Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

But who am I kidding? I’m nothing like the busty blonde I just saw. Whereas she’s svelte with curves in all the right places, I’m short, thick and chunky in all the wrong ones. Whereas she has shining golden hair that flows like a river down her back, I have grayish-brown curls that resemble a ratty nest most days. Whereas she speaks in melodious tones, my voice sounds like a frog gasping for air. In short, Ryder and Rick will never notice me, and that’s just how life is. Tears flood my eyes even as the sounds of their lovemaking crescendo, but I plug my fingers into my ears this time around. I’ll never be the object of Ryder and Rick’s affections, and I just have to live with that fact.

Ryder

Ten years later.

I stretch out across the creamy white leather couch, nursing a scotch. We’ve been flying for a few hours now, and I’m ready to be off the plane despite how comfortable the private jet is.

Across from me, my twin brother, Rick, slouches similarly on his own couch, although his poison is a whiskey neat. Outside the tinted windows, the jet roars over the middle of Nowhereland, USA. I don’t need to glance out the window to know that I would see tidy rows of plowed corn and wheat stretching out for miles and miles. Instead, my eyes remain closed.

“I can’t believe it’s already been ten years,” my brother comments.

Unfortunately, Rick doesn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that I’m ignoring the world. I pop open a single eye and glower at him.

“I was trying to rest,” is my grunted reply.

But my easy-going twin isn’t fazed by my surliness. He continues talking as he swirls amber-colored whiskey around in the crystal glass, his mind elsewhere. “You know, if you told me ten years ago what our lives would be like now, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

Sighing, I sit up slightly and open my other eye to observe my brother.

At six foot three, we get a lot of looks. Rick and I have sharp, bright blue eyes and our hair is the color of ebony. We thought we were hot shit in high school, but now that we’ve actually made something of ourselves professionally, it’s only gotten better. What would that be? Hotter shit? Hottest shit? I shrug.

“I wonder how many of the cheerleaders are still good-looking?” I offer wickedly, suddenly enjoying this trip down memory lane. “I’d sure love to get a look at Michaela Mills again, especially if she still has that juicy rump.” My brother grunts, but his eyes light up. After all, Rick and I were all-star athletes back in the day, and our hard work on the football field paid off ten-fold. We scored places on the football team at the University of Wyoming, but even more important, the athletics helped us score girls. A lot of girls. It seems that women are turned on by sweaty, grunting, hulking football players who bash into each other in the name of “competition.”This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

But at my comment, Rick just shakes his head. “They’re probably all married with at least three kids each by now,” he says with a shake of his head. “With boobs down to here,” he says, gesturing to his knees. “Breastfeeding does that, you know.”

I grimace as I take in his words. Rick has a point, but I’m hoping for better. Not every woman breastfeeds, right? There are many types of formula. Then again, Sheridan, Wyoming, is a place that changes only slowly. Most of the people from our small town never leave, and those who do take off for college often find their way back at some point. It’s mind-boggling because while Sheridan’s not bad, it doesn’t compare to Paris, Tokyo, or New York. Now these are cities with a lot to offer.

But still, there’s something charming about our hometown. The skies are often an endless blue, with nary a cloud in sight. And if you like a good honky-tonk, there’s none better than Rodeo Ranch, with its cavernous space and up and coming country bands.

“Well, we have to act nice at least,” my brother comments, taking another swig of his drink. “You know Sheridanites are going to see us as greasy city slickers, headed home to brag about new lives,” he says with an easy chuckle.

It’s my turn to shake my head.

“It’s not our fault we had vision. And a desire to get the hell out of Dodge.”

Rick nods slowly, looking thoughtful. “Ayema is a vision, isn’t it?”

I nod, permitting myself a moment of pride in all that my brother and I have accomplished over the last several years. After all, a lot of folks thought we were dumb-as-rocks jocks. They thought we were idiot lugheads who could barely spell, and who definitely had no imagination. But Rick and I proved them wrong because after graduation, instead of signing up to be insurance salesmen, we decided to make our way to New York City. It was tough, but we had the seed of an idea in our heads: to manufacture athletic apparel for people who want to appear fashionable as well as sporty.

Now, Ayema is the hottest athleisure apparel brand on the market. To be fair, we hit the zeitgeist. When we started, no one could have guessed that women would give up jeans for leggings, and trade in traditional bras for sports bras. But we rode the wave, and now Ayema is a billion-dollar business. We have branches around the world, and professional athletes fight to become “partner collaborators.” The ride has been a whirlwind, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not to mention the pay is decent, I muse as I pour another drink from the bottle of scotch.

After all, our company now puts everything within reach. Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy a lot. For example, at the moment we’re heading to our high school reunion. We only decided this morning to attend, but it was no trouble to book a private jet to Wyoming. Again, anything and everything is within reach if you have the means. Suddenly, a voice sounds overhead.

“This is the captain,” the pilot speaks. “We’ll be at our destination in approximately fifteen minutes.”

I press a button that connects the cabin to the cockpit. “Thanks, Mike.”

Then I sit back and look over at my brother, who’s looking out the window with a thoughtful gaze.

“Is it strange that I’m actually kind of excited that we’re going to our ten-year high school reunion?” he asks.

The comment elicits a chuckle from me. “Not at all. In fact, I’m kind of looking forward to it myself.” I take a swig of my scotch. “You know, I wonder what happened to Cindy Walker. Do you remember her?”

Rick shrugs. “Cindy Walker. Damn she was hot junior year. That bleached blonde hair, those boobs,” he muses, reliving the glory days of high school lust.

“Any bets on how many kids she’s got now?” I raise an eyebrow mockingly but my brother merely rolls his eyes.

“Three,” Rick throws out. Suddenly, he recoils with mock fear. “Were we supposed to settle down and have kids or something? Is that a requirement to attend this thing? If so, then we’re screwed.”

“No,” I answer emphatically. “Our lives are great as is. We don’t need that shit.”

I mean what I say to my brother because Rick and I have worked hard to get where we are in the world. Our company has taken years of dedication, trial and error, and even a few major setbacks to be where it is today. We travel, explore, and live life how we choose to, norms and rules be damned.

But at the same time, there’s a seed of doubt in my mind. Now that we’re officially “the Man,” it seems a bit hollow. While other guys are enjoying family time and doting on their children, we’re sitting in conference rooms or hanging out with people who just want something from us. It gets empty and tiresome, which is why Rick and I sometimes stay home. At least, it helps us dodge the especially clingy ones.

But this is no time to mope because soon, we’ll be making an entrance as Rick and Ryder Walsh, billionaires extraordinaire. Is that cheesy? I smile ruefully as the plane begins to descend. Then, the bird taxis to the gate in the private section of the local regional airport. As we head to the main terminal, Rick and I each pause mid-stride at a set of floor to ceiling windows to take in the overwhelmingly beautiful Wyoming landscape and majestic purple mountains beyond.

“All jokes aside, it is good to be home,” I note with a touch of sentimentality.

Beside me, Rick nods in agreement. “We should visit more often. New York is great, but the East Coast has nothing on this view.”

Grinning now, we stroll to the pick-up area, where a black town car awaits. Rick and I co-own a family ranch just outside of the Sheridan city limits, but tonight is the reunion, and we’re already running a bit late.

As we drive through downtown, I chuckle, taking in the familiar scenes that make up our childhood in this remote corner of the country. There’s the bakery that’s been around since before I was born. There’s the grocery store sign that hasn’t updated since the seventies, at least, with its cheesy flashing lights and blocky letters. Plaques and tributes are scattered around town, commemorating battles from the French and Indian War, or notable Wyoming citizens. Last but not least, there’s the Rodeo Ranch honky tonk where kids still go to live it up.

Rick nudges me sharply in the ribs, laughing at a memory.

“Remember when we convinced Gordie to climb to the top of the general store and he got stuck up there? And we had to call his dad to bring a ladder?” my brother joshes. “Man, I miss being a teenage boy sometimes.”

“You still are one, buddy,” I rag good-humoredly.