Three hours later, Witcher the work-horse witch agrees to break for lunch, but only under the condition that we’ll all be back in thirty to finish straightening out the mess we’ve inherited. Thanks to a computer glitch at the district level, about a third of our students’ schedules got completely dicked, and we’ve been combing through them manually, consulting with (paper) permanent records to correct the problems. We still have about twenty more to fix.

Mentally exhausted for any number of reasons, I return to my room to find all the desks lined up in perfect rows, sparkling clean. The whiteboard has been polished to a brilliant glow, all traces of Keith Kuntz’s dry-erase marker smudges gone. Bright, colorful paper covers the bulletin boards. The grime that grayed the blinds has been buffed away. The books on the low shelves under the wall of windows are organized neatly with labels describing each section. The stench of dank mold has been replaced with the crisp scent of a lemon grove in full bloom.

Roxie peeks over the desks from the floor near the last shelf. She hops to her feet and wipes her hands on her jeans. “I hope you don’t mind. I know you have a lot of instructional meetings this week, so I thought I’d help you with the room.” She looks away and shrugs one shoulder. “You know, just take a little stress off your back.”

I smack my jaw shut with a pop. The room looks … amazing. I couldn’t have done better. Roxie just saved me hours of work I’d planned to do after quitting time.

“If you don’t like it, I can move things around—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt as I sit at my desk, unable to physically form the words, “thank you.”

I wiggle the clean white mouse to wake up my freshly Windexed monitor. The email I typed to the Dragonlady greets me. I look up at Roxie.

She quickly glances at the wall clock. “Elliott will be here any minute to pick me up.”

“Did you read this?” I ask, pointing at the screen, my voice harsh, accusing.

She weaves through the rows and rests her hip against the edge of my desk, letting one leg dangle. Her face is soft. So unlike her. At least, the version of her I remember.

I can still see her in the back row of my old room on the eighth-grade wing, smeared over her chair like jam on a biscuit instead of sitting in it, one foot on top of her desk, arms crossed, and popping bubble gum like rapid-fire gunshots. Dirty hoodie, ragged jeans, wild hair, and even wilder eyes that were always looking for mischief. She acted like she owned the room. Some of the kids were afraid of her; others looked up to her.

But in that snapshot from so many years ago, one thing sticks out: the shoe topping off her long leg on the desk. Huge on her foot, it was a pristine black Nike high-top. Expensive. Her grandmother probably bought the shoes a size or two too big so Roxie could grow into them.

Roxie’s high-tops were the only things she took care of, the only things about her that didn’t scream “trouble” in fifty-two languages.

I shake out of my daydream into the present and glance at her feet.

Same shoes, now filled out by adult-sized feet. Dated and a bit worn but still in decent condition.

She blows the stray wisp of hair that refuses to be contained by the rubber band strangling her ponytail out of her face. “Straight up? I may have caught a few words off your computer when I was cleaning.”

I purse my lips. Goddamn it.

“I didn’t mean to,” she clarifies and shifts her attention to the door, but I see the hurt in her eyes. “If you really don’t want me here, I understand.”

I shake my head to cut off the “I do want you here” ready to fly out of my mouth. Instead, I inhale a sharp breath, trying to collect my thoughts.

The email was professional but harsh. It may have said, I don’t feel comfortable supervising a former student with a reputation for sexual prowess, especially when she appeared at my door on her first day dressed provocatively, flaunting the dress code as blatantly as she did when she attended Bracken Middle as a student. Or something to that effect.

Reluctance bubbles up like an omen from my core. I’ll probably regret this, but I ignore my misgivings and give Roxie the benefit of the doubt.

“I might’ve been hasty in my initial judgment,” I say, looking around at what she’s done with the room.

Her face brightens. “Really? So, you’ll let me stay?”

Maybe it’s the sincerity in her liquid-amber eyes, or the naïve, glowing excitement streaming off her that gives me pause. Either way, my conscience (or is it the permawood that refuses to acknowledge her sins of the past as justification for loading my desk drawers with wooden stakes?) doesn’t want to make Roxie go—not without better reason than a flubbed dress code, which she promptly corrected.

Jesus, am I actually considering giving her a second chance after the shit she pulled with Isabella?

“You can stay.”

I guess I am.

Clapping her hands, she bounces on the balls of her feet. Her tits bounce with her.

Maybe Savage was right, and there are some unexpected benefits to this new relationship.

“But we need to lay down some ground rules,” I quickly add at the sight of said highly buoyant and distracting boobs.

“Yes, sure.” She seems to downshift her energy into neutral, leaving the engine idling but ready to jump back to first gear at a second’s notice.

“Rule number one: No short skirts, no cleavage, and no shoes you can’t run in if there’s a fire.” When she gives me a quizzical look, I pontificate, “These kids are in the throes of puberty, Miss Rambling. The last thing they need is a young, attractive woman giving their hormones a reason to party in their pants, if you know what I mean.” Which I’m sure you do. #BJQueen

She nods furiously, a tinge of red warming the brown of her cheeks. “Yes, right. No pants parties.” She sticks up her thumb and holds it at arm’s length toward me. “Got it.”

“Rule number two: You’ll address me as Mr. Slater. Not Jack. Not Slater. Not McSlutbag.” I pronounce the last one with a frosty bite. “Mr. Slater.”

“Of course, Mr. Slater,” she replies, her tone a little snide. I ignore it.

“Rule three: You will be respectful to me, my colleagues, and the students who walk through that door,” I point to it, “at all times. Any failure to show respect will result in me reporting you to your supervisor.”

“Respect won’t be a problem.” Her smile assures me, but her eyes aren’t in on the deal. I let that slide too.

“You also can’t look at my computer without my permission. There’s confidential information on it about students that you’re not allowed access to.”

Her blush deepens, and this time, I buy it. “Understood. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Finally, if you’ll set up this room to my specifications, you’ll score major brownie points with me. I fuckin’ hate doing bulletin boards.”

“Real-ly?” She draws the word out as if mulling it over. A challenge accepted look settles over her features. She rests her hands on her hips and wiggles her shoulders a pinch. “Oh, it’s on.”

Much as I’d love to offer a slick retort steeped in rich, lush, body-rocking sexual innuendo, I remind myself this is Roxie Rambling, and she’s just vindictive enough to sue my ass for harassment. Which I would probably deserve.

A glance at my watch confirms I have fifteen minutes left to eat before scheduling hell resumes. Though Roxie accomplished a lot while I was gone, there’s still a ton of shit to do.

With my cock tucked firmly between my legs after goading her to get out earlier, I delicately ask, “Any chance you could stick around today? I’ll be tied up for a few more hours in a meeting, and I’m way behind on organizing the room.”

She looks through the window at the rain that’s just begun spitting long, watery streaks down the glass and pauses as if considering something. Then she nods decisively. “Sure.”

I open the bag I packed for lunch and dump its contents onto my desk. Turkey sandwich, protein bar, and a peach. “Heads up.” I toss the protein bar to Roxie.

She catches it one-handed and smiles, surprised. “Thanks, Mr. Slater.”

I grunt and tear into the peach that reminds me too much of Roxie’s fine ass to be a coincidence. Dr. Freud would have a wet dream observing me and my newest obsession.

But it’s okay. I have a three-point plan for moving forward:

1. Look all you want, but don’t touch. Except for yourself, in the privacy of your own bed.
2. Keep it professional. Roxie’s here to work. Get your money’s worth.
3. Try to leave the past where it belongs unless she gives you reason to do otherwise.

Returning to my computer, I delete the email to Dr. Dragov and pray I haven’t made a terrible mistake.

---

McSlutbag said I was attractive. Not only that, but he also said I can stay.

Those thoughts tumble through my mind like wet clothes in a Laundromat dryer as I text Elliott, telling him not to pick me up after all. I’m so relieved, I don’t even care about taking the bus home in the rain.

After I saw the email Slater wrote to the principal, my heart sank. I knew then there was only one chance for weaseling into McSlutbag’s good graces. I had to put my money where my mouth was and Get. Shit. Done.

The hustle calls, I answer.

I survey the room, keeping my attention as far from the angry, ripped man sitting behind the desk as I can, and try to picture a space I would’ve liked in sixth grade. New me, that is. Not old me. McSlutbag would never let me put up posters of my favorite rappers throwing gang signs. But maybe some fresh, less controversial bands would be okay. I mentally run through my small poster collection at the dorm and consider what I’d be willing to loan him.

Not him, I correct myself. The kids. I’m doing this for them and for me, not him.

While munching on the protein bar, I take stock of the contents of the storage cabinets I haven’t tackled yet. Not much there aside from some construction paper and basic crafting supplies—scissors, glue, crayons, and markers.

I need resources.

The media center.

I wonder if the old battle-ax Mrs. Lance is still the librarian. She was one of the few people who ever cut me slack at Bracken when I was a kid.

“I’m going to gather some supplies,” I announce.

McSlutbag arches a brow. “I’ll be in Witcher’s room.”

I’m intensely aware of his eyes on me, but I shake off the attention as irritation rather than attraction. The guy’s probably ten years older than me, and he knows I’m with Elliott. It’s far more likely the attraction is coming from my end than his.

But damn. The more I watched him while he and Elliott jabbered, the more he sucked me in. The perpetual bedhead. The hardness behind his sharp green eyes. The clothes just loose enough to leave shit to the imagination, yet tight enough to ensure your imagination’s on the right track. And his hands. Big, worn, and strong. Just how I like ’em. Hands like that know how to navigate the female body. How to protect it.

And in my experience, big hands really do equate to big other things.

McSlutbag is hotter than a middle school teacher has a right to be, and I’m a celibate, very thirsty young woman.

Roxie, you can’t look at him that way, I tell myself. It’s unprofessional. He not only fucked your scholarship chances, but he’s also your supervising teacher. Graduation depends on you not screwing things up. That means no mentally undressing him. No fantasies about him paddling you for being naughty in class. No suggestive overtures that’ll land you in his bed.

Get. Shit. Done.

Oh, and don’t forget you have a boyfriend.

I lay a hand on my midsection to stop the quiver racing through my belly. My hormones trip over the professional wire I set down to prevent them from getting out of control and promptly plummet straight into the deep south.

I recognize this feeling. It’s the flippy-floppy one I get when a gorgeous man hits me with a look that sets my insides on fire and I burn so hot that nothing short of a glorious orgasm will put out the fire.

Jesus, I haven’t felt this giddy since before I started dating Elliott a year ago. Sure, I want to jump Elliott’s bones, but this isn’t just about sex. It’s a gooiness below my stomach that keeps dipping and rolling, confusing and elating me all at once. It’s the inability to hold on to a complete thought when McSlutbag looks at me. It’s the way he made Elliott disappear even when he was standing right beside me.

“Is there something else?” McSlutbag startles me out of my daydream.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment at being caught staring. I make a point of not looking at him. “No. Nothing else.”

I quickly shuffle down the hall toward the media center and leave my meandering thoughts in the gutter where they belong.

I have a boyfriend, and he’s awesome.

Carry on, Roxie Rambling.

Sure enough, Battle-Ax is still there, hustling around the library with a stack of books in her arms like she’s trying to chase down a bus. With only a few more gray hairs than I remember her having, Cybill Lance wears a harsh, do-not-fuck-with-me-child expression on her dark face. She lifts an expectant and annoyed brow when she sees me.

“Hi, Mrs. Lance. Not sure if you remember me, but I’m Roxie Rambling. I went to school here, and I’m student teaching with Mr. Slater this semester.”

She pauses a moment and sets the books down on the nearest table. “Roxie-with-an-ie? Girl, is that you?” Her cold expression morphs into a lukewarm one, and she reaches out to hug me.

Surprised, I return the gesture. It feels nice to be accepted by a familiar face.

“What are you doing, all grown up and teaching at Bracken Middle, of all places? I thought you’d end up in jail,” she marvels with a wink, tugging at the loose strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail. She steps back and takes me in.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I laugh. It’s better than crying. “It took me a while, but I made it through college. Got some scholarships and student loans. Now I’m wrapping it up and hoping to find a job.”

“You left Bracken with a bad reputation. I’m glad to see you turned yourself around. How’s your grandmother?”

I lower my gaze. I hate when people ask about Gramamma. It always brings back a rush of guilt and tough memories. “She, uh, passed four years ago. Cancer.”

Mrs. Lance’s brown eyes round with sadness, and she hugs me briefly to her ample chest again. “Oh, girl, I’m so sorry. I know she loved you and wanted the best for you after all that custody mess.”

“She was a good influence. If she hadn’t taken custody of me when she did, I’d probably be sittin’ in a cell beside my momma. I gave Gramamma hell through middle school, but reality finally sunk in when she first got diagnosed at the beginning of my senior year and I started pulling my act together.”

Mrs. Lance barely shakes her head. Moisture sparkles in her eyes. “Cancer is just evil. I’m proud of you, and I’m sure your grandmother is too.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Now, what can I do for you?” she asks, kicking out her hip. “You need some materials for your unit? What are you planning?”

“I haven’t gotten very far with planning yet, but I’ll be sure to pay you another visit when I have some ideas.” I look around the media center at the mess, but the impeccable order I recall from my past years here overlays it. Mrs. Lance will have this place in tip-top shape in no time.

“Come back here and let me show you the professional section.” She waves me toward the room beyond the checkout area and gestures to tools and technology along the way. “This is the laminator and that’s the stencil maker. The supply closet is over here.” Mrs. Lance shoulders the door and props it open with her butt. A magical rainbow of materials shines from within. “You’re welcome to take whatever you need. Just return what you don’t use.”

My mind explodes at all the shit at my disposal. This place is a goddamn goldmine.

“What do you think about the tag line ‘Learning is a fantastic voyage’ for a bulletin board?” I ask, salivating as the wheels begin to turn.

She cocks her head as if thinking about it. “You’re teaching earth science and language arts?”

I nod.

She steps away from the supply room and heads back to the professional section full of scholarly journals and teaching magazines. She selects a couple, flips through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for in one of the magazines, and lays it on the table.

“How about ‘Let’s rock’?” she asks, pointing to a picture of an elaborate, brightly colored bulletin board with labeled layers of shale, siltstone, volcanic ash, limestone, sandstone, and embedded fossils. The image illustrates principles of horizontality, superposition, cross-cutting relationships, and more.

It’s brilliant. But I have an idea for how to make it even more awesome with a tie-in to language arts.

“I love it,” I gush. “You mind if I borrow this?”

“Of course not.” She guides me back to the checkout counter and diligently writes down my name, date, and magazine info. “Keep it as long as you need. I’ll add you to my database so you can check out whatever you want under Mr. Slater’s guidance.”

“Mrs. Lance, you’re the best! Thank you so much.” I clutch the magazine to my chest. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to hit the supply room too.”

“That’s what it’s there for,” she says. “Just grab a table in back and work there if you like.”

The door opens, and a couple teachers walk in. Mrs. Lance’s expression immediately descends into her old hawkish persona as she eyeballs the intruders with disdain. The warmth of our conversation dissipates as she gruffly asks what they want. I feel honored to have been accepted by the woman everyone hated—and probably still hates—when I was younger.

My first ally at Bracken Middle. Yay, me.

I work for the rest of the day in the library, cutting out the pieces I’ll need, jotting notes to myself for things to bring in tomorrow, and chopping letters with the stencil maker. I only come up for air when Mrs. Lance appears in the doorway, swinging her mini umbrella by the handle. I glance over her head. The clock reads 4:30.

“Oh shi—I mean shoot! I didn’t realize it was this late.” I shove my stuff into a messy pile. “Is it okay if I leave this here till morning? I’ll be here first thing to clean up the mess.”

“No problem,” she says.

We make small talk about her family and my life at the university on our way out and say our goodbyes. She leaves through the side door, and I head to McSlutbag’s room to grab my bag. The lights are off. Looks like he’s gone for the day.

Pout.

It’s childish that I want to see him once more before I leave, if only to get his opinion about what I’ve been working on today. Of course, he has a life outside of school. He’s probably got a bevy of beauties lined up like tequila shots waiting for him at home.

By the time I reach the main doors, the rain has picked up to a steady, staccato thrum. I could kick myself for leaving my umbrella at the dorm. I dart through the thick puddles in the parking lot, down the long driveway toward the covered bus stop at the street. It’s jam-packed with people, so I have to stand outside, shivering despite the humidity.

My hair and clothes are soaked, my high-tops drenched.

A black car leaving the school pulls up to the stop sign a few feet away. I glance over. Do a double take.

It’s McSlutbag. In a Camaro.

My stomach takes a nosedive, riding the roller coaster of angsty teen romance.

I smile despite myself as the water courses down my cheeks. His expression softens. My tough parts melt into goo. He stares at me so long, he misses his opportunity to pull out onto the street. Now he has to wait for more cars to pass.

Is he thinking about offering me a ride?

He looks both ways. When his eyes fall on me again, they’re the usual diamond-hard-10 on Mohs scale of hardness. It’s then that I remember him as my teacher. So many times, he stood over me in class, angry, scowling, irritated over both real and perceived slights. Back then, I never would’ve admitted how much his words cut me. I certainly never told anyone he made me cry. When I’d get home to the safety of Gramamma’s arms, she’d hold me tight while I curled into a ball and let the tears flow. She rocked me on more occasions than I care to recall, all because Mr. Slater had muttered some scathing, flippant comment that meant nothing to him but everything to me. He’d say he wasn’t surprised I didn’t do my homework or laugh if I told him I’d studied. I was so hurt, I’d just fail the test on purpose to prove him right.

Looking at him now, I want to believe he’s changed, that he’s more empathetic and kinder to his students—not just the smart ones like Elliott, but all of them.

He holds my gaze a second more and then drives off into the increasing deluge, watching me in his rearview.

I sigh, waffling between hopeful and disappointed.

With a shake of my head, I look up to the sky and embrace the rain.

---