The Professor

Chapter One| Jungle Fever

Nicole is shitfaced.

Off her trolley. Fucked out of her mind. Utterly trashed.

And I wouldn't mind, but just hours ago she was lecturing me on the safeties of drinking during the first week of University—or as us Brits like to call it—freshers week. It's an excuse to get blind drunk and not suffer any consequences. A tradition my roommate is taking full advantage of, apparently.

"She can't come in here, love," informs the boisterous bouncer currently guarding the entrance of the nightclub like some high fly agent.

Mate, you're not James Bond.

"She just needs water," I insist.

As I say this, Nicole projectile vomits tonight's consumption of packet noodles and vodka shots.

FUCK MY LIFE!

"Water ain't going to cut it," replies the bouncer.

Nicole starts crying, followed shortly by the obligatory swearing off of alcohol for the remainder of all time. Mascara runs down her cheeks as the tears flow, making her look like something out of a horror film. Still, she's gorgeous. It's amazing how one can blow chunks and still have perfectly styled hair. I knew from the moment I met her that Nicole was the type who took pride in her appearance. Her long blonde hair isn't natural, but it's maintained to make you think otherwise. Biweekly nail appointments are marked on our kitchen calendar and every so often, she books in for a Brazilian. I've only known the woman three days and already, I know the state of her vagina.

"Sloan! I need my bed!"

"You and me both," I assure.

Her head goes limp and I gently push her against the wall, using the bricks to prop her up.

"Where's your phone, Nicole?"

She mumbles a halfhearted response.

"Hey! Don't go to sleep!" I plead, thinking through possible options.

I moved to Oxford three days ago and so far, only know Nicole. There's no one I can call who will help us, and I doubt any taxis will take her in this state.

Bollocks!

Luckily, Nicole is local to the area. Just yesterday, she was telling me how she grew up in a village not far from the city. I swipe her phone and am glad to see it isn't password protected. She strikes me as the trusting type, and I make a mental note to discuss this further with her. She really should protect her personal items more.

Her contacts—I notice—don't include a Mum or Dad and that pretty much puts my plan on its arse. I could try contacting a random number, but at 2am it's a long shot. I keep scrolling, hoping something will jump out at me and eventually it does. Jamie Hudson followed by a bunch of love hearts. I can only assume the same surname, alongside such vivid emojis means they're either siblings or cousins. Surely her own family will save us?

Fuck it!

I hit call and wait anxiously for the line to connect.

"Nicki—I'm balls deep in work. This better be good."

The voice on the other side is nothing like how I imagined. Southern, British accent with a hint of husk and sarcasm. I've no doubt the fact it's 2am has some part to play it that, but I find myself secretly hoping he sounds like this all the time.

"Hi—Umm—this is Sloan. Nicole's roommate."

He doesn't respond.

"She's pretty drunk and we've got no way of getting home."