“Bette?  Ashleigh Davenport is here.”  James said as opened Bette’s door.

“Send her in, please.”  The door opened further and she was ushered in.

Her eyes were bloodshot and her caramel brown cheeks were tear-stained.  Her wavy, dark hair lay gently against her shoulders.  Her lips were thick, pouty, and dark pink.  Further down her body, her white cotton t-shirt hung in the right places, hugged tightly in more important places.  Her jeans were loose and hung to shapely hips.  She wore a pair of flip-flops, her cute little toes poking through.

If Bette was twenty years younger, she’d go for her.

But for now, Bette held her essay in her hands.  It was an essay that a teacher said was plagiarized.

It was all out of some kinky porno, Bette thought.  Student in trouble.  A dean who hasn’t had sex in quite a while.  Bette had her head on straight today though.  Sure, she’d slept with Nadia, but she was a grad student.  This girl was only an undergrad.

“Miss Davenport, please have a seat.”  The girl sat in the chair in front of Bette’s desk.  The student’s eyes met with the Dean’s for the first time that night.  Her eyes were a deep color of brown—they must’ve been the inspiration for chocolate.  Bette sucked in a deep breath.  There was something so familiar about this girl.

“Dean Porter, I feel like I should explain before you begin to speak.  Not to be disrespectful, but I know I may look like the biggest cheater in the history of California University and I need to explain myself.”

“Well, then, please go right ahead.”

“It all started out like this: I wrote this paper with all my heart.  It’s the one thing I’m the most proud of in this world.  I’m more proud of it than I am of any song I’ve ever written or any work of art I’ve ever made.  But because this particular male teacher chose to hit on me with no luck, I’m being punished.  I encourage you to check my paper, try to find it on the internet and I guarantee you won’t find it.  I also ask you to check from the other female students in the class, and they will tell you that he is less than professional with us.  Ma’am…”

The word “ma’am” made Bette cringe.  It made her feel old.

“…college means more to me than just a piece of paper.  It means more than a job.  It’s an opportunity.  It’s what my mother can’t give me.  What my father missed out on.  Dean Porter, this is so important to me and whatever I have to do, I’ll do to get my name cleared.”  The tears continued to flow freely.

Bette stood from her desk, bearing gifts—a box of tissues.  She made her way around to the front.

Ashleigh had heard stories of how beautiful the Dean was.  She had heard stories from her graduate student friends who told her that Dean Porter looked even better outside of her work attire—in regular jeans and tank tops.  She had yet to be witness to it, and when she finally was, the words of her friends did not do the Dean justice.

“Here you go.” She handed the girl the tissue.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll be looking into this.  I did check your essay with resources, and it doesn’t seem to be plagiarized.  But I will also look into the professor’s background.”

“Thanks, I really wish there was some way I could thank you.”

Bette’s mind ran rampant with thoughts of how Ashleigh could make that up to her, but she forced them out quickly.  She couldn’t start thinking about students—especially not one she was trying to get off the hook and one who was so young.

“Um…it’s okay, really.  It’s my job.  You’re free to go, Miss Davenport.  You should be expecting a call from me…er…I mean my office, it’ll even be me or my assistant James, to let you know what happens.”

“I’m sorry to keep saying this, but, once again, thank you.”

Bette watched as Ashleigh left, her ass moving left to right, and then back again.

If Miss Davenport was to expect a phone call from the office of the Dean, it would not—could not—come from her.