The Flyaways

By A.R. Hadley

"A.R. Hadley writes with flawless beauty in this forbidden teacher-student love story. Poetic and troubled, the characters will pull you into their tangled and messy web, fraught with angst and a push-pull chemistry that burns up the pages." – Author Sierra Hill

 

 

An affair. Its consequences. The price of freedom.

 

Set in Daytona Beach and spanning two semesters of college, is the story of bright, young student, Holly Kerr, her beautiful Professor Kelley Nicolo and the forbidden games they play when they fall in love … despite his marriage and their vast differences.

 

Or maybe they're more alike than they realize. Souls searching day and night, never resting … flyaways lost and looking for a place to land.

 

Emotional and with no guarantee of a happy ending, The Flyaways is a quick and satisfying saga, one that will leave readers breathless, feeling as though they've broken into a million little pieces, then been glued back together due to the sheer force of this explosive connection.

 

 

Author Note: The Flyaways is a 30,000-word novella. Literary fiction, not romance. The characters and their intense and realistic actions drive the plot. Contains graphic content that may trigger some readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Hadley
• Release date: Sep 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9780999652787

Book preview

Prologue

if you love something set it free…

The radio was on — the actual radio — not some app on her phone playing a rotation of music that never varied.

No, this was 95.7 The Hog.

And the song would forever be burned into her memory, tied up with this moment and this phone call. Scents mingled with her recollections as well. And his was still lingering in the atmosphere of her tiny studio apartment.

Sounds and smells created intertwined memories she would never forget.

Static...

Did he hurt you? Harlow asked as Holly held the iPhone closer to her ear.

Not like that. It’s not what you think.

I’m worried about you.

Can you help me? I’ll send you the money once I get to California and sell the car.

Why do you need to go so far? He sighed.

I want to start over. And I still need the ocean.

There are other towns and other beaches—

I have a friend in Ventura. Someone I trust. I can’t tell you where I’m staying. Not yet. He’ll look for me.

I don’t like this, Holly.

I’m sorry, Harlow. It’s the only way out.

They disconnected just as the last of Tuesday’s Gone finished, and then she packed her things and wrote a letter, taping the envelope to her front door.

Chapter 1

Eight or so months earlier…

When he turned and faced her for the first time, air left the room.

She looked around at her classmates and played with her shirt collar. No one else seemed to notice the change in temperature. They were all breathing, chatting — some were writing in notebooks — but none seemed concerned with the man at the front of the room.

His hair was dark, black as night, and it curled at the ends … perhaps it was too long for a professor. Or maybe he didn’t have time to have it trimmed, or he’d let it go.

I’m Kelley. Professor Nicolo.

What kind of name is that? a student asked.

It’s Greek. My father is from Greece. My mother is Irish.

And he was tall. Maybe six foot three. His bulk was perfect too. Not overly broad. Not too thin. His flawless physique was covered with a suit, tie, and vest. She couldn’t see his shoes.

I’m new to Daytona. I’ve been teaching for five years. My wife and I had a baby recently. He smiled. She had the baby.

The class chuckled.

She wanted to move closer to our families. He shrugged.

Where did you move from? someone blurted.

Boston.

You taught at—

Harvard. Now, that’s enough about me. I want to know you. This is a literature class, not psychology, but we will come to know one another quite well. Reading imparts knowledge. And writing exposes the soul.

He met her eyes on the word soul.

His gaze lingered a beat too long, causing her to grab at her collar again, something he also noticed. And there was a smile there — in his blue eyes — kind of like a wink or a nod. An understanding.

She inhaled through her nose several times but took in no oxygen.

Holly felt like the girl in Indiana Jones — the one who had written I love you across her eyelids, then blinked slowly and repeatedly at Harrison Ford.

Chapter 2

He’s pronouncing your name right? the guy next to Holly whispered, knocking her from her daydream.

The guy’s hair looked the color of a sunrise burning off the morning dew, and he had a well-trimmed beard to match. Professor Nicolo had been calling him Andrew even though he’d introduced himself as Andy. The students had mostly given their first names when asked, but the professor had only been using Holly’s last.

Yeah, she whispered back, brushing a few blonde strands from her forehead and smiling. What’s yours?

He slid his notebook over. On the top, he’d scribbled Morrison.

He was a poet too, she jotted down in reply.

Excuse me? Professor Nicolo cleared his throat. Is there something the two of you would care to share with the class?

Holly could feel her ass become one with the seat as she slunk farther from his piercing stare into some sort of tunnel. Andy glanced at her profile, then back to the Greek.

I was asking about her name, Morrison stuttered.

We learned everyone’s name over an hour ago. Is there something we missed?

I was just wondering if the … if you had said it right. Her last name.

The professor turned his attention to Holly. And as he stepped closer to her desk, she could see now his eyes weren’t just blue — brown resided there too, flecks of leaves floating down a pale blue stream.

And did I, Ms. Kerr? Did I pronounce your name correctly? I hope you would’ve informed me if I’d made an error.

It’s right. Her voice sounded small. She hated it. She had trouble projecting the confidence she felt when alone in front of a group of people. She tried harder. Sat up taller. Didn’t break eye contact with him or his crinkling leaves and rivers. It’s pronounced like the actress. Deborah—

And that was when his phone sounded, apparently signaling class was over. People were already up and murmuring. Holly grabbed her bag from where it hung on the chair.

No one knows the actress anymore, she thought. She didn’t know why she’d bothered mentioning it. Maybe because it was the only thing she could remember her mother teaching her.

Ms. Kerr, Professor Nicolo said before she turned to leave. Most of the students had already filtered out.

Once she glanced up and their eyes locked, she had to consciously try not to choke on his blinding stare or trip over his charismatic presence. He was beautiful enough to be in films. Or he could’ve sold cologne for Calvin Klein in the pages of Vogue.

"The Night of the Iguana is one of my favorites of hers. He stacked some papers on his desk. I spent a lot of time studying Williams’ works."

His writing would make for interesting class discussions. She smiled, and something in her chest expanded, then deflated. Popped.

There always seems to be unfulfilled longing.

Hmm… Her eyes fell on his lips — where they seemed to remain, glued and hypnotized.

In his plays.

Oh. Clearing her throat, she smiled. Her cheeks heated to a million degrees. Right. She shifted her eyes.

Did you think I referred to something else?

Um, no. I was just… Her entire head probably resembled one of those cartoon characters whose top was about to open, shoot steam, then blast off. You’re right. She gathered her wits. Sometimes … well, at least in the films I’ve seen of Tennessee’s plays, it seemed desire was a character itself.

Good observation, Ms. Kerr.

Acting on those impulses, though—she smiled a little painfully—often created disastrous consequences.

Like rape or death or shame … heartache.

Chapter 3

Come in. He glanced up from his laptop, and she entered his office. A couple weeks had passed, several more classes. How can I help you, Ms. Kerr?

I’m working on something I want to submit online. I was hoping you could look it over first. She sat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. They were bright orange and ugly.

What’s your major?

I haven’t chosen one yet.

How old are you?

She stared into his pale-blue eyes with the autumn leaves mixed in. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Twenty-two.

You seem very perceptive for your age. And I commend you for returning to school.

How did you know I wasn’t eighteen? Most people think I look so young. I hate it.

It’s those green eyes. The sentence hung there a moment, like he was timing out a rhythm. There’s age in them. Things you’ve experienced.

Holly’s throat was parched. She was still caught in his gaze and clinging to his words, his cadence. The sound of his voice gave her comfort. Whenever he read in class, she found herself captivated by his inflection and tone, the way she was fond of certain singers.

And one day, you’ll be glad people think you look—

Yes—she smiled, and he returned it—that’s what I hear.

Where’s your paper? Did you print a copy?

Uh-huh. She pulled it from her bag, handing it to him as he came around to the front of the desk. He leaned against it, ankles crossed, and began to read.

You’re going to check it now? In front of me?

Stand up, Ms. Kerr.

Doing as he commanded, she dropped her bag in the chair and took a single step forward. He had eight or nine inches over her. And she felt as though his eyes could see straight through to the back of her head — like he knew things no one else did.

A writer takes criticism. His eyes narrowed. The lines on his forehead scrunched together. But you don’t want to write. Why are you taking this class?

I like words. There’s beauty in them.

They’re meaningless.

How can you say that? You’re—

I say it because it’s true.

They last.

Actions have meaning. I show you who I am with my actions. Never believe words, Ms. Kerr. He resumed reading.

She sat back down in his uncomfortable office chair in a huff.

A few minutes later, he shoved the paper toward her and said, This is shit. Rewrite it with your heart in your throat, then I’ll edit it.

It’s just a piece for—

I don’t give a fuck. Do your best work or nothing. Is there anything else I can help you with? His eyes fell on hers, shackling her into place.

He tapped his fingers across the desk, but she could only focus on