Read Tess 5 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)
Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.
My god was he hot in a dark-and-dangerous way (even being white). His cell phone went off, one of those bottom-of-the-line ones without Internet. It was so 90s technology, on him a total turn-on because it showed he had deeper things on his mind.
He answered, “Hi Trish.” Talk about finding something to start chatting him up on! Not that I ended up needing it.
By his businesslike tone I could tell my namesake wasn’t a girlfriend or anything. She was blabbing on. Finally he said, “It’s not your fault. Let me talk to her.” After a pause, his deep voice softened. “Anna, love, it’s daddy, what’s wrong…”
Oh. My. God. My heart melted right there. Literally. Nothing is sexier than a grown man talking sweetly to a child.
He said, “I know you did, love. It’s okay to go over the line. That’s why we have lines. To cross them. No more crying, okay, sweetheart? Good. I love you, banana. I know you do, honey. Be nice to Trish. She wasn’t being mean. See you in an itsy-bitsy bit.”
By now I was going all tingly. When he hung up I took the chance. I said, “Strife in the household?”
When he looked over at me, his lazy eye confused me. I wasn’t sure which eye to look at. It was a total faux pas but I ended up alternating between them.
He said, “My daughter got upset because the babysitter asked why she was crayoning outside the borders.”
I knew it would sound forced, but I had to find out. I said, “She sounds like my sort of girl. You and your wife must be so proud.”
He looked down at his coffee. “I’m divorced.”
Jackpot. The more he told me, the more the sexiness factor went through the roof. Not only was he older (experienced) a dad (provider) and single (available) but he was also an assistant professor at the LIU Brooklyn Campus (smart) in African-American literature (open-minded). Hotness.
He was more interested in hearing about me than talking. Unlike boys my age, he didn’t think he was the hottest thing since iCupcakes. I asked if I could sit in on his class. He said on a lecture, yes. He gave me the place and time and even wrote his number. Ka-ching!
He had to prepare for class so he excused himself. I didn’t want to sit there staring so I stood up to go. “So what’s my homework, professor? I wouldn’t want to come to class unprepared.”
He pulled from his leather bag a photocopied poem, Black Cop and White Russian, by Bobby Byrd. I flashed my eyes at him and said, “Sounds transgressive…” I hardly ever come up with lines like that on the spot.
On the way out, I swung my hips. It’s a cheap trick, but let’s face it girls, it works and it feels good. I could see his reflection in the glass door as I walked out. He was looking.