Page 7 of Lessons In Grey

I leaned back in my chair, pushing my hair back, my hood falling to my back. Every student was in their desk, it seemed, yet still no Professor. He might not be coming today. Last minute jitters or did he realize the pay sucked for the job he had to deal with.

I certainly wouldn’t be working here with what Diamond allotted for the professors. Although, I suppose they did getcompensated. Either they fucked the students without getting reprimanded or they made money selling drugs to the kids, Diamond leading the pack.

It was a corrupt school, honestly, but so long as they were good at their jobs, everyone looked the other way.

Sad.

“Maybe he’s just not coming,” I offered, turning back to my page.

“Nah, like Rem said, her dad saw him, talked to him. Maybe he just couldn’t handle Party Row.”

I had been there. An entire city street filled with houses that constantly hosted parties. Some days that street got out of hand, but the cops and the people of this city had an agreement. Keep the parties on Party Row, and they could keep having parties. The police would make sure people were safe, but they wouldn’t shut them down so long as there were no guns or underage bullshit.

What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, but it could damage the kids.

A few more minutes passed. “God, maybe you’re right,” Katelyn finally said.

Another free hour. Cool.

Although, if I had known the Professor wasn’t going to show up, I might have stopped by the gas station to grab a Redbull. Coffee and Redbull. If my depression didn’t kill me, that sure would.

“Good morning.”

I paused, my brows furrowing.

“I won’t apologize for being late because I don’t feel the need to.”

My eyes shot up, my heart skipping.

“Holyshit,” Katelyn gasped. “Heishot.”

Nofuckingway.

He was wearing the exact same thing as he had worn that night two months ago, except in different colors. The suit wasblack, the vest a dark gold with lighter golden designs, a white shirt, and a gray patterned tie.

He had thick brown hair, swept back to one side, although still hanging carelessly in his eyes. His jawline was as sharp as I remembered, his hazel eyes just as bright, although this time, his jacket was on, hiding the tattoos I knew covered his arms.

No, this couldn’t be happening.

On his knuckles were more tattoos, stark against his skin. Fuck, I had fucked myself that night to visions of his hands. They were sofuckingbeautiful. Thick strong hands, thick veiny forearms, and I could still picture clearly how that shirt tightened around his chest with every slight movement.

I quickly looked down and closed my eyes. Relax. It was 30 minutes of conversation at 2am two months ago. It meant nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing in the slightest. He probably didn’t even remember me. I was forgettable. He couldn’t have remembered me.

“The eloquence of this world is found in the way we speak,” he began, his low, melodic voice drifting through me just as it had on July 7th.

I looked up through my lashes, wondering what I was hiding from. He was my Professor, nothing happened that night. It wasn’t likewefucked. I just fucked myself to the thoughts in my head. That was all.

“Poets, musicians, authors, to name a few are more in control of this world than let’s say…you,” he nodded towards a random student.

So it was settled then.

I leaned back in my chair and lifted my head, watching him carefully, just like every other student in the class. It meant absolutely nothing.

“The way we speak, the words we choose to use in our everyday lives can tell a lot about a person.”

It was almost verbatim what I had told him that night.