Work Text:
Prep and Prejudice
Chris
First impression? New boss—fucking gorgeous.
Wait. Give me a second. I know what you’re thinking. I’m a sexist jerk who has no respect for women in power, that I demean women by looking at them as a sexual object first and a person second. The problem is that I do have a huge amount of respect for women like her. It only intensifies my immediate appreciation of her classic beauty. I’m programmed to notice it. Eons of evolutionary biology have coalesced within me—and others of my sex—to seek out and recognize potential mates. Strong mates. Alpha females with desirable genetics. All done, of course, for the propagation of the species. That’s it. So sue me if I first noticed the curve of her hips and the perky breasts beneath her conservative wine-colored sweater set.
Make no mistake, Isla Whitfield is a perfect specimen to carry her genes into the next generation. Thick black hair falls just past her shoulders in waves like a rippling pond in the pitch dark of night. Her eyes, large and velvety brown, flick occasionally to mine while she reads something from her notes. They’re smart. Shrewd.
Her bowed lips move, forming words; I force myself to listen. Her voice commands, but it’s sweet. Lyrical. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn she’s also a singer of some sort.
Oh, right, yes. I attended Tisch. And yes, I turned down Juilliard. Why?—she’s incredulous—because it wasn’t the right fit.
She sits back in her seat and folds her elegant hands on top of her demure skirt-covered lap. Her nails are plain, unadorned like the rest of her. See, she doesn’t want people to know she’s pretty or fancy or high maintenance. However, she’s certainly not one of those clichéd women who doesn’t know she’s attractive. She knows it. She knows her place in the world—someone who won the fucking genetic and social lottery when she was conceived. But she doesn’t want others to know it. She wants to be taken seriously, with a capital “S”. Judged on her intelligence and merits, not on the size of her ass or the health of her parents’ numerous bank accounts.
I glance at her face again, noticing the slight uptick of an elegantly shaped eyebrow. Not quite a furrow of displeasure, but questioning where my mind is and why I’ve been so quiet during our meeting.
Truth is, I don’t know where I’m at. Somewhere, I’m already buried between her luscious thighs and enjoying life, but my body sits here, in a scratchy suit I picked up yesterday at a second-hand shop a few miles away. It doesn’t fit quite right across my wide shoulders and pulls each time I move in the straight-back office chair. The suit’s all I can afford after failing in Hollywood and moving back home to Boston.
What a shitter that was, too. They said I had a bright career ahead of me, after seeing my breakout Broadway role. Moved everything to LA with promises of more, a modern-day California gold rush. It fucking ate me up like a fat kid at McDonald’s.
That’s why I’m stuck here, in an uncomfortable suit, praying she can look past the horrible clothing and stink of desperation and hire me as a teacher at one of the most exclusive prep schools in the country.