Passing Grade

By Trisha Bradley

Prostitute. Hooker. Slut.

It's what people would say if they knew what I do for a living. But I prefer to see myself as a teacher, and the bedroom is my classroom.

I take the awkward, the shy, the embarrassed… and I help them find love. I teach them how to read a woman's body language, how to buy the perfect gift, and when it comes down to it, I teach them how to be good between the sheets. Because, let's be honest, the most important part of love is the physical connection.

I keep it all professional—signed contracts, medical records, files and folders—zero emotions. There's no room in my life for love.

And there's certainly no room in my life for Will.

At first glance, he seems to have it all together—top marks, rich daddy, hot body, and a panty-dropping smile—but when it comes to romancing the woman of his dreams, he finds himself out of his league. He just needs a little help.

I'm his teacher, and he is my student. There's a line that we cannot cross.

Too bad my heart didn't get the memo.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trisha Bradley
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201459871

Book preview

1

Will

I look down into the red plastic cup at the foamy beer that will undoubtedly taste like piss. You couldn’t pay me enough to drink this.

Except then I look up at the crowd…

Fuck it. Looks like I’m selling my soul for the low, low price of free.

I bring the cup to my lips and tip it back. I curl my tongue out of the way and swallow quickly, in the hopes that the beer won’t linger on my tastebuds.

Nope. Piss. And not just piss but warm piss, which only serves me right for having carried this damn drink around for so long. I had hoped that if I had a drink in hand, I could blend in, that I could look like them, maybe act like them.

Seriously, though. I think I would need something stronger than alcohol to lower myself to their level. I can feel my lip threatening to curl in disgust. With them, with myself. Ugh.

As if to prove my point, a guy in board shorts and a tee comes barreling through the room yelling, Wooooo! like he’s some kind of drunk, deranged fire truck. He’s wearing a neon-orange traffic cone on his head—because of course he is. He slams into me, thankfully knocking the beer from my hand.

The guy comes to a stop and looks down at his wet shirt in confusion. Duuuude, he moans. I’m all wet. What the fuuuuuck. He sways dangerously to the side, and I wait for him to fall over. Defying gravity, he changes direction and teeters back up.

Sorry, man, I say, but I have no clue why I feel the need to apologize. He was the one who ran into me. You’d think I were Canadian or something.

S’all good. His lips tip up into a slow smile, but his eyes are half closed, and I’m not sure he even knows where he is, let alone who he’s talking to. S’good. Goooooood, he drawls, as if he likes the sound he’s making. He plucks at his shirt. I can fix it.

I’m stupidly about to ask what he’s going to do to fix it when he whips the shirt up. He peels it up and goes to yank it off, but he seems to have forgotten that he’s wearing a traffic cone. His shirt snags, locking his arms in the sleeves, held up over his head. He wobbles, blinded with the fabric over his face.

Yowww! Take it off! someone yells, which just sets everyone off. Now I’m not just surrounded by drunks, but loud, howling drunks. Fantastic.

I should’ve taken a Tylenol. Or something stronger…

Maybe if I get messed up enough, this pathetic excuse for a party won’t seem so bad.

I step gingerly around the spilled beer, my shoes sticking to the floor. I need to get out of here before I accidentally get caught up in an orgy. And considering at least three other people have taken off their shirts—perhaps in solidarity for the poor guy getting untangled from his traffic cone but more likely using it as an excuse to get naked—it’s quickly becoming a very real possibility.

Why the fuck did I come to this party?

Hey, Will, my man!

Oh. Right. That’s the reason.

Hey, Theo. I plaster on a smile, but it’s painfully tight. I remind myself that Theo is my best friend, my dorm mate, but in times like this, it’s really hard to understand why that is. We clearly have nothing in common anymore.

You, my friend, need a drink. I really don’t. He wraps an arm around my shoulder, dragging me in the direction of what constitutes a bar in here, and I hunch to avoid his sweaty skin from coming in contact with the back of my neck. No amount of air-conditioning can keep up with the press of gyrating bodies. This has to be against fire by-laws or something.

Maybe I should call to report it…

I start to reach for my phone, but Theo misunderstands my intention and thrusts yet another Solo cup into my outstretched fingers. Oh. Thanks, I mumble, not meaning it at all.

And I can’t even accidentally drop it, because we’re standing in front of a folding table covered with full cups of beer. Some woman wearing a shirt sized for a toddler is standing there, gyrating back and forth to the music, filling cups from a keg. And just as quickly as she can fill them, drunken college students file past, grabbing a refill.

God, why am I here again? No best friend is worth this.

Cheers, man. Theo slams his flimsy cup against mine, and predictably, they both get crushed, beer slopping all over us. I don’t even flinch. Theo overacts, which is just the mood of the party. Daaaamn! he wails, cackling, his head thrown back.

I look down in disappointment at my shoes. Fuck. Those are going to reek like piss-beer forever. But on the plus side, at least I don’t have to drink that beer anymore.

A new cup appears in my hand, and my groan blends in with the pumping bass. This time, when Theo taps his cup against mine, he does it with exaggerated delicacy, his pinkie raised. Cheers, my good sir. He keeps his little finger up while he tips his cup back and guzzles the whole thing.

Right. Cheers. I take the barest sip, but Theo reaches out and angles the cup back, forcing me to either chug the beer or take a bath in it.

The beer—you guessed it—tastes like urine. Cold this time, at least. My body revolts at the flavor, threatening to gag, but I somehow manage to get it past my mouth and down my throat. I swear I can literally feel it hit my stomach with a splash. It sours, gurgling, and when I burp, I taste acid on the back of my tongue.

Don’t barf. Please, don’t barf.

Because in wondering what could possibly make this party worse, that right there, barfing in the middle of a crowd, that would be worse.

At least no one would be likely to remember.

Hey, baby, how you doing? For a second I think Theo’s talking to me—he’s not that drunk, is he?—but then I see he’s addressing the blond behind the table.

I use his distraction to take a breather.

I could try to sidle away, disappear into the crowd, possibly make an early escape, but I know for a fact that Theo would notice. And if I don’t serve my monthly party duty tonight, he would just make me come out again next weekend. It’s not worth it. I’ll just stick around for another hour, pretend to mingle, pretend to drink, and then when Theo is too drunk to care, I’ll haul his sorry ass home. Job well done.

When I came to college, it was because I wanted an education. I want to attend class, learn everything I can in my years here, and then I’ll get that fancy diploma that says I know how to take a test. Then, if I’m lucky, society will deem me worthy of a good-paying job. Am I jaded? Yes. But have I figured out the system? Also, yes. And I’m privileged enough that my parents are paying my ride, which means I’ll walk out of here without a single cent of student debt.

Yep, I’m living the dream.

These people, however? I scan the crowd—or at least what I can see of it in the strobing light. They are living a very different dream.

Most of the women are half naked, some of their skirts so short they could have sex right there without even needing to raise the hem. The guys, for some reason, keep lifting their shirts up, flashing their stomachs or even chests. Sometimes they pretend they’re wiping the sweat from their faces, sometimes for no other reason than to invite someone to touch.

Too bad my intro to psych course isn’t advanced enough to explain these rituals to me. Maybe then the party would be more fun, analyzing the levels of depravity.

I’m about to turn back to Theo when I notice something. Or rather, I notice a lack of something. Everyone here is trying their best to get noticed. They’re waving their arms, hooting and hollering, sometimes they’re just outright grabbing. But… in one corner of the room, the distinct lack of flailing draws my attention.

There’s a girl curled up in an armchair that’s been pushed to the corner of the room to make room for dancing. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a hoodie over a graphic tee, her legs crossed, her shoulders hunched. And in her hands… a book.

What? The sight makes my lips quirk up in a smile—the first genuine one of the night, I’m sure.

I can’t seem to draw my eyes away from her. I want to ask her what she’s reading. I want to ask her what a girl like her is doing in a place like this—except without coming across like a total creep. I want to take her by the hand and lead her outside so we can talk in the cool night air, away from the thumping music and stench of unwashed bodies.

She’s different. I can’t even see her face, draped in shadow and with her hood pulled low, but I know she’s nothing like these students. And for one quick second, I acknowledge that neither am I. Here I am, trying to blend in with the drunken college scene, while I feel like the party has somehow given her permission to be herself, no judgment. You do you. Nobody even gives her a second glance. She doesn’t just blend in—she disappears.

I nearly topple when Theo bumps me with his shoulder. You should go talk to her, he says. He’s not even slurring his words, but when I turn my head to look at him, my vision swims. Maybe I’m drunker than I thought.

What? Who? I play dumb, but Theo just shakes his head.

Come on, man. What have you got to lose? He raises one of those damn eyebrows at me. He won’t admit it to anyone, but I know for a fact he got those things threaded, and now that’s all I can see when I look at him. He nods his head over toward the girl in the ripped jeans.

I try to play it cool—whatever that means. Nah, I just… Nope, I have no idea what I’m doing.

Theo just laughs. My dude, you need to get laid.

I frown at him. He knows that isn’t my scene. It’s never been my scene. It wasn’t his either until the school year started. Something happened to him, and he’s changed.

He gestures toward someone out in the crowd. Would you look at this chick? That ass, man. She will cure alllll that ails you. Before I can stop him, he beckons her over with a crooked finger, a sly smile curling up his lips.

Hey, baby, he says to the brunette who answers his call. What’s your name?

Nadia, she says with a coy giggle that sets my teeth on edge.

Nice to meet you, Nadia. I’m Theo. He takes her hand as if to shake, but then he draws her hand closer and places it on my shoulder. And this is my friend Will.

Hi, Will, she purrs. Like, legit purrs, walking her fingers up my arm, as if her hand were a tiny, drunken, two-legged cat. You’re cute.

Uh, thanks? Why did that sound like a question? Probably because her eyes are half closed, and there’s no way she can tell what I really look like. Without invitation, she drapes herself over my shoulder, shoving one hand straight up the front of my shirt. My mother would be appalled at my sneer—it’s not an expression for polite society, and I don’t mean to do it, I swear, but I have zero control over my face right now.

I try to move out from under her, but she’s already using me as a crutch, and I have no doubt that she’ll fall if I let go. Uh, excuse me? I, uh… Something wet touches my neck. Is she licking me? I look over her head at Theo, eyes pleading.

Theo’s lazy smile droops a little and he rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake, man. Are you gay?

For the record, I’m not gay—not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I like women just fine. Just not this woman.

As if of their own accord, my eyes dart over to where the girl in the tattered jeans is sitting in the corner. She’s just moving her bookmark between the pages and closing the cover. She’s leaving! I get hit with a sudden panicky feeling. This is my chance, I know it.

My mouth goes dry as I try to pour the brunette over onto Theo. He does not look amused. Seriously, man? He shakes his head, disappointed, as if I’ve failed some kind of test. But when Nadia turns to him, he’s all charm. He curls a hand around her waist and pulls her flush against him. He leans in to whisper in her ear, and she gives another one of those overdone giggles.

I watch in fascinated awe as Theo cradles her face between his hands and rams his tongue down her throat. What the hell, she was literally trying for me a second ago. Without breaking stride, still practically eating this woman’s tongue, Theo opens his eyes and gives me a wink.

I don’t even recognize my friend anymore, I swear. When the hell did he turn into Mr. Ladies Man?

He pulls away from sucking on her face just long enough to say, Later, man. Don’t wait up. Then the two of them just stroll away, Theo’s hand giving Nadia’s ass a squeeze. Why do I feel like that was for my benefit?

I don’t wait for them to disappear from view before turning back to the room, to the girl in the jeans—I’m going to do it, I’m going to talk to her… except I don’t see her anywhere. The party seems to have swelled, filling the space where she used to be. It’s like she was the only thing holding back the tide, and now that she’s gone, I’m going to drown in this party.

I catch a glimpse of a hoodie moving for the door. Hey! I yell after her. Hands reach out for me, pull me onto the dancefloor, bumping, grinding. Hey! Girl… I mean, woman!

I push forward and the crowd pushes back. I see a space between bodies and move toward it, and just like that, the gap is gone. This is just like every stress dream I’ve ever had—except worse, because I know this is real. She’s getting away.

The thought of losing her overrides my anxiety about talking to her. I try to ride the crowd, move with the current instead of against it. Whereas my path is blocked, the bodies seem to part around the girl, all biblical Red Sea-style, clearing her a path to the door. Even as the partygoers seem to be oblivious to her, it’s like they can’t seem to help being subconsciously aware of her. Inevitably, I watch as she walks out the door.

After what feels like forever, the party spits me out the front door, and I stumble onto the porch, the cool night air shocking me. I look left, right, back again.

Hey. I grab the attention of a couple guys standing on the porch, smoking. Did you see that girl come out?

They look confused. What girl?

I sag. Just as well, I guess. Meeting the girl would’ve involved talking to her, and that never goes well for me.

It’s better this way.

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

2

Scarlet

The end.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars, knowing I’m probably smearing my makeup, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The job is done. That was a particularly tough one. The guy was… eager.

I close the folder with a sense of finality. Next, I roll my chair over to my desk and sigh. I press the delete key, erasing all traceable electronic records one at a time—all emails, gone. I pull out my phone and delete any photos and videos. With a final press of a button, I block his phone number.

I don’t destroy the paper copy, though. Never that one. It’s a signed contract, totally legit, and it would hold up in court if I needed it to. I also keep a backup on the cloud of anything I deem important. Anything I might need to cover my bases.

I knock on the wood of my desk—no tempting fate today.

This is all part of the deal. One month of my life, spread out through a few evenings per week plus weekends—no overnights—and I help unfortunate guys find their confidence to make some lucky woman very happy. Or multiple lucky women, whatever tickles their fancy once they leave here.

It’s easier than it sounds. I have one client at a time, that way I can pretend they’re like boyfriends, instead of clients. But that’s what they are… paying customers. I get paid extremely well for my time. How else would I be able to afford my apartment and college tuition working only ten hours a week?

I didn’t come to this decision lightly. I tried to make a go of it the old-fashioned way, with a bi-weekly paycheck and student loans, but it was a backward slide. And trust me when I say I take every precaution. I’m safer than most single college students on campus. Hell, safer than most adults, period, single or not. I know both men and women who go through bed partners like Eggo waffles, just a quick bite of sweetness and then gone after breakfast. Okay, so the analogy isn’t perfect, I just really like waffles.

At least I’m a serial monogamist, I tell myself. Sort of.

The names people would call me if they knew… Prostitute, hooker, slut. Whore.

I straighten my spine and push it all down deep. Own it, I tell myself. You are strong. You are in control. That’s better than some can say…

The client folder goes straight into my locked file cabinet, hopefully never to see the light of day again. I turn the key, locking the last month of my life up tight. The fucking end.

The click of my heels is loud on the hardwood, but the clatter of my shoes hitting the wall by the door when I kick them off is louder. Ahhhh, sweet bliss, I moan, rolling my ankles to loosen the stiffness. The only thing worse than the ache of my feet is that itchy feeling on my skin. Too much makeup, too much hair product. And this dress… waaaay too clingy. I grab it by the hem and peel it upward, leaving it on the floor outside the bathroom.

I like to see myself as a snake, shedding skin. Sure, because the dress is pretty much tight enough to be a second skin, but also because I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. For today, anyway. Maybe I’ll even take the rest of the week off. Take a vacation.

I stand in front of the mirror in my lacy underwear, but I refuse to make eye contact with myself until I have no other choice. If I look, I’ll have to see Scarlet, and as of twenty minutes ago, Scarlet is officially off the clock.

I reach past the shower curtain and crank the dial to full. The bathroom, small as it is, will still take forever to fill with steam, the ancient building struggling to keep up with the demand. As I wait for the shower to heat up, pipes clanging all the way in the basement, I start on my routine. The cosmetic wipes smell like lavender—I’m not sure if I love or hate the smell, but it will forever be associated with this act right here. Washing Scarlet away, one aloe-infused swipe at a time.

I hear my front door open; my neighbor, Zack, has a key. Hey, you ready yet?

I open the bathroom door a crack. No, not yet. Gimme ten minutes.

The door nudges open a bit farther and a to-go coffee cup appears in the gap. I gasp. I love you!

I go to grab the cup, but he pulls it back at the last second. Do you love me enough to be ready in seven minutes?

Why the rush? I peek around the door and see him dressed in dark jeans and a light blue button-up, obviously ironed, a faint crease along the arm. His dark hair is styled and he’s freshly shaven.

No reason… He looks sheepish, and finally relents under my scrutiny. He knows answering my question is the fastest way to get me out of the bathroom. Fine. I told Avery I would be there at eight.

I reach out and give him a poke. Ooh, and is this a girl Avery, or a boy Avery?

He blushes lightly. Boy Avery.

Mm-hm, and is he cute?

He stabs me with a look and jiggles the coffee at me. Do you want it or not? He jerks it back a second time. Seven minutes, he says sternly.

I grab the cub on the third try. Vroom, vroom! Watch how fast I go. I close the door, take one quick swig of sweet, sweet, caffeinated bliss, then jump into the shower and start to scrub.

The water runs rainbow down my chest with makeup residue, and it takes two passes with a handful of shampoo to get all the hair product out. I hop out at six minutes. Tick-tock, sweetie, Zack’s