Page 2 of Lethal Kiss

“Marcella, we are concerned that perhaps you’re not cut out for the … the camaraderie of our little department.”

I cross my legs and lean in. “Whatever do you mean? I come to every faculty event, sign up to teach every semester though it’s not required of me. I’m only a month away from my next qualifying exam, and I’m acing my coursework. I can’t see how I don’t fit in.” I don’t give him air quotes, but rather shape them with my tongue.

He sighs and stands, pacing to the ivy-framed window behind him. It smells of mildew in here, and I’m starting to get antsy.

“That’s right. All of that is right. But…” He puts a hand on his forehead and turns. “People come to me complaining—”

“Who?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“With all due respect”—which is none—“complaints about me are certainly my concern. I would like to know who and what…” I think for a moment. “Please.”

Alex waves his hand like it’s no big deal. “Regardless of who, the complaints are always the same. You take up too much space. You rip opportunities from others. People are leaving the university without even contacting us first.” Alex eyes me a little too keenly. “Don’t you think that’s strange that the people who have complaints about your ethics are the ones who suddenly disappear?”

I purse my lips and tilt my head, affecting innocence. “Do I think it’s strange that people who can’t compete with me drop out of a competitive tenure track? No. Not at all. In fact, I’d say that’s a draw to this program. Only the best and brightest survive.”

Alex crosses his arms over his chest. “It worries me that you think so. This is a … a gentler program than, say, Yale or Harvard. We offer a West Coast sensibility that—”

“Don’t quote your application brochure at me, Alex. I’m well aware of what you offer.”

“I don’t think you’re a fit,” he finally says, resting his hands at his sides like he can’t decide what to do with them. He may not be able to pin down exactly what I’m doing wrong, but it hardly matters to someone in his position. Men in academia are unable to comprehend a woman with an opinion and confidence—especially in a stuffy department like Folklore.

I shrug artfully, my jacket slipping from my shoulder, exposing my collarbone, a ribbon of dark hair fallen from my bun. I see him looking and give him a flutter of my lashes. “I disagree.”

He wrenches his eyes away. I can feel him fighting. The pull is so strong. He wants to trail his ink-stained fingers up my neck and take my face into his fingers and kiss me breathless—which, well, I don’t breathe, so it wouldn’t be a challenge.

“I think it’s time you sought an—an alternate placement, Marcella. I have just the place. In fact, they’ve accepted you preemptively. The dean of Classics, John Shea, and I go way back.” He scrambles forward to his desk, a beading of sweat evident at his hairline. The papers scatter in his search.

Sighing, I shrug my jacket back over my shoulder and turn it off, the thing that makes men fall all over themselves, drooling, to get a piece of me.

Alex holds up a piece of paper—a printout of an email exchange. I snatch it from his hands and he doesn’t even fight me, still half zoned out.

TO: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJ: POTENTIAL ASSISTANT PROFESSOR?

JOHN,

WE HAVE AN INCREDIBLE ASSISTANT PROFESSOR HERE WHO IS BREAKING THE MOLD. SHE’S INTELLIGENT, THOUGHTFUL, AND HER WORK IS GOING TO CHANGE THE WORLD OF FOLKLORE. I FEAR WE CAN’T GIVE HER ENOUGH. DO YOU HAVE ROOM IN YOUR DEPARTMENT? WE WOULD OF COURSE HELP MATCH HER STIPEND AS WE HAVE DONE IN THE PAST IN THESE SITUATIONS. I’D SAY YOU OWE ME ONE, BUT YOU OWE ME AT LEAST A HUNDRED BY NOW.

I’VE ATTACHED HER CV FOR REFERENCE.

REGARDS,

ALEX

DEAN OF FOLKLORE

My CV is not attached. Instead, there’s a surreptitiously taken picture of me, slightly from below. I’m wearing a knee-length plaid skirt and no tights, my eyes tracking my hand as I gesture toward the white board. He must have taken it during one of my evaluations at the end of last semester, the fucking cretin. But damn, I do look good.

There’s a line below the exchange that Alex has blocked out with Sharpie, but if I turn it just so I can read the text.

SHE’S EASY ON THE EYES, ISN’T SHE?