father
.
“Osage,” he replied warily. “How’d you know I’m Indian?”
“I’m from Arizona.” She said that like it should mean something to him. “Where are you from?”
“Kansas City.”
“Oh, I didn’t know there were reservations in Kansas.”
He stared at her, unbelieving. “You just said the three most ignorant things I’ve ever heard,” he said, his astonishment growing when she flushed hotly and looked down at her books. He might have arisen to go find another seat toward the back, but the lecture started and he was still unsure enough that he didn’t want to risk it.
The professor, a woman not much older than Eric and possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, spoke passionately about... something...which he couldn’t be bothered to care about since she had a nice ass and nicer tits. In his previous life, he was pretty sure he could’ve had a piece of that. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t fucked a hot young teacher or two in his life. At the same time.
Then she was talking to him.
“...your name?”
“Eric,” he said, cocking his eyebrow at her, but she didn’t seem to get it.
“Am I mistaken in thinking you’re a Lamanite?”
He stared at her, his mind suddenly blank. What the fuck? A lame what?
“Yes, he is,” said the girl next to him. “Osage.”
“Serious?” said the professor, tilting her head at him. “Missouri, Nebraska, Kansas. Tribe headquartered in Oklahoma. There’s a Fort Osage in Independence.”
“Yeah,” Eric drawled warily.
“The Osage were a brilliant people who had a sophisticated alphabet and grammar...”
She moved away from him as she lectured to the hall about the Osage. Eric forgot about her tits and ass as he grew enraptured by her monologue, the respect in her voice as she spoke of his people and for the first time ever in his life felt pride in his heritage—
—because someone else did.
He’d never known that before.
“A Lamanite,” whispered Heather in his ear, startling him, “is a Native American. That’s what we call them.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
His eyes narrowed at her.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I said that was ignorant, but I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
Funny. He didn’t know he had feelings or that they could be hurt, but she seemed so distressed that she had he didn’t know if he were more flattered or confused. He couldn’t decide whether to stay mad or not.
No one had ever cared enough about his anger to be distressed, just afraid.
“What’s your tribal name?” asked the professor, shaking his attention from Heather and back to the lecture.
“I don’t have one,” he said slowly, for the first time regretting that. “My name is Eric Niccolò Cipriani.”
His professor stared at him. Heather stared at him. The class was silent. “That’s...interesting,” she said.
“I’m half’n’half,” he muttered, all of a suddenly wanting that invisibility that now seemed as much friend as foe. “Osage and Italian.”
“And what a
nice
combination it is,” came a husky female voice from the back, which set the class to laughing. Eric’s mouth twitched. Embarrassed, pleased, he glanced at Heather, but she stared down at her notes. The professor went on with her lecture as a drop of water splashed onto Heather’s notes and smeared the ink. He gulped.
“Hey,” he whispered and nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Wanna have lunch? My treat.”
She smiled at him shakily. “Okay.”
Suddenly he wanted to kiss her. Right then, in the middle of the class, to make her tears go away. It wasn’t the same type of tears he’d confronted before. Those were tears of girls who wanted to manipulate him or girls who hadn’t understood beforehand that he was only interested in one thing. These were tears of remorse for “hurting his feelings” with a careless remark she still didn’t understand why it was careless. He wanted to
.
“Osage,” he replied warily. “How’d you know I’m Indian?”
“I’m from Arizona.” She said that like it should mean something to him. “Where are you from?”
“Kansas City.”
“Oh, I didn’t know there were reservations in Kansas.”
He stared at her, unbelieving. “You just said the three most ignorant things I’ve ever heard,” he said, his astonishment growing when she flushed hotly and looked down at her books. He might have arisen to go find another seat toward the back, but the lecture started and he was still unsure enough that he didn’t want to risk it.
The professor, a woman not much older than Eric and possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, spoke passionately about... something...which he couldn’t be bothered to care about since she had a nice ass and nicer tits. In his previous life, he was pretty sure he could’ve had a piece of that. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t fucked a hot young teacher or two in his life. At the same time.
Then she was talking to him.
“...your name?”
“Eric,” he said, cocking his eyebrow at her, but she didn’t seem to get it.
“Am I mistaken in thinking you’re a Lamanite?”
He stared at her, his mind suddenly blank. What the fuck? A lame what?
“Yes, he is,” said the girl next to him. “Osage.”
“Serious?” said the professor, tilting her head at him. “Missouri, Nebraska, Kansas. Tribe headquartered in Oklahoma. There’s a Fort Osage in Independence.”
“Yeah,” Eric drawled warily.
“The Osage were a brilliant people who had a sophisticated alphabet and grammar...”
She moved away from him as she lectured to the hall about the Osage. Eric forgot about her tits and ass as he grew enraptured by her monologue, the respect in her voice as she spoke of his people and for the first time ever in his life felt pride in his heritage—
—because someone else did.
He’d never known that before.
“A Lamanite,” whispered Heather in his ear, startling him, “is a Native American. That’s what we call them.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
His eyes narrowed at her.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I said that was ignorant, but I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
Funny. He didn’t know he had feelings or that they could be hurt, but she seemed so distressed that she had he didn’t know if he were more flattered or confused. He couldn’t decide whether to stay mad or not.
No one had ever cared enough about his anger to be distressed, just afraid.
“What’s your tribal name?” asked the professor, shaking his attention from Heather and back to the lecture.
“I don’t have one,” he said slowly, for the first time regretting that. “My name is Eric Niccolò Cipriani.”
His professor stared at him. Heather stared at him. The class was silent. “That’s...interesting,” she said.
“I’m half’n’half,” he muttered, all of a suddenly wanting that invisibility that now seemed as much friend as foe. “Osage and Italian.”
“And what a
nice
combination it is,” came a husky female voice from the back, which set the class to laughing. Eric’s mouth twitched. Embarrassed, pleased, he glanced at Heather, but she stared down at her notes. The professor went on with her lecture as a drop of water splashed onto Heather’s notes and smeared the ink. He gulped.
“Hey,” he whispered and nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Wanna have lunch? My treat.”
She smiled at him shakily. “Okay.”
Suddenly he wanted to kiss her. Right then, in the middle of the class, to make her tears go away. It wasn’t the same type of tears he’d confronted before. Those were tears of girls who wanted to manipulate him or girls who hadn’t understood beforehand that he was only interested in one thing. These were tears of remorse for “hurting his feelings” with a careless remark she still didn’t understand why it was careless. He wanted to