Something Like Shame (BWWM)

Chapter 11

...I had to protect her...

A host led us to the middle of the room, near the corner of the stage where the lighting was low. The band played music that was soothing to our ears. Some couples that weren't dancing nose to nose sat in plush, green velvet booths while other groups dined.

I held my notes and portfolio close to my chest and chewed my lip. This was really happening. At that very moment I understood Sebastian's reasoning behind not giving me the details: he knew how nervous I'd be. And he was right. My palms were clammy and my heart hammered hard against my rib-cage.

They introduced themselves as Mr. Geraldo and Ms. Schueman. The woman sitting opposite me was both calm and stately. Her long dreaded hair was pulled into a bun so tight that her beady, green eyes seemed to be squinting into a severe-looking glare. That glare was aiming right at me from the moment I sat down- unless it was just my nerves getting the best of me. She was busty and pale, her complexion was like a bowl of porridge and her lips were wormy. To make matters worse, through the lacy front, her dress dipped excruciatingly low, nearly to her belly button. It was unsettling.

We shook hands and her grip was firm, not the average feather-light hold that I would usually expect.

Mr. Carlson, on the other hand, seemed to be constantly amused. He had a clean-cut look about him and his dark hair was slicked back. He gave me a bright, reassuring smile any time he could.

Sebastian scooted his chair close to mine so that he could squeeze my hand beneath the table, "What do you want to order?"

At a glance, the menu was full of pretentious foods: kale salad drizzled in truffle oil, pulled pork on Italian bread served with honey mustard, lobster meat on a deli sub saturated in italian dressing, and, for dessert, cake pops or dehydrated ice cream. "The choice is always yours." said the menu.

The restaurant was prestigious too; we weren't even supposed to speak to the waiters, we were supposed write our orders down and wait for them to pick them up. No personal contact whatsoever.

"I think I'll get that." I pointed to the cinnamon scone.

Sebastian's brow furrowed, "And to drink?"

"Orange juice." I said smilingly. It was the cheapest thing on the menu and I had only brought about ten bucks, counting the change in my pocket.

"I'll just get the grilled venison steak and vanilla wine, then." Wick stared at me, confused, having chosen the most expensive food possible, "You're sure you only want that? You haven't eaten much today."

He was treating me like a child. I flushed and passed the orders on to a passing waiter, determined to have it my way.

Schueman was watching us now, narrowing her eyes as he worried over my diet.

"What do you have there?" Carlson had to raise his voice for me to hear him over the music playing not even ten feet away from us.

"Oh, here." I handed the folders over to them and tried to smile without shaking.

Schueman didn't smile but she did flip through my notes for what felt longer than mere minutes, not a thing went unnoticed. "Sebastian, how long has this girl been your student? I remember you saying you wanted to teach, but I never thought of you the teaching-type, especially not this type of teaching."

"About a week, now."

"That's a really short amount of time. And you say that she's spurred some sort of what? Inspiration? Pride? Oh, an artistic awakening?"

He bristled, "Teresa, don't be rude."

"Too serious. I'm just interested in knowing more about her. Isn't that what you want?" She shrugged and turned back to me.