Everything is a production when it comes to Pierce James.
First, we had to stop by his house before we drove to school because he had to pick up his dress clothes and whatever the hell he needs for his class. I stayed in his SUV, examining his house from the window. Pierce lives in one of those new developments on the outskirts of Vegas, the plush, rich ones. This one is called El-Porto, and all the houses are cookie-cutter, ranch-style homes with perfectly manicured lawns. One is decorated with a giant “It’s a Boy!” sign that stretches across the lawn, along with a blue stork that has the baby’s name, birthday, and weight. Jesus Christ. Might as well give out your social security number while you’re at it. It feels like we live on two different planets.
I feel strangely breathless. Like this is monumental in a way, though I don’t know how it could be. It’s just a house. A really gorgeous house, but still just a house. And yet, there’s another piece of him that now belongs to me. That only I have, out of all the girls in school. Pierce gets into his house—not even bothering to shut the door—and appears twenty seconds later clasping his brown leather bag. When he fastens his seatbelt, he says, “You should probably erase this place from your memory.”
“Jesus, Pierce.” I shake my head, peppering the gesture with an eye roll. In reality, I’m pretty pissed, and I might not show it, but the sting in my eyeballs suggests I want to cry, too. It’s getting old. This whole I-don’t-want-you-in-my-life act. I clutch my backpack tighter into my chest and look out the window. He sighs beside me, throwing the vehicle into drive.
“That’s not how I meant it.”
“Enlighten me, then,” I say, but my voice loses that interest and enthusiasm I usually keep for him.
More sighing. He doesn’t say anything, and my heart stops beating in my chest before he finally groans, “Fuck. I guess I meant it.”
“Okay,” is all I say.
He tries to make small talk the rest of the way to school. I shut it down. This is not happening. I’m done chasing after him like a little puppy.
When we’re two blocks from school, I motion for him with my hand to stop. “No point coming in together, right? I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
My voice is dry and lacking. Lacking emotion, lacking interest, lacking a soul. He stops by the curb, angling his body to look at me and say something, but I’m already out the door.
I don’t look back to watch his confused face.
I don’t give him the opportunity to boss me around.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder and race to school, leaving him to feel how he makes me feel day in and day out.
Small.
When I see Christian in the hall before class, I don’t ask him why he didn’t answer me over the weekend, because I don’t have to. I can see for myself. He went through some sort of transformation. Got a septum piercing and dyed his hair green. Not bottle green. Dark and mysterious. I’m talking The Joker green. He looks…extreme.
“Faggot,” Herring coughs as he passes by Christian and me in the hallway, straightening his varsity jacket over his broad shoulders. His minions are following him, their backwards ball caps and stupid smirks on full display. I put a hand over Christian’s back.
“Fuck him. What’s up?”
Christian takes a long look at Herring before he slams his locker shut and locks it.
“Fucking straight boys,” he grumbles.
At least I’m not the only weirdo here.
I cock an eyebrow. He shakes his head, and we both walk to the entrance. We are going to a café across the street. Even though Pierce sneaked some money into the smallest pocket in my backpack—the Benjamins fell to the floor with a soft thud when I opened it to get a piece of gum in English Lit—I’m still not going to use it. I’m tired of feeling like his pet project, and even though I’d kill myself before going back to Ryan and admitting defeat, I also don’t feel like going back to the boat.
“Do you have secrets, Remi?” He jerks his head to look at me as we descend the stairs to the street level. I try hard not to blush, which ironically makes me blush even harder.
“Sure. I mean, everyone does.” Sometimes the best moments in life are the ones you can’t talk about.
“Well, I do. And it’s a big one.”
“Okay.” I lick my lips, keeping my steps and my voice and everything about me extra casual, because I know how weird these things can be. It’s hard to be out of the closet at Christian’s age. It’s hard to be out of the closet at any age, and I have a feeling that even though he’s in, the guy he is interested in is not.
“And every time I have to see him in the halls, pretending to be someone he’s not, it’s a constant reminder that he’ll never be mine. He’ll never come out. He doesn’t even want to be seen with me anymore.”
I don’t ask if it’s Benton Herring. A part of me knows the answer to that. Another part doesn’t want to believe it. But Christian’s voice hit home nonetheless, because this conversation can be about Pierce and me. A secret that’s too big to shoulder. A love story that isn’t meant to be written. A script that anyone can know—from miles away—is not going to have a happy conclusion.
After first period, I reluctantly attend my Speech and Debate class. A part of me is dying to see him again. To smell him. To get a fix of the man I can’t get enough of. The other part dreads it for the very same reasons.
I sit at my desk, and when Benton Herring passes me by, he slaps a paper to my desk. I don’t even bother to look at what it is. I’m still scrolling my thumb through my Facebook, trying to figure out through the updates if my stepbrother is still alive. Looks like he is, and he checked in somewhere in Reno. Fun times, but at least I’ll be able to go home today after school. The fact that I don’t have to be dependent on Pierce today is a small victory.
“Pssst, Remi.” Benton is now leaning across his desk toward me. He smells of too much Abercrombie and Fitch cologne and desperation. I ignore him.
“Remi. Remi. Remi. Remi. Remi.”
“What?!” I turn around and snap at him, probably looking like a psycho, but I don’t even care. I don’t like him very much right now. Not that I did in the first place.
“I invited you to a par-tay. A special party at my house. The deets are all on the page. Mikaela made special invitations because she’s cute and hot and talented. Right, Mikaela?” He twists his head and winks at her.
“Should’ve added that no skanks are allowed in the fine print.” She pops on pink bubblegum while concentrating deeply on putting on a coat of hot red nail polish.
“Not interested,” I say, ignoring Mikaela.
“Why?” Benton asks.
“Because I don’t like you or any of your friends,” I say honestly. “And because you called Christian a faggot, and frankly, I find your behavior, if not your entire existence, appalling.”
Benton throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Jesus, Remi. Get some chill. Chris is used to it. It’s just banter. Stop being an uptight bitch.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smile sweetly.
“Yeah.” He swipes his eyes along my bare legs under my desk.
“So, can I bring him along?”
His cocky smile collapses into an annoyed frown. Busted.
“Remington,” Mikaela warns in her nasally voice behind me. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but Christian is gay. You can’t get knocked up and leech on his family money. You’re better off placing your bets on someone else.”
I can’t take it anymore. I turn around, holding onto the back of my chair, and hit her with my own brand of nastiness.
“Jealous much?”
“Why would I be jealous of trash?” She giggles and elbows one of her mean girl reject minions.
“Because your boyfriend wants me, and you couldn’t catch a dick if it hit you in the face,” I say simply. I strongly suspect that Benton is Christian’s secret hookup, but my jab worked, because Mikaela looks like she is about to spontaneously combust.
“BURN!” One of Benton’s friends slaps his desk, and the sound rings in my ears.
“Fucking bitch!” Mikaela roars, standing up, and before I know what’s happening, she’s launching herself at me. I’m still seated when she clasps the collar of my dress shirt and throws me across the room. I land on Benton’s desk and watch his smirk as she leans between my legs to slap my face. I snap out of it. Fast. As her arm comes down at me, I take ahold of both her wrists and twist them like you would a doorknob, applying as much pressure as I can, and hear her little bones squawking together. A shrill scream leaves her mouth. It echoes between the walls, and I push her off me. In the background, I hear people yelling, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” “Catfight!” and “End that bitch, Kae!” She throws herself at me again. I step away, letting her hit the wall. People around us laugh. I was in a lot of fights as a kid. With girls. With boys. Ryan always says I’m a “scrappy little shit,” and that if I had more discipline, I could totally be a fighter.
When the laughing and yelling around us die, so does the fight. Mikaela and I look up—I’m not sure when exactly I pinned her to the floor, everything is a fog when the adrenaline takes over your body—and see Pierce, I mean Mr. James, staring at both of us coldly.
“Up,” he says, standing behind his desk, the tips of his fingers splaying across it. He looks like a stranger now. He sounds like one, too. It’s hard to believe that this is the man who kissed me like I’m the only thing that matters. That told me things, personal things, about his family and sister and life. The heat in my face is unbearable. There’s an argument to be made that Pierce James is a chameleon. He changes his colors all the time. He has so many hats—teacher, lover, brother, savior, enemy—he always throws me off balance when he looks at me, because I’m never sure which Pierce I’m getting.
We both right ourselves, leaning against a desk and a chair. Mikaela has a fat lip from a punch I threw, and her hair is a tangled mess. I have bloody scratches on my arm, but that’s about it. I know how to dodge a slap or a punch. I’m my stepbrother’s sister, after all.
“Sir, I—” Mikaela starts, but Pierce waves her off, looking bored more than anything else.
“Sit down. Both of you.”
The whole class is staring at him like he had just ordered us to French kiss and fondle each other on his desk. That is unacceptable at West Point, and in general. You don’t just break up a fight between two students and not send them to the headmaster.
“You mean…” Mikaela’s mouth drops.
“I mean I will deal with this later. This class is important, and I don’t want either of you to miss it. You will be punished, Miss Stephens.”
“Oh.” Her voice drops with disappointment.
“Oh, indeed.”
I look around me before I hurry to take my seat. I don’t dare look at Pierce. I’m not sure where we stand, but I don’t regret acting the way I did this morning. I’m tired of this hot and cold game. Tired of him giving me a little taste and then denying me in the next breath. Denying himself of what we both want.
I see him in my periphery opening a thick, red book with yellow pages but keep my eyes trained on my desk. I want to keep my head high but can’t. Not right now. Benton Herring is high-fiving his friends to my left like the dickhead that he is. They probably thoroughly enjoyed the show. Especially the part where our skirts parachuted and everyone could see our underwear in the process. Goddamn Mikaela.
“We dance around the ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows. This is a quote by Robert Frost. Today, we’re going to discuss secrets. I’m sure you’ve all watched the news at some point this month, so you know about the affair between our president, John Holloway, and Secretary of State Elsa Dickenson. They were both single. Holloway is divorced, and Dickenson was never married before. Yet, this type of relationship is considered taboo. Wrong. A misconduct.
“Secrets. We all have them. Some of them are big. Some of them are small. How do we determine what’s big and what’s small, and do secrets hold a moral weight on us? Today, we will discuss all those things.”
I press my forehead against the cool desk and squeeze my eyes shut, seeking comfort. I don’t want to hear him talk. I especially don’t want to hear him talk about secrets. About our secret. I don’t want to hear that what we’re doing is wrong. My only comfort is that Pierce doesn’t normally voice his opinions in class.
“I think secrets are morally corrupting.” A girl, Jasmine, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose in a huff.
“There’s not even one person in this world that doesn’t have secrets,” Schwartz, Benton Herring’s friend, says loudly. I chance a look at Benton himself. He’s gone all quiet now. I’m not surprised, yet I am.
He and Christian? Really? Shit. But he seems so…douchey.
“Miss Stringer?” Pierce asks. I shake my head solemnly.
“No need to shake your head. You haven’t been offered anything. You’re required to contribute to the debate,” he says coolly. I maintain my position. Literally and figuratively. My body is stiff and ready for battle. My heart, on the other hand… it feels like it has already lost.
“I’m not feeling well, Mr. James. I think I need to go to the nurse.”
I start to get up when he says, “You’re not excused.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. Ironically, I should point out.
“I said you’re not excused. You’re staying here. Yes? Hannah? I see you raised your hand.”
Hannah begins to talk, and I glue my ass back to my seat, wondering what the hell is going on.
“Secrets scare me,” Hannah says. “What if they come out? A lot of people can get hurt.”
“Secrets are human nature. We all want to keep some things to ourselves.”
“Secrets can get you killed.”
“Secrets are what keeps this world moving.”
“Secrets…”
“I don’t want any secrets in my life,” I announce, out of nowhere. I’m folding my arms across my chest now, looking resolute. “Secrets make you feel…dirty. And alone.”
“Are you saying that you don’t have any secrets?” Pierce strokes his chin like he is deep in thought, and even though his voice is light and aloof as always, I know that the answer to this question holds a special weight for him. I play along, looking him dead in the eye.
“Not anymore.”
“Is that so?” he asks. Again conversationally, but this time I see the flash of irritation in his eyes. Maybe even hurt.
I nod.
“I don’t think I could ever give up my secrets.” Another girl, Amanda, giggles nervously. But Pierce is still looking at me and I’m still looking at him. The bell rings. Neither of us budges. Students begin to collect their stuff. Mikaela stays in her place. The tension is tangible and heavy in the classroom. Both she and I are waiting to see how he is going to react to what he saw earlier in class.
“You both get off with a warning,” Pierce says, pretending to go through the papers on his desk. I almost choke on my tongue. Mikaela looks between him and me, not moving an inch. She looks too shocked to be a bitch, so at least I have that going for me.
“Am I… Is she…” She points at me, and I know that she hasn’t done anything wrong per se, but I still want to kill her for it.
“Don’t test me, Miss Stephens. I don’t know what happened today, and frankly, I won’t lose sleep wondering. But I’ll tell you one thing…” His voice is low and menacing. “This is your last chance. Keep the drama off campus and especially out of my class, and we won’t have any problems. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Mikaela nods eagerly, too relieved to question him, as she gathers her things. I, on the other hand, am pissed.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mikaela looks at me with wide eyes, afraid that I’m going to make Pierce rethink his decision, and Pierce looks at me with a blank, bored expression. “She fucking attacks me in class and gets off with a warning? This is bullshit!” Why would he do that?
“You can leave, now, Mikaela. It seems Miss Stringer wants her punishment right now.” He says it almost playfully, and despite my outrage, my panties are damp again. Oh, shit.
The door closes behind Mikaela, and I’m still looking at my desk. This is all so stupid. If he is actually going to punish me, I am going to lose my shit on him. But right now, getting suspended is not even on my mind. Something else is, and I bet it’s throbbing between his legs.
He slings his arm over his chair and stares at me, sitting down with his legs spread. More like a student, less like a teacher. Every inch of him like a man. My lower belly tumbles, and yet again I wish he wasn’t so easy to look at.
“No secrets?” He cocks an eyebrow, his fingers laced together on the table.
“Am I getting suspended?” I pretend like I care. Like anything other than him matters.
“No. You’re not.” His voice is even. “Is she bullying you, Remi? I need to know. And I know you can hold your own, so it doesn’t matter that you can take it.”
“Mikaela doesn’t bully me,” I answer flatly, raising my gaze to meet his. “But she does deserve to be suspended for what she did today.”
He doesn’t even ask me what happened. He knows Mikaela and knows me. And somehow, even though I don’t want it to, it makes me feel so much better about everything. To have someone by my side who believes in me. In my character.
“She should be,” he snaps, like this doesn’t matter. Like nothing matters other than us. “But if she gets punished, so will you. I walked in on you on top of her, Remi.” Hearing him say my name at school seems so wrong, but so right. “I was doing it to protect you. But then you had to go and run that beautiful mouth of yours,” he says, walking up to my desk to drag my lower lip down with his thumb.
I try to act unaffected, but my breathing picks up, and I feel my nipples harden.
“That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble,” he says more to himself than to me. “So…no secrets you said?”
“No more secrets.” Our eyes are boring into one another. He swings another chair around in front of me and sits forward with his elbows on my desk. There’s heat sizzling all around us. It’s the feeling he got me hooked on, my very first addiction. My only vice. The universe disappears again, and we’re being sucked into a small, white capsule that’s floating. I feel the pop, pop, pop in my belly. Pierce James can make my body dance without even moving. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who holds such power over me.
He slides his leg toward me and laces it with mine. Ankle-to-ankle. We’re still staring at each other.
“Don’t play with me, Stringer. I’m older, wiser, bigger, and more powerful than you,” he hisses, and a little moan escapes my lips. He’s too serious to even care about that. I sober up, shaking the weight of the lust from my shoulders.
“I can’t keep doing this. Begging for crumbs of affection when all you do is tell me how wrong we are. I can’t do the hot and cold thing. If you want me, take me.”
He pushes his leg between both my thighs, and because I’m a masochist, I spread them apart. My skirt is short, and there’s a nagging ache for him between them. The need to be filled with everything Pierce James to the brim, until I howl in pleasure and pain, is taking over every single inch of my body.
“You are a part of my life,” he says, almost with annoyance. Like he doesn’t want it to be true. And he doesn’t. I know that. In fact, he wishes he could still tell me to close those legs, take my backpack, and fuck off from his classroom. But he can’t, so instead, his angle travels upwards. That’s as much connection as we can get with a desk between us, and the door may be closed, but it isn’t locked.
“Not enough,” I say, looking at him under my thick, long lashes. My voice is a tender rasp, and his throat bobs in reaction. My hand drops between my legs, but I don’t touch myself this time. No. This time, it’s him who is going to pleasure me.
“Don’t do this,” he warns.
“Do what?”
“End this.”
“End what?” I press, blinking at him, doe-eyed and oh-so-innocent.
And just like that, without a warning, he storms up to his feet, bolts to the door, locks it from the inside, and turns around, still holding the knob with white knuckles.
“Sit on my desk,” he orders. Everything is strained suddenly. Everything. My nipples are tight and begging for me to touch myself to subdue some of the lust. My center is throbbing. My panties are completely wet. I want to keep still and play with him a little more, but my desire overrules every morsel of pride I was hanging onto. I walk over to his desk, hopping on it with my face toward the dry erase board. The word secret is still written there in red, circled with sunrays pointing out to other words: scandal, morals, mystery, and consequences. All the things we talked about in class.
It dawns on me that this is real. People are passing the locked door in the hallway. I hear shouting, the pinging of iPhones across the floor, and a few girls giggling and protesting when a bunch of guys dribble a basketball inside the school premises. I swallow hard, my eyes rolling backwards as I think of what’s about to happen.
He walks over to me. Slowly. He is still in charge. Or at least he makes me believe that he is. Pierce stops when his whole body is between my legs, his waist level with my sex.
“End what?” I repeat myself, because he still hasn’t answered me.
He leans forward and bites my lower lip with his straight, white teeth, whispering into my mouth, “Our secret.”
Then I feel his fingers—just the tips of them—drawing lazy circles on my knees. Like he’s in no hurry. Like it’s not a possibility that someone will try to open the door any minute. Like what we have is real. Shivers break down my spine and make my skin prickly when he deepens our kiss, and I lean backwards, my hands slapped on his desk, trying not to get crushed by him. His tongue devours my mouth, and he tastes like peppermint gum and the man I want inside me. One of his hands travels deeper into my inner thigh, and the other one clutches onto my hip, nailing me onto the table like I’d ever try to run away.
“I like our secret,” he growls into my mouth, his fingertips dancing in the sensitive area between my sex and my thigh. He pinches that bone there—or maybe it’s a muscle—and my whole core is about to explode.
“Why?” I rasp into his mouth, and his grasp on my waist only tightens, and it’s beginning to feel downright rough. Like he is trying to own me in some way. “Because it’s a dirty little secret?”
“There’s nothing dirty about it.” His fingers hook the damp fabric of my underwear, and I don’t even have time to feel embarrassed about my arousal that’s pretty much smeared all over his desk. “There’s nothing wrong about it.” He sucks hungrily on my throat, his stubble and teeth scratching my sensitive skin, and I’m about to lose it. “There’s nothing, Remington Stringer, but you.”
His fingers dive into me. Not one. Not two. Three.
And it’s not dirty. It’s filthy, and we both know it.
He plunges into my hot center, in and out, not rhythmically, but in a way that lets me know that he is nowhere near as in control as he wants to be. I slide forward and ride his hand, taking over the situation. His hand between my legs is heaven, and now I know why his hand is on my waist. It’s either that or unbuckling himself and fucking me raw and senseless on his desk.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” His voice is barely audible, nothing but a frustrated whisper, every time I dive in and he is knuckles deep inside me. He fills me. He stretches me. He consumes me in a way no man would ever be able to, and it’s not a stupid high school crush that’s saying this. It’s the reality of things, and we both know it.
“I’m going to come,” I moan, and it’s the first time I look down to see his massive tent of an erection pointing at me. I look up, and he is tortured. Every curve of his face gives it away. He loves it, and he hates that he loves it. He is fucking his student with his fingers, and he is disgusted with himself. Good. He sure made me feel like shit for asking for it this morning.
“Come.” He inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. “Come, my favorite secret.”
And I come, collapsing under him.
Everything becomes brighter.
The earth shatters beneath us.
And when I’m done, I stand up, smooth the hem of my skirt, rearrange my panties underneath it, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and pat his chest.
“Thanks for that, Mr. James. Oh, by the way, I won’t be needing a ride home tonight.” I unlock the door and leave. Just like that.
Two can play this game, Teach.