Page 102 of Bad for Me

BULLY SUNSHINE

GREER RIVERS

1

WOODS

I lovemy job as a professor at Graveston University, butgoddamndo I hate the students. If I could, I’d hole up in my office to work on my research twenty-four-seven or find a quiet corner in Barnaby Library to bask in the most impressive collection of literature billionaires can buy.

But alas, I’m stuck attempting to salvage illiterate young minds in English 101 and 102 and listening to their inane conversations on the way from the campus coffee shop to my classroom.

Getting a scholarship is nearly impossible considering the university is one of the most prestigious in the world. Which means every single student is a rich, privileged asshole—including me—and I couldn’t stand them when I was in undergrad either. This is only my second year of teaching, but I’ve already had enough of the nepotism babies and wannabe senators trying to get by with the caveman scribblings they call essays.

Today is a new day, though. The beginning of a new school year, where I will endeavor to pretend like the half-decade-long pursuit of my PhD wasn’t in vain.

I shoulder open one of the thick wooden double doors and enter the hallowed halls of the Cornelia D. Ambrose Literature building with a deep, cleansing breath. The Ambrose building is a monument to higher education and has withstood the test of time since Graveston University’s founding in 1760. This past summer, these austere classrooms full of stone, hardwood, and marble finishings were a glorious ghost town. But now students mill around like fish in a barrel, eyes blurry and hair mussed from sleep.

Fuck, as if teaching immature eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds wasn’t enough, the Dean and Registrar offices use early classes as an easy tool to sift out the potheads and partiers from actually graduating. AndIhave to suffer for it too. At eight in the morning, I might as well be teaching zomb?—

Something the size of a Mack truck slams into my shoulder, and I whip around to face the fucker who dared to run into me.

“Watch it, kid!”

The guy stops in his tracks and slowly turns around. His intense gaze narrows on me as he takes my measure, and I do the same.

“‘Kid,’ hmm?”

He isn’t much taller than my six-foot-four, but he is bulkier. If this school was half-decent at football, I’d peg him for a linebacker, but no one comes to Graveston on an athletic scholarship. There’s something familiar about him that’s menacing, and deep in my gut, Iknowwho he is.Whathe is.

His self-righteous smirk tells me he knows who I am too. Or what I used to be. There’s an air to those who belong to the order I was a part of during my time in undergrad here. Others may sensesomething, but that somethingis nothing compared to the unease that slithers up my spine right now.

I straighten to my full height, but he remains slouched without a care, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“You know what I’m capable of,kid.”

His eyes narrow before he nods slightly. “Stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours?”

His words are phrased as a question, but we both know they’re a command. Amutualcommand, one that we’ll both honor after this point, just like the code we were both bound by when we accepted our fate.

I watch his expression for any sign of weakness or malice. His jaw tics with tension, but his brow arches, waiting for me to answer. A respectful courtesy. I nod once. He does the same before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.

My shoulders relax a fraction as I watch him leave, right up until he strolls through the second door to the auditorium-style classroom next to me.Myclassroom. A wry grin flashes over my face at the irony. The goddamn Order inducted a new freshman class of initiates, and I’m teaching at least one of them.

Every four years, they induct four new recruits. I knew I’d have to teach a new batch at some point. Frankly, after all these years, I’ve done my best to forget everything related to the Order and the things I did to survive this school. If I stay in my lane and don’t piss off the powers that be, I’ll survive again, just as I have since I stepped foot on this campus nearly a decade ago.

I shake off my concern, reposition my messenger bag, and stroll through the door to my classroom. The lecture hall is nearly empty but for a few bright-eyed, front-row, brown-nosers and the asshole who just bumped into me. They’re all at least ten minutes early, and I ignore each one as I stride down the steps between two rows of seats and straight to my adjoining office to the left.

My phone buzzes in my tweed blazer pocket, and I retrieve it along with an antique skeleton key before unlocking my office door and entering. I answer my phone without checking the screen.

“Woods.”

“Ah, Woodrow, my boy! Thank goodness I caught you.” My father’s deep, booming voice makes me grimace. “Say, do you have a minute, son?”

My father and I haven’t had a casual conversation since my mother passed away from cancer nearly six years ago. Part of me used to miss him, but he made his choices. Less than a year after he closed her casket at Graveston’s Trinity Chapel, he opened his home to some platinum blonde, gold-digging bimbo with a spoiled brat in tow. I’ve refused to acknowledge his new sham of a family, so I dodge his calls as often as I can. We’re both stubborn and hot-headed, which means that whenever we do talk, we never talk for long, and we never talk without a purpose.

“I’ve only got a minute. My lecture starts soon.”

I slam my office door behind me. The force does little to relieve my frustration, but the way the thick, heavy wood crashes against its frame and thunders through the lecture hall should at least set the tone with my students.

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