Savage gets home from school shortly after me. He goes straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and ambles over with a bottle of his favorite beer—the kind he saves for special occasions and funerals. He sets it down on the coffee table and sits beside me on the couch.

“Figured you deserved the good stuff after the day you had,” he mumbles, shoveling a hank of hair out of his face to the top of his head.

“The whole eighth-grade hall knows?” I’m afraid to ask.

“About Roxie-with-an-ie Rambling being your student teacher? Yeah.”

They probably laughed their asses off when they heard. If she sticks around, I’ll be the butt of every joke at staff development.

I can’t let the email I drafted to the Dragonlady this afternoon linger. I’ll hit send first thing tomorrow. That’ll be one less thing to worry about.

“She called me McSlutbag,” I say.

Savage shrugs. “So? You are kind of a man-slut.”

Heat sears my ears. I wouldn’t be if not for Roxie.

“McSlutbag is the name Isabella said the caller used. This is proof that Roxie fucked me over all those years ago,” I steam.

Savage blows me off with a wave of his hand. “Man, Isabella is over and done with. She’s happily married with kids now. And you don’t care. Remember?”

I didn’t care until Roxie’s reappearance in my life reminded me of everything that could’ve been. Of everything I lost.

Goddamn Roxie.

I scrub my face, grab the beer, and chug it. Though my stomach has recovered from this morning’s hangover, it still hasn’t processed the day’s running shit-ticker of news. Alcohol will definitely help with the digestion. At the very least, it’ll help me forget the humiliation of making such bold, asshole statements about my job security at the bar the other night.

I feel like the biggest twat in Atlanta.

This is the Dragonlady’s fault.

No, the Kuntzes’ fault.

Who am I kidding? It’s mine for making assumptions.

“What are you gonna do?” Savage asks.

I shrug and set the empty bottle on the table. Leaning into the cushions, resting my folded hands on top of my head, I say, “I’m gonna ask the Dragonlady to give Roxie to someone else. Then I’m gonna teach sixth grade for as long as I can stand it. Which reminds me. I need to start looking for another job.”

Savage winces. “This late, it’ll be tough finding one.”

“I’m not holding my breath.”

“Come on, man. It’s just one year.”

“And if the Dragonlady denies my request, it’s just one semester with the lovechild of Satan and a harpy, smacking my ass every chance she gets. You should’ve seen the getup she wore.”

My traitorous dick begins to harden at the thought of those luscious breasts taunting me like knockwurst and beer at Oktoberfest. I stare it down until it rolls over and plays dead. #LederhosenFail

Savage offers a sympathetic frown. “Bad?”

“The skirt was so short, it was paying rent to her butt cheeks. Her tits looked like they were applying for US citizenship, all perky and bouncy and clapping, ready to recite the Pledge of Allegiance for an audience and shit.”

Savage’s eyes widen. “She flashed her tits? Were they like Medusa’s snakes?”

I glare at my lap. “Yeah, they turned my cock rock-hard when I stared at ’em. No, you stupid asshole. She didn’t flash her tits. Not intentionally. She had on this white top against that sultry brown—”

My hands fly to chest level, cupping invisible melons. Picturing the cleavage in question, I heft them. Fondle them. Squeeze those perfectly round, ripe—

Then I remember who they belonged to and drop them with a soundless splat.

“She looked really good,” I finally say, thoroughly revolted by the thought.

In all honesty, she looked better than good. She was flat-out gorgeous. And I’m more than a little disgusted with myself for noticing.

I shiver like a ghost walked over my grave.

This isn’t fair. Former students—especially bad ones—shouldn’t be allowed to incite revolutions in teachers’ pants. They should be ugly and frumpy and warty. Married, even.

“We’re still talking about Roxie Rambling,” Savage confirmed with a notch of his brow. “The one who gyrated so hard on the volleyball pole in the gym that it toppled the net, entrapping old Coach Bologna in a web of polyester and fury, which many allege led to the heart attack that nearly killed him the same day? That Roxie Rambling?”

I nod sadly. “The very same.”

Savage sits back next to me and stares blankly at the dormant TV across from us. “You should bang her.”

I shake my head and lash out. “Why don’t you bang her? No telling what kinds of bacteria are lurking in the dank, moist cave between her legs.”

“That’s what condoms are for,” he says. “Also, you said ‘moist.’” He scrunches up his nose. “When’s she coming back? I need to check her out.”

“You are not banging Roxie Rambling,” I tell him a little more defensively than I mean to. God, I sound like a hormonal teenage girl. “As your friend and wingman, I forbid it.”

“Sloppy seconds?” he asks. “I grant you right of first refusal.”

“I refuse for the both of us out of respect for our sexual and mental health.”

Shaking my head, I stand and wander into the kitchen. Savage follows.

I need protein. Maybe I should hit the gym tomorrow morning with Savage. I’m already losing some of the six-pack I cultivated from all the sex and surfing in California.

A vision of Roxie in a white bikini on the beach accosts my frontal lobe. She’s lying under me. Writhing on the sand. Clenching her thighs around my hips. Begging for—

“Fuck,” I groan.

Go away, Roxie. I shove both hands through the air, pushing her image aside. Go the fuck away, you sizzling-hot, curvy bitch of a temptation.

Savage stares at me and slowly shakes his head. “You’re losing it, man.”

I yank open the refrigerator. Stocked with only beer and week-old leftovers from a couple questionable food establishments, it’s devoid of anything that remotely fits the protein department.

Screw it.

“I’m going to the gym,” I announce. The job search can wait till I blow off some steam.

“Attaboy,” Savage says, returning to the living area. He clicks the remote to switch on the TV. “Work off all that sexual frustration. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

“Well, it sure as shit can’t get a whole lot worse,” I mumble as I snatch my keys and gym bag.

Roxie Rambling ensures tomorrow will not be a better day when she crosses the threshold leading to my room first thing the next morning with a lanky, good-looking white guy in tow. Should’ve locked the door. I won’t get jack shit done with all the interruptions that are sure to follow.

“Good morning, Mr. Slater,” she says cheerfully.

“Says you,” I grumble. “I thought I told you to get lost.”

She shrugs flippantly with a sexy shimmy that threatens to spark yet another riot in my Underoos. “You did. I didn’t.”

As tenacious as ever, Roxie’s dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a tight T-shirt bearing our school’s unfortunate but fitting team mascot, the Bracken Bruiser, who looks like a pirate with a peg leg and a black eye instead of an eye patch. Judging by the snugness and washed-out look, it’s entirely possible the shirt came straight out of a time machine set to her eighth-grade closet.

Her black hair is swept into a ponytail with loose strands falling on either side of her face. Her amber eyes project a subtle fuck-me vibe underneath the brightness of an eager teacher-to-be excitement.

Despite my efforts last night and this morning at the gym to wrangle my raging libido into a chokehold, a growing boner threatens the security of my jeans at the sight of her. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t stand this girl, but every time I look at her, her fangs bite deeper into my dick. This poison is gonna be the death of me, my career, or both.

“You remember Elliott Craven from eighth grade?” she says, slipping her hands in her back pockets and nodding to the guy next to her.

I pause. Elliott Craven? No way.

A grin sets in as I thrust my right hand toward his. “Of course, I do. How could I forget one of my favorite students? How the heck are you, Elliott? It’s great to see you.”

Elliott beams at me and shakes my hand, holding on a second longer than necessary, his fingers trailing as we part. “Doing well, Mr. Slater. Good to see you too.” He glances at the she-devil, tosses an arm around her shoulder, and rubs it mechanically. “When Roxie told me she’d be student teaching with you, I wanted to come by and say hi.”

I nod thoughtfully. “Apparently, it’s true,” I say, more to myself than to Elliott.

You gotta send that email, Slater. Before she gets her hopes up.

Then I do a double take as my slow brain decides to wake up and smell the whammy. Unsure if I sufficiently cover my shock at what appears to be a couple standing before me, I turn away. My lungs roll over and play almost dead. As in dying. A slow, torturous end with accompanying death rattle.

Roxie and Elliott? How can this be? And why don’t I like it? I should be happy she’s with someone. It should be all the reason I need to stop lusting after her hot tits and bitable, plump ass and Jesus Christ, those long, tight legs. I’d like to gnaw on one of those like a caveman for a couple hours.

#MeNoLikeElliot

#MeSmashElliott

#ElliottGoByeBye

“I trust you’ll take good care of my girl for me.” Elliott leans forward with a wink.

I can’t even respond to that with anything but held breath behind a tight-lipped smile and a fumbled half nod.

“You graduated yet?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. A heartburn inferno sears my throat. “Working?”

“Yes, sir,” Elliott says. “Got my degree in marketing and I’m working in town at a new start-up as their internet marketing manager. We’re developing technology for higher-yield renewable energy solutions.”

“Wow, very impressive,” I say. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Elliott blushes.

He hasn’t changed much from middle school. He was a brilliant kid, but he always downplayed his smarts.

Son of a bitch.

“I gotta bring home the bucks for my girl.”

Every time he calls Roxie “my girl,” my butt cheeks involuntarily clench like my sphincter’s trying to pinch off a rock-hard turd.

“I’m saving my pennies in case we ever decide to tie the knot.” Elliott flexes the arm around Roxie’s shoulder. She still has her hands in her pockets.

He looks awkward. She looks uncomfortable.

I feel nauseated. This is becoming a habit. I might need to go to the doctor. Hey, if I have some life-threatening parasite or a hole in my stomach, maybe he’ll put me on bedrest for the first half of the school year and this nightmare will go away under a haze of pharmaceuticals.

“Well, you never know where life will take you, right?” I say, swallowing rising bile.

Roxie having a boyfriend is good, I tell myself. It makes her off-limits. You don’t want her on your limits or anything else that might catch something.

I do feel a teeny bit sorry for Elliott, though.

Until I imagine wild-ass Roxie mounting his pole and riding him like a bull. Then, a lash of pubescent jealousy tears through me.

If I hadn’t fisted my dick in a most manly manner and jerked off this morning after waking up from a fevered dream about her, me, and a waterbed wearing red satin sheets, I’d swear I was going through menopause.

“Good luck to the both of you,” I say with a stiff smile.

Elliott nods his appreciation and turns to Roxie. “I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty?”

“Sounds good,” she says, ducking the kiss Elliott aims at her lips. He ends up tagging her somewhere between her cheekbone and temple.

“Nice seeing you, Mr. Slater.” Elliott waves before darting out the door.

I give Roxie my back and make for my desk, throwing over my shoulder, “I have things to do. You’re in my way.”

She sighs behind me. “Isn’t there something I can do to help? I’m stuck here for a few hours until my ride comes back. Seems dumb for me to just sit and stare at the walls.”

“You’re pretty good at that if I recall correctly,” I say, settling into my chair and logging in to my computer.

Roxie marches over and plants herself right in front of my desk. The long strip of her ponytail swings with a quiet slap against her shoulder as she fists her hips. “Let’s get something straight. For the last time, I’m not the delinquent who sat in the back of your room years ago, disrupting class and making a fool of myself. Not anymore. I’m woman enough to admit I made a lot of mistakes, but you have to give me a chance to prove I’ve changed.

“I don’t like this situation any more than you do,” she continues, “but I did everything in my power to find another supervising teacher. Dr. Davis says there are no more options in this county. If anyone else would take me, I’d jump on them.”

I swallow hard at her last sentence.

She skirts around the desk and kneels before me with a desperate plea in her eyes. “I’m gonna be a great teacher, Mr. Slater. I believe in myself. I wish you would too.”

Too close.

My mind trips over a newly hatched fantasy of her like this, planted on her knees between my legs, unbuttoning my pants and curling her hand around my cock, shoving it between her plump, red-painted lips, and sucking the bejesus out of me.

I roll my chair back an inch.

“Don’t do that,” I say, getting up and urging her to her feet.

“Yo, Slater. You busy?” Savage calls as he rounds the corner into the room. He looks up just as Roxie stands. A knowing smirk commandeers his face.

“No,” I say, not even trying to hide my exasperation. “Not at all.”

Roxie smiles at him. “Mr. Savage?”

He swaggers over and playfully tips his head to the side as if trying to place the woman he damn well knows is fucking with my mojo. And other things.

“Roxie-with-an-ie Rambling. I do declare, I’m surprised to see you here.” He flicks me some side-eye.

“Student teaching. With him.” She jabs a thumb in my direction.

“You don’t say. Welcome back.” He skims his gaze down her front, hits the speed bump of her boobs, and bounces off them back up to her face. God, he’s such a dick sometimes. Okay, you’re right. We’re both dicks. “I need a quick word with your boss. Got a meeting in five.”

“Sure,” she says, stepping aside with her head lowered. Submissive.

My jeans suddenly feel too tight in the crotch. Again. I turn my hips and make a quick adjustment.

“If you insist on sticking around, make yourself useful and clean the desks or something.” I toss Roxie a bottle of disinfectant spray and a roll of paper towels. She easily catches both with a puzzled expression but gets to work regardless. Huh. Good reflexes.

I follow Savage into the hallway, closing the door behind me. He braces an elbow against the bank of lockers and pounds them with a sharp pelvic thrust. The metal clang echoes down the deserted hallway.

“Goddamn, she is something else. You weren’t kidding when you said her tits were two slices of nirvana pie with cherries on top.” He bites his knuckle.

“That’s not exactly how I described her, but yeah. She turned out tittilicious.” I glance to the door to be sure she’s not eavesdropping. “What do you want?”

“Roxie-with-an-ie Rambling covered in whipped cream, lying naked on a shower curtain draped over my bed,” he deadpans. “And a gallon of lube.”

“You’ll have to get in line. Apparently, she’s taken,” I say. The admission comes with a renewed side of heartburn. I rub my sternum.

He quirks a brow. “By whom?”

“Elliott Craven.”

“The fuck, you say?” he marvels incredulously. “Good-boy Elliott and so-bad-she’s-good Roxie. Who’dda thunk it?”

“Definitely not me.”

“You send the email to Dragov?”

“Not yet.”

He leans close and lowers his voice. “It’d be a shame to miss watching that sunrise come up every day. Those cans are magnificent. Just sayin’.”

I cross my arms, a little miffed at the way Savage is objectifying Roxie.

What the hell is wrong with me? Feel my forehead. Do I have a fever?

“Is there a point to your visit to Dante’s sixth circle of hell, a.k.a. the sixth-grade hall?” I snipe.

“Yes. Papadopoulos sent me to tell you you’re still invited to staff development on Friday, even though you’re no longer on the team.”

“How very kind of her,” I say, not even trying to flick off the flecks of irritation drilling into my scalp. #SelsunScrew

I’m the one who always invites people to staff development. Now that I’ve been booted off the island, Papadopoulos is in charge of the cool kids’ social committee? Jealousy flares at the thought of my old stomping grounds being trampled by that asshole Keith Kuntz. “She’s not inviting Kuntz, is she?”

Savage screws up his face. “Fuck, no. You may be on a different wing, but nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” I grumble under my breath.

“Slater? That you?” Witcher sticks her head into the hall.

Savage clutches his middle and jumps half a foot at the woman’s screeching tone. I’m starting to get used to it, so I only jump a couple inches.

“Shit.” I forgot we had a scheduling meeting first thing this morning. “Yeah, sorry. I was just on my way.”

Witcher gives Savage the hairy eyeball, which I assume is a spell of some sort, and ducks back into her room, presumably to rifle through her bags for a stray sausage or an ounce of empathy for the new guy who’s being shit upon by a murder of vengeful battle crows sent by the Morrigan.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in the loop,” Savage says as he trots away. Running backwards, he points at me. “Save me some of that.” He nods to my door.

I clench my jaw and make my way to the meeting, the subtle gnawing in my chest turning to a dull, persistent ache.

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