left-hand one hangs a thin wooden screen, carved in elaborate curlicues, through which I can only glimpse shadows. Looks like both sides are empty, as far as I can tell.

I collapse onto the seat of one booth and pull the flimsy door shut behind me. It doesn’t do much to block out the sound of the party, but it helps.

My head throbs. I’ve been so good all summer. Not a single drink until now.

Looks like I’ve lost my tolerance.

I set my remaining punch on the ledge beside my seat and lean my head back against the headrest with a groan. The wooden walls around me seem to close in, hug me close, comforting in their familiarity. I sat inside confessionals just like this as a kid, back when Mom and Dad still made us go to Sunday mass. Someone should’ve warned them that convincing me and Tara to be good Christian girls would never work.

But I always did like this part. Closing myself into a secret dark place, unburdening my secrets to someone who actually cared to listen.

I breathe out a sigh. I need to distract myself, so I start talking. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s probably been . . . I don’t know, ten years since my last confession.”