Chapter 14: Academic Pursuits
The neon strip above Scott’s sink buzzed and flickered, painting the dirty dishes in a sickly, pulsating blue. Heather leaned against the cracked butcher block counter, a warm bottle of IPA sweating in her hand. The smell was a familiar college-dorm cocktail: stale beer, burnt microwave popcorn, and the cloying sweetness of air freshener plugged into a wall socket.
“So the advisor said my argument lacked nuance,” Scott was saying, gesturing with a half-eaten slice of cold pizza. “Said I was just moralizing. I told him moralizing is the point. If you’re not pissed off, you’re not paying attention.”
Heather took a sip. The beer was cheap, too bitter. “Maybe he meant you need to show, not tell. Don’t say ‘this is exploitative.’ Demonstrate how the language does the exploiting. Trace the journey of a single detail—like a victim’s tattoo, or what they were wearing—from police report to news article to documentary. Show how it gets polished into a symbol, stripped of its actual meaning.”
Scott stopped chewing. He stared at her, a new respect dawning in eyes that usually only held a calculated kind of heat. “Shit. That’s good. That’s really good.” He grabbed a grease-stained notebook from the chaos, scribbling. “The semiotics of suffering. Yeah.”
Heather allowed herself a small, private smile. It felt good, using her brain for something other than recruiting or worrying. Michael’s daily check-in text, a simple “All quiet. Miss you,” buzzed in her pocket an hour ago. She’d typed back a heart emoji. It felt insufficient.
“You’re smarter than he is,” Scott said, not looking up from his notes.
“Who?”
“My father.” Scott finally met her gaze. The flickering light carved shadows under his cheekbones, making him look both younger and older. “You see the machinery. He just throws words at it and hopes some of them stick.”
“He’s effective,” Heather countered, though the praise tasted sour.
“He’s a performance artist,” Scott dismissed, tossing his pizza crust onto a pile of other debris. “You’re a mechanic. You understand how the parts fit together.” He pushed off from the opposite counter, closing the small distance between them. The thud of bass from another apartment vibrated through the floorboards. “Why do you do it? The recruiting? Placing people in little boxes for money?”
The question was sharp, designed to prick. It worked. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it is. You match a list of skills to a list of requirements. You’re a professional matchmaker for capitalism. It’s pure systems. That’s why you get this.” He gestured vaguely at her, at the space between them. “The structure of it.”
He was too close again. The air between them thickened, charged with the chemistry she’d been trying to ignore since the moment he’d pressed his face into her neck. She could smell the pizza on his breath, the faint, clean scent of his sweat cutting through the kitchen’s grime. Her back was against the counter. Nowhere to retreat.
“It’s a job, Scott. It pays for my very nice apartment, which is currently smelling a lot better than this place.”
He laughed, a short, genuine sound. “Fair.” His eyes dropped to her mouth, then to the ring on her left hand, which rested on the cool butcher block. “He doesn’t get you, either. Vickers.”
Her spine straightened. “You don’t know him.”
“I know he wants a yard and a dog. I’ve read his type.” Scott’s voice dropped, losing its academic edge, becoming intimate, confiding. “He wants to put you in a different kind of box. A safer one. With better air circulation and a white picket fence.” He reached past her for his own beer, his forearm brushing against her stomach. She didn’t flinch. A mistake. He registered it, a slight dilation of his pupils. He didn’t pull his arm back. “Boxes are boxes, Heather. Even pretty ones.”
“And what do you want?” The question came out quieter than she intended, laced with a challenge she didn’t fully feel.
“Right now?” His gaze was unwavering. “I want to understand why a woman who can deconstruct the narrative of her own trauma is willing to settle for being a supporting character in someone else’s boring love story.”
The words landed like a physical blow. She sucked in a breath. “It’s not boring. It’s stable. It’s real.”
“Is it?” He leaned in, his mouth hovering near her ear. His voice was a low vibration that she felt in her ribs. “Where is he right now?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“A case.”
“A case.” Scott echoed the words, imbuing them with a faint, mocking drama. “And you’re here. In a shitty apartment, helping his… what? Competition?”
“You’re not competition.” She meant it to sound dismissive, final. It sounded defensive.
“Aren’t I?” He finally moved back, giving her space to breathe, but his eyes held hers captive. He took a long swig of his beer, his throat working. When he lowered the bottle, his expression had shifted again, the intensity softening into something that looked almost like concern. It was more dangerous than the predatory heat. “You light up when you talk about this stuff. About the thesis, about the mechanics of a story. You went dead-eyed when you texted him back.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know what I see.” He put his bottle down with a decisive clink. “And I know you haven’t mentioned his name once in the two hours you’ve been here. You’ve talked about my deadbeat dad more.”
The accusation hung in the air, heavier than the scent of burnt garlic. He was right, and the truth of it scraped against something raw inside her. She had dissected her own history with Milo, the patterns, the damage, but discussing Michael felt like betraying a quiet, fragile peace.
Suddenly he snogged her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, a searing answer to all the unspoken tension. The bitter taste of his beer vanished under the heat of his mouth. Before she could process it, his hands were under her thighs, lifting her onto the sticky counter with a grunt. A forgotten fork clattered to the floor.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, an instinctive, anchoring motion. His lips left her mouth, trailing down to nuzzle the sensitive skin of her neck. A shiver, uncontrollable and deep, racked her spine.
She raised an eyebrow at the boldness of this boy, even as her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Confident,” she breathed against his temple.
“You have no idea,” he muttered, his voice rough against her collarbone.
She kissed him again, slower this time, testing the flavor of his presumption. Then, with a firm push against his chest, she slid off the counter, her shoes hitting the linoleum with a solid thud. “I could be your mother’s age, Scott.”
He laughed, a bright, surprised sound in the grimy kitchen. “So?” he said, still crowding her space. “That didn’t stop my father.”
In one fluid motion, he hooked a foot behind her ankle and guided her down. She landed on the threadbare rug with a soft oof, his body following, pinning her gently. The worn wool scratched her bare arms. He nuzzled her neck again, his laugh vibrating against her skin. “He’s got a type, remember? Smart. Troublesome. Completely out of his league.”
His hand, which had been splayed on the floor near her shoulder, crept down her side, over her hip. She felt his fingers skate along the hem of her dress, inching upwards along her thigh. The touch was electric, a stark contrast to the casual decay of their surroundings.
She playfully swatted his wandering hand. “Now’s not the time,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. It was a whisper, a rule stated only to be broken.
“Says who?” His breath was warm in her ear. “The case? The fiancé?” He shifted his weight, just enough to look down at her. In the erratic neon glow, his face was all sharp angles and shadow, a haunting echo of Milo’s. “You’re here. I’m here. This is happening.”
Her phone buzzed again in her pocket, a dull tremble against her leg. Michael. Or Kelly. A check-in from the orderly, sensible world. Scott felt it too. He went very still, watching her face for the decision he knew was coming.
She didn’t reach for the phone. Instead, she traced the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing over his lips. “Your thesis is a mess,” she whispered.
“My thesis is brilliant,” he corrected, dipping his head to kiss the hollow of her throat. “You just made it better.”
“You’re avoiding my point.”
“And you’re avoiding his call.” He pulled back, his expression turning serious for a fleeting second. “Tell me to stop, Heather. Really tell me. Or don’t.”
The refrigerator’s hum kicked on, a low, persistent drone. From the living room, the bass-heavy music finally stopped, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drum against her ribs. She thought of Michael’s steady breathing in her sun-drenched bed, the diamond’s cold weight on her finger, the promise of a calm, protected life.
She thought of cardboard boxes.
Then she pulled Scott Davidson’s face back down to hers. The kiss was a collision of heat and need, a silent surrender to the pull she’d been denying since he’d first smirked at her across the café. His hands were already under her shirt, fingers skating over the warm skin of her back.
The cool air of the kitchen hit her stomach just before his palm did, his touch confident and seeking. He found the clasp of her bra with an unsettling ease, and the fabric fell away. He didn’t hesitate. He bent his head, his mouth hot and demanding as it closed over her nipple, and a ragged moan escaped her lips before she could catch it.
Her fingers clenched in his hair, holding him there. She couldn’t believe it. Milo’s son, with his father’s same hungry focus, had his face buried in her chest just like Milo had a few months ago in the shadowed corner of a hotel bar. The ghost of that memory, tangled with the visceral reality of Scott’s tongue, sent a confusing jolt of shame and arousal straight through her.
She arched against him, the rough fibers of the rug burning against her bare shoulders. His mouth traced a wet, burning path down her stomach, his teeth grazing her skin. He nuzzled the sensitive skin of her midriff, his breath warm and quick, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulling them down.
“Wait,” she breathed, but it was a token protest, lost as he shifted above her. His eyes, dark and intent, locked onto hers. There was a question there, one he didn’t voice. She answered by guiding him, her hand wrapping around him, feeling the hard, eager heat. Then he was there, pushing into her, and the world narrowed to the feel of him, the weight of him, the frantic rhythm they established against the cold linoleum.
It was fast, urgent, a release of all the coiled tension from the weeks of stolen looks and loaded conversations. He finished inside her with a stifled groan, his body shuddering against hers. For a long moment, the only sounds were their mingled, ragged breaths and the hum of the faulty neon light.
He shifted, rolling onto his back beside her on the gritty rug. She stared at the water-stained ceiling, her mind a staticky blank. Then she felt his lips, soft now, tracing the line of her spine, kissing down the knobs of her vertebrae.
His voice was a low murmur against her skin. “So. Who was better?”
She laughed, a short, breathless sound that held no real humor. She turned her head to look at him. His expression was a mix of boyish pride and something sharper, more calculating. Just like his father. She leaned over, closing the distance, and kissed him slowly, letting him feel her smile against his mouth.
“It’s a tie,” she whispered.
He grinned, that arrogant, devastating grin. “Liar.” He stretched, the muscles in his arms corded. “But I’ll take it.”
The afterglow felt thin, stretched taut over the reality of the gritty rug and the distant, returning thud of bass from next door. Heather sat up, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She found her dress in a heap near the leg of the table, slipping it over her head. The silk felt foreign, a costume from another life.
“Leaving so soon?” Scott’s voice was muffled, his face still pressed into the spot where she’d been lying.
“I have my own place to wreck,” she said, standing and smoothing the fabric down. It was a defensive gesture. He watched her from the floor, propped on one elbow, a lazy smile playing on his lips. As she stepped into her underwear, he reached out, his fingers trailing up the back of her calf. She gently kicked his hand away.
“Round two?” he asked, the question more a statement of intent as he rolled onto his knees. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, burying his face in the space between her shoulder blades. His lips found the nape of her neck, nuzzling, his breath warm and insistent.
She laughed, a low, surprised sound, and swatted at his hands. “You have a thesis to deconstruct. And I have… things.” She peeled his arms away, turning to face him. His hair was mussed, his expression one of pure, uncomplicated want. It was disarming.
“Things,” he repeated, skepticism dripping from the word. He rose to his feet, unabashedly naked, and followed her into the narrow kitchenette. While she searched for a relatively clean mug, his hands found her hips again, his mouth returning to her neck. “C’mon. The nuance can wait.”
“The nuance is your entire argument, remember?” She filled the carafe at the sink, shrugging him off half-heartedly. He was persistent, his hands sliding around to her stomach, pulling her back against him. She could feel him, already hard again. A shiver, equal parts desire and profound exasperation, ran through her. “Scott.Coffee. Focus.”
He sighed dramatically, releasing her only to lean against the counter beside the brewer, watching her scoop the grounds. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m practical.” She hit the brew button and turned, crossing her arms. “You finish that section on narrative framing tonight. Show me the draft tomorrow.”
“What’s my incentive?”
She stepped into his space, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “You finish the draft… and I’ll make it worth your while.” She kissed him then, a slow, promising kiss that left his eyes slightly glazed. She pulled back, patting his cheek. “Now, behave. I’m going home.”
She snagged her purse from the floor, avoiding the spot on the rug. At the door, she glanced back. He hadn’t moved. He stood in the stark fluorescent light of the kitchen, a statue of youthful anticipation, holding the mug of coffee she’d poured for him. The look on his face was unmistakable—a heady mix of triumph, hunger, and something terrifyingly soft. He was over the moon. He was, possibly, in love.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her into the silent, carpeted hallway. The scent of stale beer and him still clung to her. She leaned against the wall for a moment, closing her eyes. From inside the apartment, she heard the distinct sound of a whoop, followed by a fist pump hitting the air. A victorious, boyish sound. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyelids, seeing sparks. What have you done?
The coffee maker gurgled its last drop. Scott stared at the blank document on his laptop, the cursor blinking like a persistent heartbeat. Heather’s words echoed in the silent, beer-smelling apartment: Show how it gets polished into a symbol, stripped of its actual meaning. His own earlier arguments felt juvenile now, mere anger without shape. He cracked his knuckles, pulled the laptop closer, and began to type.
He wrote through the night. The neon strip above the sink died around 3 AM, plunging the kitchen into a gloom lit only by his screen. He didn’t notice. He traced the journey of a single victim’s tattoo from a police blotter photo to a true crime documentary’ somber reenactment, analyzing each stylistic choice, each editorial lift. The thesis found its spine. As dawn bleached the sky grey behind the fire escape, he attached the file to an email. He typed, “See. I listen.” and hit send.
His phone buzzed two hours later, jerking him from a shallow sleep on the couch. A text from Heather. Well done. That was it. Then another. Tomorrow. Be patient. He stared at the words, a slow smile spreading across his face. He spent the next day in a fog of anticipation, cleaning the apartment with a nervous energy he didn’t recognize in himself, even putting fresh sheets on the mattress currently on his floor.
The knock, when it came the following night, was firm and deliberate. He nearly upended his desk chair getting to the door.
Heather stood in the hallway’s sickly yellow light, but she was transformed. Gone was the recruiter’s silk dress. She wore a top that seemed painted on, a tight black corset that squeezed her waist and bared a strip of her stomach. The shorts were scandalously small, hugging the curve of her ass. Her blonde hair was loose, her eyes bright with a reckless glint he’d never seen. She looked like a dream he’d had as a teenager, stepped directly into his shabby reality.
“Hey,” he breathed, the word catching in his dry throat.
She stepped forward, the scent of her perfume cutting through the apartment’s staleness—vanilla and something darker, smoky. She didn’t kiss him. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. Her whisper was a warm shock against his skin. “Let’s have some fun.”
Then she pushed past him, into the apartment, and kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot.
The deadbolt clicked with a final, solid sound.
For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other in the dim apartment. The LED strip above the sink was still dead, leaving only the dusty glow of a floor lamp by the mattress. It haloed her, making the black corset gleam.
“You cleaned,” Heather said, her voice low. Her eyes scanned the room, noting the absent beer bottles, the vacuumed rug.
“I had motivation.” Scott’s gaze didn’t leave hers. He felt unmoored, off-balance. This version of her was a weapon aimed directly at his last shred of self-control.
She took a step forward, then another, until the toes of her boots almost touched his bare feet. She smelled of night air and that same intoxicating perfume from before, but beneath it was something sharper, like ozone before a storm. Her smile was all challenge.
“You read my notes,” she said.
“You were right.”
“I usually am.”
Then her hands were on his chest, a firm, sudden push. He stumbled backwards, the back of his knees hitting the low mattress on the floor. He fell onto it with a soft grunt, the old springs complaining. She was on him before he could sit up, straddling his hips, her weight solid and real. She leaned down, her blonde hair curtaining their faces, and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Her lips brushed his skin.
“Mummy wants some fun,” she mused, her tone a dark, playful hum that vibrated against his throat.
A shockwave of pure desire slammed through him. “Yes, please,” he breathed, the words swallowed by her mouth as she claimed his in a deep, consuming kiss.
His hands flew to her back, fumbling for the zipper of the corset. The metal teeth gave way with a harsh, grating sound that seemed incredibly loud. She shrugged it off, letting the stiff material fall away, and kissed him again, harder. Her skin was warm silk under his palms.
Suddenly, his arms tightened around her. In one fluid, forceful motion, he rolled, flipping their positions. Now she was beneath him, a gasp caught in her throat. He grabbed her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through the tight shorts, anchoring her to him.
“My turn,” he whispered against her lips, the words a rough promise.
He didn’t fumble. His hands went to the button of her shorts, the ripping sound of the fabric as he tore them open was stark and final. She didn’t stop him. She helped him, kicking the ruined material away, her eyes locked on his with a ferocious, reluctant hunger. To her great reluctance, a reluctance that felt like a physical ache in her chest, she gave in. It was hot, frantic, a battle for control they both lost. The headboard slammed a rhythmic protest against the wall. Her nails scored his back. His name broke from her lips not as a whisper, but a ragged cry that seemed to surprise them both.
Afterwards, the only sound was their breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet room. Sweat cooled on their skin. Scott shifted, his body heavy beside hers. He propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes tracing the line of her spine. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the knobs of her vertebrae, then another lower down her back.
“Stay,” he murmured into her skin. His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual cocky bravado. “I want you to be my girlfriend.”
The words landed in the stillness like a stone in a pond.Heather froze. All the warmth, the liquid looseness in her limbs, turned brittle and sharp. She stared at the cracked plaster of the wall beside the mattress.
She didn’t move. She just lay there, listening to the echo of his words and the louder, insistent echo of another voice on a phone saying, “All quiet. Miss you.” The diamond on her left hand, discarded on his bedside table, winked in the lamplight.
A slow, hollow laugh finally escaped her. It sounded wrong in the tender space he’d just created. She rolled onto her back, pulling the thin sheet up to her chin, suddenly cold.
“Scott,” she said, and her voice was tired. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He looked genuinely confused, his face open and young. The post-sex softness was still in his eyes. It made her feel a thousand years old.
“Don’t say things like that.” She sat up, keeping the sheet wrapped around her. The search for her clothes felt like a grim ritual. The ripped shorts were useless. “You don’t mean it. You’re just… coming down.”
“I do mean it.” He sat up too, running a hand through his hair. The earnestness was worse than the arrogance. “Why is that so impossible to believe? You’re incredible. You’re here. I’m here. What’s the problem?”
She found her corset, holding the stiff garment in front of her like a shield. “The problem is I’m thirty-six. The problem is I’m engaged to a man who’s currently in another state, probably getting shot at. The problem is you’re nineteen and your thesis is the most serious relationship you’re capable of right now.” She ticked the points off on her fingers, her voice low and flat. “The problem is this is just a fun distraction. For both of us.”
“You don’t get to decide what it is for me.” His jaw tightened. The boyishness was fading, replaced by a stubborn glint she recognized from his father.
“So what now?” he asked, the fight draining from his voice, leaving something resigned. “You put your ring back on and go home to wait for your safe, stable cop? Pretend this didn’t happen?”
She didn’t answer. She stepped into her boots, not bothering with socks, and zipped them up. The corset she left on the floor. She found her purse, her movements methodical.
“Heather. I love you.”
She paused at the door, her hand on the deadbolt. She didn’t turn around. The space between them yawned, filled with the scent of sex and cheap detergent and the ghost of burnt garlic.
“I’ll text you about the thesis,” she said finally, her voice devoid of any emotion.
The click of the unlocking bolt was softer this time. She pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway without looking back, leaving it ajar behind her. Scott stared at the empty doorway, at the slice of institutional hallway lighting cutting across his floor. He heard the distant ding of the elevator arriving, then the soft sigh of its doors closing.