Page 42 of Damaged Professor

Nichole flashes me a grin. “Perfect. Well, that’s where we’re going. And trust me, it’s going to make a huge improvement on how you’re feeling. They always have shots that are ‘buy two get a third half off’, and I can usually flirt my way into having that third shot for free. We’re going to have you feeling better in no time flat. And you know what I always say about getting wasted—”

“You don’t think about anything when you’re wasted,” I tell her, smiling just a little.

“There we go!” Nichole pulls out onto the road, taking us towards Cowboy’s Stand. And as we drive out there, all I can do is tell myself that this is exactly what needs to be done.

I need to spare his career by ending this relationship, and I need to spare myself by getting so drunk that I can’t even think about anything.

Chapter twenty-four

Dylan

Ping.

The sound wakes me up, but I don’t instantly realize what it is. I’m lying there on my back, in bed, in the dark. Was it actually part of a dream? My legs slide over the sheets tucked beneath me. Groaning, I roll onto my side and flick on the table light, casting the bedroom into a yellow hue.

There’s no one around. Abby didn’t come by, and I seldom have anyone else at my home.

The sound comes again. Ping.

This time, it’s more distinct. Someone’s texting me. And as I’m coming to my senses, I figure that if someone’s trying to get a hold of me at this time of the night, I should probably get up and check it.

But according to the clock that hangs above my dresser, it’s almost one in the morning. I manage to pull myself up onto my feet and stumble over to where the phone is sitting. I scrub at my face before getting the phone and fumbling through opening it up.

The brightness of the screen catches me off guard for a moment. I blink a few times. Ping. A third text, all three of them have come from Abby. That's a pleasant yet confusing surprise. She is not a night person, in fact quite the opposite. She's quite the ‘early-to-bed early-to-rise’ kind of gal. I secretly love that about her.

I open up the text and am surprised to find that they are all pictures—pictures of Abby. She appears to be in a bathroom in all three of them, most likely at a bar, judging from the dim lighting and what look to be stalls behind her.

But more specifically, the focus of each picture is Abby.

In the first picture, she’s standing in what would be an otherwise cutely demure pose—all three pictures are selfies, thankfully—and her lips are pursed in a classic exaggerated kiss face. The thing is, her shirt has been pulled down to reveal the white lacy fabric of her bra straps.

The straps aren’t the only thing visible. Both cups have been fully and completely exposed, and the soft skin is as tempting in the picture as it is in person.

In the second picture, the bra has been coyly tossed in the sink, and her tits are bared to the camera, her nipples are pert and hard. The glare of light casts her skin in an odd color, but it’s still easy to see that she was crying earlier. Her eyes are bloodshot. It makes something about the pictures seem that much more jarring.

I can feel that these pictures aren’t just Abby’s way of trying to have a little bit of fun. This is something else—this is her trying to prove a point. The problem is that I have no idea what that point might be.

Frowning, I flip to the third picture, where the hem of her skirt has been shoved down low enough on her hips that it’s obvious there are no panties on underneath of it. Smooth bare skin is revealed to the world, or at least, it’s revealed to the camera and myself.

I don’t know what she’s trying to prove with this, but I give her a call anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice slurring when she says, “Hey, if it isn’t the professor!”

Someone else, distant and muffled, “Abby, what are you—give me that! What did I say about the one rule? No drunk texting!”

“Oops,” says Abby.

“And no drunk calling!” The phone trades hands. “Who even is this?”

“Dylan,” I tell her, dryly. “And you are?”

“Dylan? As in, Professor Dylan?” Nichole asks, the word curling up a little bit at the edges. “Okay. Stop grabbing at my hands. Ugh, Abby, go and—get us some water. I’ve got this.”

“Where are you?” I ask, already heading to get dressed.

Nichole says, “Cowboy’s Stand. You know, she’s pretty convinced that this whole thing is, uh, ended. I told her that she was being stupid, but—”

“Why would she think that?”

“An email from this bitch at school.” Nichole pauses. “Look, it’s not my place to get involved, but I think that Abby would be a lot better off if you two would sit down and talk about this. Maybe in the morning though, after she’s slept this one off. I’m the girl that goes to the bar eight times a week. Abby’s not usually as game for this sort of thing.”

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