I frown as I remain standing, brace cradled to my chest. Open? No. I just want to get this stupid meeting over so I can go back to searching for my sketchpads. “Closed is fine.”
He nods and finishes closing it.
Dean Vandermere settles into the armchair catty-corner to mine and turns a grandfatherly sort of smile on me. At least, that’s what I assume a grandfather would look like when he is doting on a granddaughter. Never had one, so can’t be sure.
“Hello, Emery. I’m Dean Vandermere. How are you feeling? Given the events of Friday night, I wanted to check in with you to see if the university can assist you in any way.”
With a struggle that I’m putting down to my earlier irritation, I manage to keep my face smooth of emotion. But fucking duh, he’s the dean. The thing is, though, seeing him sitting in that armchair, reclined, relaxed, another version of him is coming to mind.
One where there is a woman and a man kneeling by his feet.
One where he is talking to Derek while Dylan kneels before him, serving him a drink.
The memory snaps to the front of my mind and is like a punch to the solar plexus. Gasping, I shove to standing and back awayfrom him, unfortunately putting more distance between myself and the door. “You were at the club.”
The gentle smile on his face smooths away, and he takes a deep breath before nodding, resigned to having this conversation with me. “Yes, I was.”
“So, this meeting isn’t really about my welfare?” I accuse, indignation building a nice little fire in my stomach.
Vandermere shakes his head. “Yes and no.” He leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees, and opens his palms out wide. “This meeting is about a few things, one of which being Club Obsession, but I couldn’t very well put that in an email, could I? There are things in each of our lives that I’m sure we would both like to keep private. Please, take a seat. There is no threat here. This is merely a conversation. I promise. It will not impact your place at Newton University or your scholarships. And given the circumstances, I think you can drop theDean Vandermereand call me Thayne.”
Even though he looks sincere and is saying all the right words, I can’t help but hear the threat in them, because that’s just how my brain is wired. Why even say the words? They shouldn’t even need to be a thought that floats across his mind, especially if there is no threat.
But now that he is giving them airtime in whatever this little conversation is meant to be, I need to weigh my options, because I don’t give a fuck about the words coming out of his mouth. It’ll be his actions that tell me everything I need to know.
I glance between the door and the couch, my chest thumping with the sudden surge of panic that crawls through my body, and try to think. Friday nights memories are all fogged over and I feel stupid for not remembering who he is.
I have to stay, right? Walking out on the dean, regardless of whether I saw him at a sex club or not, is bad form. He’s thefucking dean, and with a few clicks of his keyboard, he could have me booted off campus before I’ve even taken midterms.
If I stay, what then? Am I automatically agreeing to whatever he is going to say? Kind of like one of those situations where the torturer gets a captive to agree that they are a dog or something, just so they can have some food?
Fuck. That was morbid.
Okay, clearly my brain has had all it can handle for the week.
At a minimum, hearing him out will give me more information, and whether this remains a genuine conversation or becomes something a little more hostile, at least I’ll know what facts I’m working with.
“Fine,” I agree and weave through his bulky furniture until I can sit, placing my drink bottle on the squat-but-heavy-looking dark wood coffee table. I take my time getting situated, and once I am as ready as I’ll ever be, I fold my arms over my chest and scowl atThayne. “Talk.”
His face does a weird sort of contortion, an eyebrow lifting and lips twisting like he is trying to contain a smile. I have no idea what the fuck he is smiling about, but whatever.
“Actually, I was hoping you would do the talking, however, I can understand that you require some reassurances.” Thayne leans back in his seat, arms stretched out over each rounded armrest, and drums one set of fingers, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet office. “I’ve known Derek for close to two decades. He started here at Newton not long after myself, and after several discussions, we determined that we both enjoyed…woodworking.”
The knowing look he sends me isn’t necessary. I get the message.Woodworkingis code for kinky stuff.
I nod, to show my understanding, though I’m a bit confused about the reason for the subterfuge.
“Once we discovered our mutual interest in woodworking, I introduced him to my woodworking social group that my wife and I attended. Over the years, he eventually introduced Xavier, Hudson, and Darcy as well. All of us are now considered masters at the social group, responsible for the care and support of newer woodworkers.”
My eyebrows pinch together as I work through the convoluted message. My daddies are masters at Obsession? What does that even mean?
“One of the most important pieces of information that is given to a new woodworker is that everything that happens at the social group is considered private. No matter who you see, what they are carving, or who is helping them with the carving, outside of the social group, it is absolutely not spoken about in any terms that would identify or endanger any of the social group’s members. Do you understand what I’m saying, Emery?” The flat and even tone he is using makes me to want to nod at the seriousness of the information, even if I didn’t understand it perfectly.
“Yes,” I mutter, starting to connect the few dots.
He isn’t allowed to talk about the club or its members, so we are talking about woodworking.
“I’m going to need to hear you explain it to me, to ensure we are on the same page,” he prompts, a clear order in his tone that I want to ignore, just to be a pain in his ass, but I’m super ready to be out of this office, ASAP.
