Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He lives in his own little world, where he's the king, and I'm more than happy to be his minion… although, when he looks at me, flashing that dimple, I feel like nothing less than his queen.
He pulls into traffic and drives straight to Brooklyn. He takes off his coat and loosens his tie when we get to his house, tossing his keys down on the living room table.
"You sure you're not hungry?" he asks. "I can make you something."
"You? Make something?"
He laughs. "I probably have something you can make yourself."
"Thanks, but I'm okay. I just wanna get this work done so I can try to relax."
I settle into the den, cracking open my math book to finish some problems. Naz distracts me more than anything, sitting beside me on the couch. He sucks at math, fucking up basic multiplication when he tries to help.
I even catch him counting on his fingers a few times.
I merely smile, having to do some of the problems over again, but I don't mind much, even if it does take twice as long. It doesn't feel like work with Naz involved.
I'm finishing up the last problem as he twirls a piece of my hair around his finger. It's the typical word problem bullshit, two trains going too damn fast and eventually intersecting, but nobody gives a shit where. Naz watches me as I try to work it out, his mere gaze distracting.
"I have a word problem for you," he says.
"I'm listening."
"If Naz forgoes sleep, and Karissa gets naked, how many orgasms can he give her before sun up?"
"Hmm, I'm not sure," I say, trying not to smile, but one cracks my face. "I'm not sure you have enough fingers to count that high."
"Oh, I know I don't," he says. "Besides, my fingers will be busy doing other things tonight."
I'm dumbfounded.
Santino stands at the front of the classroom, droning on and on about something. I don't know. His voice is little more than a dull murmur as I stare at the paper on my desk.
I expected an F on this essay. It's incomplete, and impersonal, and everything Santino didn't want.
So why is there an A written at the top?
There's no other red. No comments, no corrections. No explanation. It's the first time it has ever happened to me. I don't know what to think. My eyes shift from my desk to Melody's, wondering if he took it easy on everyone this time around, but she got her coveted B, her essay marked up.
It makes no sense.
I stay quiet through the lecture, not raising my hand, not uttering a peep. When he dismisses us for the day, I stand up and put my bag on, clutching my paper.
"I'll meet you back at the room," I tell Melody. "I have to ask Santino a question."
She looks at me like I've sprouted a second head, like I've just said the world was going to end. She looks at me like I'm certifiably insane. Hell, maybe I am. But I have to ask him.
I don't understand.
I wait until most of my classmates are gone again before approaching his desk. He looks up at me, his expression blank, and doesn't speak. He looks like I'm the last person he wants to talk to.
"Sir, I just had a question about my paper."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Well, it's just that, I didn't get a chance to complete it, or type it like I was supposed to. It wasn't finished when I turned it in."
"I noticed," he says.
"Yeah, so I'm just curious... why the A?"
He stares at me. Hard. Like if he stares any harder, he might telepathically blow me up, obliterate me right in front of his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is icy. "Not good enough for you?"
"No, it's not that," I say quickly. "I just didn't expect..."
He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, not sounding amused in the least. "I'm sure you didn't."
My brow furrows.
"Look, Miss Reed, I don't know what you want me to say. If you'd rather have the F that paper deserves, I'll happily give it to you. But I'm quite certain, on the topic, you're well versed, even if you didn't put forth the effort to show it."
I feel like a fool. The man gives me an A and I'm questioning why instead of taking it and running. Whether it's deserved or not, he threw me a lifeline, giving me a fighting chance of scraping by this semester.
"Thank you," I say, clutching the paper as I back up a few steps.
"Don't mention it," he responds, looking away from me. "Ever again."
I nod, turning around and quickly getting out of there. The air is warm when I step outside, spring well upon us. It's so warm that even I feel the heat, and push the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt up to my elbows as I pull off my scarf. It's the last week of April, and in a mere two weeks classes will be over for the semester. I have a lot of work to do between now and then, but I feel calm, like maybe I won't screw it all up, after all.
Just two more weeks, and I can say goodbye to the professor known as Satan, never having to step foot in that godforsaken classroom again.
Two weeks. I can do two weeks.
I'm in Hell.
It's dressed up pretty to look like a renowned private university, but don't be fooled—it's Hell. I've been trapped in the deepest pit for going on fourteen days, the world pressing down upon me until I'm barely able to breathe. The toxic cloud of smoke from the raging inferno swept out from the gates of Santino's classroom and blanketed everything, suffocating everyone in its path. Judgment day is coming, and it's coming fast.
Finals.
I'm being dramatic, but it's hard to see the world clearly when you haven't had a full night sleep in two weeks. Everything's drowning in a haze of notes and practice tests.
"Okay, what about this one?" Melody says, holding up an index card with something in Latin written on it: modus tollens.