Black Sheep

You know that feeling where your instinct screams that you need to be somewhere, even though you have other plans?

That’s exactly what’s happening to me right now.

The plan was to go straight to my office to get this syllabus finished and posted. Several eager students have already emailed me about it. So much for enjoying the last moments of the summer, it seems. But that gut instinct drove me to Deja Brew, the campus coffee shop. I don’t know if it’s truly instinct as much as a desire to avoid my office until the last possible moment, but here we are.

“Hey, Dr. Kaplan,” Marshall says as I approach the counter.

“Hey, Marshall. Last year?”

“Last year,” he confirms with a proud grin, tapping the portafilter against the edge of the compost bin with a deft whack. His muscled arm flexes as he refills the filter. The guy doesn’t have to work—he’s here on a full athletics scholarship—but I think he enjoys the coffee shop and I respect the work ethic. “The usual, Kap?”

“Please.”

Marshall works with efficiency, handing my Americano across the counter before we have a chance to delve into much small talk. I’m grateful for it. I like Marshall, but I’m not really in the mood for pleasantries today. As soon as I’ve paid, I find a table by the window and settle into my solitude.

I have that antsy feeling that comes with the start of a new year. Another crop of students. More faculty meetings. More politics and posturing. But beyond that, it’s the needling awareness that change is on my horizon. The upcoming break from academic life is a few short months away, and as much as it churns my guts with a swell of anxiety, there’s excitement too. I’ll be putting my skills to the hunt. All these years of studying, excelling, teaching, researching…the relentless work is finally culminating in a tangible result. Something good I can fix my name to. Something noble.

I just have to get through this semester first.

I open my laptop and join the Deja Brew Wi-Fi, then start looking through my emails. It seems like there are more students than usual who are eager to get ahead of reading assignments. I have five emails asking for reading lists, on top of the three I received earlier in the week. There’s a new message from one persistent doctoral student, Sombria Brooks, a variation of the last four emails she’s sent over the course of the summer. They’ve all been precise, direct. No ass-kissing, which I appreciate. The message from two weeks ago contained an abridged version of her dissertation proposal. Yesterday’s message from Ms. Brooks was to confirm our meeting for today at two thirty, asking if I had questions she should prepare for. The truth is, I opened the document but didn’t read any further than the summary. I already have a feeling the work will be solid, temptingly so, but there’s no point becoming invested if I can’t take her on as a student. Not if I’ll be on sabbatical in four short months.

Come on, Kaplan. Get your shit together. Read it before your meeting, at least. Don’t be a dick.

I sigh. That inner me with the tiny moral compass is right. I’m doing this student a disservice if I don’t at least read the full proposal in advance of our meeting.

I navigate my mouse to click on the document when the bell dings above the door. It fades into the background of chatter and coffee shop indie music and the hiss of the espresso machine.

But what doesn’t fade is a woman’s clear, luxurious voice. It’s like spiced liquor, full of heat and flavor.

Oh.

That voice.

My eyes shoot up and scan for the source. I look over to the cashier counter and there she is.

One glance at her traps the breath in my chest. Her face is in profile as she scrutinizes the menu above the counter. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in loose waves the color of rich melted chocolate. Dark lashes, plump lips. Through her jeans and her snug-fitting black sweater I can see how slight she is, so slim she’s waifish. I would break a woman like that in half. But the way she stands is forceful, as though her lithe form holds hidden strength.

She shifts her attention from the board and orders an espresso, a bottle of sparkling water, and a kale salad. Marshall rings her order in and I have to press my heels to the floor to keep from striding over and offering to buy her meal. Don’t be weird, that voice with the tiny compass says. She might be a student. Also, you’re staring like a fucking creep.

Shit. I am.

Not that I stop myself.

The rest of my brain, the feral part that likes to beat up the guy with the compass, is begging this woman to turn in my direction. I just want one glance of her full face. I want to put what I saw in profile into context. But the woman turns away as though she can hear my desperate thoughts. I watch as she leaves the counter with a table number and her water, her movement as graceful as a panther. She slides onto a chair several tables away, facing me but angled toward the window, and I catch myself before I audibly moan.

She’s fucking stunning.

She sits with perfect, rigid posture, not letting her back touch the chair. The movement of her hands is smooth and graceful as she pulls a folder from her bag and lays it neatly in front of her, saving room for her salad to arrive. Her skin is luminous in the light of the window, a spread of freckles dotting her nose and lending a softness to the severity of her expression. There is strength in her beauty with her defined yet feminine jaw and her high cheekbones and her sharp stare that follows movement outside as though she might break through the glass to take her prey down. But it’s more than just the harmony of her features. There’s some kind of energy to her that pulls it all together. A gravity. A planet’s worth of mysteries behind those piercing eyes.

Stop. Staring. You. Fucking. Creep.Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

My struggle to force my gaze away continues as Marshall delivers her salad and espresso. She gives him a polite smile, a flash of straight white teeth. Marshall asks if she wants anything else. He’s lingering at the edge of her table, leaning a little toward her. Trying to give off signals. Interested signals. As if, Marshall. Keep dreaming, my man. I wrestle a sudden urge to storm over there and pull him away even though he’s technically just doing his job. Clearly, I don’t need to worry about it. I can tell Marshall is about to turn on some of his lacrosse-star gym-bro charm when something intangible turns cold behind the woman’s smile. She says a polite “no thank you” and then turns to her salad with finality.

I manage to tear my eyes from her as I bite down on my grin and focus my gaze on the screen. But all my attention is on her. I follow her movement in my peripheral vision. I steal subtle glances over my coffee cup. Her eyes are always on her food and her papers. It’s almost as though she’s actively avoiding me, and that’s probably for the best. She’s likely a student, and I won’t go there. But I can’t seem to stop myself from watching this woman who seems filled with some kind of rare, wild magic.

My effort to focus on the dissertation proposal is futile. I can’t seem to concentrate on the content, even though the writing is concise and the topic is interesting. “Improving long-term memory recollection and reliability in expert witness testimony.” I can understand why Ms. Brooks would want to meet given my expertise, and in any other circumstance I’d be delving into the detail of her proposal. But not with this sabbatical looming. And not with my thoughts entirely corrupted by the woman who sits across from me.

I look out the window and try to shepherd my scattered thoughts. It doesn’t work. My attention keeps drifting to the table where the woman sits. The moment she walked in here and opened her mouth, it’s as though she lured me into some kind of spell. I’ve been so bewitched by her that I only now realize my coffee has cooled to lukewarm and my screen has gone to sleep.

Get your shit together, for fuck sakes.

I check my watch, fighting her magnetic pull. It’s 1:05 p.m. If I buckle down, I’ll have enough time to finish the work I intended to do and struggle my way through this proposal in advance of my meeting with Ms. Brooks. Plenty of time if I get my ass in gear and focus. I should probably get up and go. I remind myself that this mystery woman might be a student.

And if she’s not?

…I might never see her again.

The thought strikes me like a whip. I lift my gaze and it collides with hers.

Shit.

She’s looking at me. Her eyes latch onto mine and do not let go. They’re dark in color and intensity. There’s a hidden world behind them, and that place looks full of secrets and shadows.

The woman arches a single eyebrow and lowers her mug, revealing a faint smirk. Caught you, it seems to say. She keeps hold of my gaze, unblinking, her motion as smooth as a predator as she lifts the mug back up to her lips and finishes her drink.

Fucking hell. Who is this woman?

A vibration on the table breaks the connection and I force my eyes down, even though it feels like fighting a tide. It’s a message from Fletcher. Of course it is. Her cockblocking skills are legendary.

Hey Kap, are we still on for dinner and drinks later? You pick the place, but you should know I’m in the mood for spinach and artichoke dip. Blake has an emergency at the hospital that she needs to take care of, so it’s just going to be us.

I’m tapping out a reply as I sense movement in my periphery and glance up. The woman has already gathered her things and stands, then strides toward the exit. Damnit, I’m going to lose her. If she’s a student, I’ll back off, pretend this never happened. But what if she’s not? God, I really hope she’s here at a college coffee shop for the amazing drinks or Marshall’s reputation or the fucking kale, I don’t care. Anything other than studying. I scramble to grab my things to chase after her.

Her name. I need to know her name.

I shove my belongings into my satchel and toss it over my shoulder with too much gusto in my desperation. It knocks my coffee cup over and onto the floor, shattering it into a hundred tiny shards. The remainder of my drink drips off the edge of the table and onto the jagged ceramic points. Marshall heads in my direction with a broom and some rags. I whisper a curse under my breath and pick up some of the largest pieces, slicing the tip of my finger in the process. Of course. Because of all times for this to happen, it happens now.

“You okay there, Kap?” Marshall asks as I grab a napkin and press it to the cut.

“Yeah, I’m sorry man. Really. I gotta run. I just realized I’m late,” I lie, my cheeks heating as the words tumble out of my mouth. I throw an extra twenty dollars on a dry section of the table and clap Marshall on the shoulder as I duck around him, leaving him to clean up my mess.

The bell strung above the door rings as I run out of the cafe. There’s a flicker of hope in my chest that I can catch up to her. I take in a ragged breath of mountain air, my heart hammering with anticipation. I scan my surroundings. Where did she go? The parking lot? No. To the library? No. The dorms? No, thank fuck for that. It’s as though she vanished into thin air.

Left.

Right.

And everywhere in between.

There was no sign of the beautiful woman with the mysterious eyes and the intoxicating voice.

She was real, right?

I pivot one last time and my shoulders drop as I accept the fact that she’s gone. Well, I don’t really accept it. It sucks. But there’s nothing I can do about it now except keep watch for her with every step I take. And if I do see her, I’ll push people out of my way if I have to. I’ll get to her and find out who she is.

I drag a hand down my face and fix the twisted strap of my bag before stalking off in the direction of the Psychology building. There’s no sign of the woman. I try to push her out of my mind as I make my way to my office on the third floor, sinking into my chair with a frustrated sigh. Once my computer is set up and I’m settled, I resolve to put all my focus where it’s meant to be. On this syllabus. On responding to reading list requests. I even manage to pull some lecture notes and slides together for the Introduction to Cognition class. By 2:10 p.m., I’m starting on the document from Ms. Brooks, trying again from the beginning, convinced I’ll have enough time in the twenty minutes before her appointment to pull together some high-level thoughts and recommendations for alternative advisors.

I’m wrong.

Three gentle knocks tap at my door. “Dr. Kaplan?”

That voice. That voice.

My eyes dart up to the open door, crashing into the gaze of the woman from the coffee shop. My heart triples in pace with a swirling mixture of apprehension and exhilaration.

“Yes,” I say, pushing my chair back, its legs grating against the floor.

The woman steps toward the desk and extends her hand.

“I’m Bria Brooks.”

Holy living fuck.

I clear my throat and slip my hand into hers. She’s not a short woman, a bit taller than average, but also thinner than most women her height; her bones seem like they should be brittle. Her hands appear so delicate with those long, graceful fingers. Breakable. Fragile. But that’s not the case at all. Her grip is firm. Strong. Self-assured.

“You’re early,” I say, trying not to let the cringe that’s currently imploding inside me show on my face. I have apparently lost any kind of smooth game under the scrutiny of her gaze. She gives me the hint of a smile, her eyes lashing me with a bemused look.

“Yes. I apologize. I saw your door was open and thought you might like to get started now. If it’s inconvenient, I can leave.”

“No, no.” God no. But also yes. But mostly no. “Please, have a seat, Ms. Brooks.”

“Call me Bria.”

I motion to the chair which seems to draw Bria’s smile out, though not in a way that’s welcoming. It feels more like she finds the gesture redundant or simplistic. Like she’s smiling because I’m quaint.

“How was your espresso?” she asks, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I prefer Uncommon Grounds on Wayworth, but the staff at Deja Brew are better.”

Bria smiles as though she’s just dropped a steak into a pool of piranhas. Is she calling me out for watching her? Is she baiting me into pledging my allegiance to Uncommon Grounds? I’m considering it already if it means I’ll run into her again. And is that comment about the staff a dig about Marshall? If it’s meant to stoke the flame of jealousy that licks up my spine, it’s working.

I swallow and sit back a little in my chair. Bria’s eyes haven’t left mine. “Grindstone is worth the extra distance. Their espresso is the best in town.”

Bria’s grin sparkles. I don’t know if I’ve just passed some kind of test or failed it miserably. “Duly noted,” she says, then opens her bag to withdraw her folder. “First, I want to thank you for meeting with me. I’m sure you’re busy with the start of the semester.”

A sense of dread climbs up my throat. “Sure. You’re welcome.”

And then without any other preamble, Bria launches into her research on memory and emotion in eyewitness accounts of long-term, chronic criminal activity, describing her work at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York. She details her goals for improving interviewing techniques with more robust data on physiological responses to questioning. She outlines her hypothesis and the literature review and the unmet need for this research. I nod and try to keep my brain focused on the words coming out of her mouth and not the lips they pass between.

Bria’s right, there is a need to refine interviewing techniques and obtain better quality data from witnesses for courtroom purposes. I know enough about this niche to keep up until Bria delves into the specifics of her proposal. I manage to successfully bullshit my way through providing her with a few suggestions about additional papers to consider for the comprehensive literature review she seems to have already started. At least, I think it’s successful. Bria doesn’t give much away in her responses, and I can’t see what she writes as she takes a few notes. But then she starts discussing her proposed methodology, and I feel like I’m outside my own body. One half of me is sinking on the Titanic, and the other half is on a lifeboat watching it happen. She asks me questions. I try to answer. My answers are shit. Sometimes I even resort to deflection by turning the questions back on her. What do YOU think would the best process for comparing the data points? Christ. That cringe from earlier is back, swallowing all my organs as it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I have not read her full proposal, and that I am a monumental dick.

I’m starting to sweat. Literally. First, I was bewitched by this woman, but I can’t do anything about it because she’s a student and I won’t go there. Even if she’s not my student or if she’s in another department entirely. Doesn’t matter. It’s a rule I’ve set for myself and I won’t break it. I rarely even date within the city, though for a shot with her I would have stomped on that rule and burned it. But none of that would matter anyway, because I am absolutely tanking this meeting with her.

And I swear that she knows it.

The look in her eyes grows colder by the minute. The temperature of the room feels like an inferno except for where her eyes meet mine. It’s like she’s frozen her gaze onto mine and crystals of ice are splintering into my soul.

She stops abruptly.

Mid-sentence. Just stops.

Her head tilts. Her expression turns blank. There’s no amusement or dismay or irritation. Just an eerie void that draws me in.

Bria takes a sharp breath. Her voice maintains that same rich tone that I’ve been hearing for the last twenty minutes, but the lack of emotion on her face is menacing. “What did you think about my idea to partner with Dr. Li regarding measures of respiratory and cardiovascular activity during interviews? Do you think the attempt to differentiate emotional response to long-term memories versus short-term memories in eyewitness testimony would be a valuable element to the project?”

I blink. A long, slow, resigned blink.

I suspect she might be baiting me into a trap. I’d be willing to bet money that Dr. Li isn’t mentioned anywhere in her proposal. That would be the proof she needs that I haven’t read her document at all. What she would do about it, I have no idea. There’s not much she could do, except to make me feel like even more of an idiot than I already am. Granted, that would be fair. I’m the one that put myself here, not her.

I sigh. Time to get this over with. It’s not as though I could ever have a chance with this woman anyway, especially not now. Just rip the Band-Aid off. “Look, Ms. Brooks-”

“Bria.”

“Bria. It all sounds like great work—” her eyes narrow, “and I can see the need for improvements in not only interviewing techniques, but obtaining quantitative data from eyewitnesses across different crime profiles. But—”

“How would you know if it’s great work, Dr. Kaplan? You never read it.”

Holy shit. She actually went there. Straight for the jugular.

Every muscle in my body seems to harden into plates of armor. There’s no room for bullshitting now. “You’re correct.”

“Why?”

“I’m going on sabbatical. It was just recently approved. It’s not been made public.”

“Forgive me, Dr. Kaplan, but that’s not a reason why.” We stare at one another for a heartbeat too long as she waits for me to elaborate. I don’t. I can’t. “You could still provide advisory support if you wanted to. You agreed that work needs to be done in quantitative analysis of eyewitness responses to interview questions, and yet you did not bother to read further than the summary of my proposal, assuming you even made it that far. That leads me to conclude that something within my summary was insufficient. Was it my methodology?”

“No, Bria. Nothing like that.”

Bria’s jaw hardens. Her eyes grow so dark and foreboding that hell might be visible in their depths. “Nothing like that,” she repeats.

How do I tell her anything even resembling the truth? There’s nothing I can say. I need to place all my focus on Legio Agni. I need to keep my sights on Caron Berger. It’s taken almost two years of work to get this close to him. The patterning, the criminal profiling, the hours and hours spent following the trail of a ghost… No amount of research in eyewitness testimony and interviewing techniques is going to get me closer than I am now to dismantling Caron’s empire.

“I’m sorry, Bria.”

She stands, as fluid and lethal as a beast of the jungle. “Don’t be.”

I expect her to say something further. Maybe something cutting, and I would deserve it, to be honest. But she doesn’t. She just fixes her unblinking eyes to me as she pulls the strap of her bag up her arm and settles it on her shoulder. I’d like to chalk the boldness of her reaction up to being entitled. There are many students that feel like they’re deserving of something they didn’t earn, after all. But that’s not what this is. She believes in her work. It might be great work that deserves more attention than the platitudes I’ve given her. And she knows I failed her by not giving her proposal the attention it deserves, whether or not I was willing to support it moving forward.

It’s for the best.

Bria Brooks takes a step back from the desk. Her eyes stay fused to mine for one more step, and then she turns her back to me and leaves the office without another word. A breath that was caged in my lungs filters through my pursed lips. It feels like a tiger has just left the room, taking all of its deadly energy with it down the hall.

Well. You really fucked that, didn’t you, Kaplan.

It’s for the best.

…I think.