I swing open the chain-link fence in our front yard and make my way past the collection of empty beer cans and mismatched chairs—that have permanent ass prints from Ryan and his good-for-nothing friends—before heading inside. The inside, unfortunately, is not much better. We live in the ghetto of Las Vegas, where the houses are overrun with bionic sewer roaches, and the streets are overrun with tweakers. Ironically enough, all the streets in our neighborhood are named after Ivy League schools. I live on Yale, which I figure is about as close to an Ivy League school as I’ll ever get. West Point could change everything, though. And boy, was I off to a great start. Not.
Ignoring the mountain of dishes in the sink, Ryan’s random tools lying everywhere, and a suspicious wet spot on the old green carpet, I head straight to my room. Let’s be honest—this place isn’t ever The Ritz, but when Dad goes out of town, it goes from bad to worse. And I can’t bring myself to care today. I pause to look at my giant corkboard full of photos above my dresser. I see my mom pregnant with me. My dad taking me for a ride on the back of his old Softail, rocking a Kool-Aid smile and ratty light brown hair. Then the more recent ones of Ella and me smoking weed in her car on an old back road while we were supposed to be in school. And Ryan. So many pictures of Ryan. Teaching me how to skateboard, sitting with me in the hospital after I broke my ankle on said skateboard later that week, putting our tent together on our camping trip with Dad, selfies from concerts we snuck into, and tons of sunsets and scenic shots from the countless times we drove around just to escape the hellhole of Las Vegas. I flop facedown onto the pale blue comforter on top of my old twin bed. I toe my shoes off, not moving from my face-plant on the bed, thanking my lucky stars that Ryan had plans. He disappeared right after dropping me off. Again. I’m not sure where or what he’s up to, but right now, I’m grateful for the silence. I roll onto my back and stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling above and count the revolutions of the fan blades.
What a day.
Mr. James’ face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I cringe. Of course, I’d have the hottest teacher to ever grace a classroom, and of course, I’d manage to make him hate me twenty seconds into meeting me. Not that I blame him. My verbal diarrhea was in full effect today. It wasn’t all bad, though. The rest of my classes were fucking hard—as to be expected—but it felt good. Really good. I was totally overwhelmed and out of my element, but at the same time, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged. Meeting Christian was a plus, too.
I pad out to the kitchen and snatch a Hot Pocket out of the freezer. After wolfing that down, I decide to call it a night. I peel off my knee socks, skirt, and shirt and fold them carefully. I only have the one skirt and one extra shirt, so I’ll need to keep them as nice as I can for as long as I can.
I’m too tired to even take a shower, so I throw on a big, white, cotton T-shirt—either Ryan’s or my pops’—and hop into bed. I focus on the sounds outside to distract me from my thoughts. I hear the bass thumping from a car a few houses down, a group of teenage boys heckling each other, sirens in the distance, and the rhythmic sound of the wheels of a skateboard hitting the cracks in the sidewalk. And before long, the soundtrack of my city lulls me to sleep.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I feel two strong arms around me and a nose nuzzling my neck. Ryan. Lately, he only sleeps with me when he’s fucked up. I can smell the alcohol seeping through his skin, but somehow, it’s still comforting.
“You can’t leave me, Rem,” he whispers into my ear, his voice as rough as his touch. The desperation in his words breaks my heart and reminds me of the wounded boy he once was.
“You’re almost done with high school.” He continues, “And soon, you’re going to go off to college and leave us behind. I can’t protect you if you’re not here.”
“Shh, it’s okay.” I soothe him, rubbing his arm like I always do when he’s like this and avoiding the topic altogether. I know I shouldn’t lead him on. I know this is going to blow up soon, but now—when he’s drunk, vulnerable, and unstable—is not the time to serve him a healthy dose of reality. I’ve got defusing the bomb that is Ryan down to an art form, and nothing I say right now will go over well. Not when he’s in this state.
He squeezes me tighter, and a few minutes later when his breathing evens out and I know he’s passed out, I succumb to the security of his arms and drift back to sleep.
I reach blindly for my phone on my nightstand, knocking a water bottle off in the process before I finally feel the cool plastic of the case in my hand. I open one eye and try to focus on the time. Once my eyes adjust, I spring out of bed like it’s on fire. School started ten minutes ago.
Shit. Why the hell didn’t my alarm go off?!
I’m kicking myself for not showering when I had the time last night. I yell out Ryan’s name on my way to the bathroom, but I don’t get a response. I brush my teeth while I go in search of him. This place is a shoebox, so he shouldn’t be hard to find.
“Ryan!” I yell around a mouth full of toothpaste. “Where are you?”
I shove his door open, only to find his empty bed.
Jesus Christ. I’m late for my second day of school.
I get dressed in record time and throw my unwashed hair into a messy fishtail braid. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and run outside to see if by some miracle Ryan got up early to work on his old school Firebird that’s been sitting on blocks in the driveway for the past year. Nope. No such luck. And even worse, his bike is gone.
Come on, Ryan. Don’t fuck me over like this. Not today.
It’s way too late to catch the bus now. I’m weighing my options in my head—all zero of them—when I hear the telltale rumble of his Harley in the distance. Halle-fucking-lujah.
Ryan swings into the driveway and lifts one leg like he’s about to get off his bike.
“No, no, no, don’t you dare! I have to leave, like, five minutes ago! Where were you?” I screech, scrambling toward him.
“Back off, Rem, and get the fuck on. I had some shit to take care of early this morning. I’m fuckin’ tired, and I don’t got any patience for your tantrums right now.”
I don’t know what could have possibly gotten him out of bed before noon, short of the world ending, but I don’t have time to hound him for answers. I snatch my new helmet off the old metal patio swing and hop on behind Ryan. He takes off like a bat out of hell, and I’m forced to hold his middle tighter. He weaves in and out of traffic and somehow manages not to get stuck behind one single red light.
We pull into the parking lot, and I don’t know what time it is, but the horde of students outside tells me that second period is about to begin. I think Ryan is going to let me off, but much to my utter horror, he keeps on going. Straight for the fountain. Straight to where half the school still lingers. He romps the sidewalk and slides to a stop parallel to the fountain, effectively creating a scene.
“Here you go, princess,” he taunts. I roll my eyes while I unbuckle my helmet and start to slide off, but his huge hand grips my thigh, keeping me in place. I arch an eyebrow in question.
“Say ‘thanks’, Rem.”
“Thanks, Rem,” I grit through clenched teeth.
“Say it sweetly, baby doll,” he insists. All eyes are on us, and to them, it probably looks like nothing more than a little PDA. But Ryan’s hand squeezes my thigh so tightly that my eyes water.
Who is this person?
“Ryan. Enough. I’m already late.”
“Not until you thank me,” he says with venom in his voice and points at his cheek.
Fuck this, I think, and once again, try to get off the bike. His fingers crush my leg, but it’s his thumb digging into my inner thigh that causes me to cry out in pain.
“What the fuck, Ryan!” I practically scream, and I’m thankful that most of the other students have gone inside. The fear of being tardy trumps drama—yet, another difference between West Point and Riverdale. Ryan points to his face one more time with a malicious glint in his eye. He’s an asshole, but I’ve never known him to be cruel. This is not the Ryan I grew up with, and this new realization hits me right in the stomach. Gone is the boy who made me mac and cheese and reluctantly let me tag along with him and his friends to the skate park, the boy that I idolized and worshipped. This is a stranger wearing my stepbrother’s face.
And this guy plays by different rules, so I better start adapting, fast.
I smack a quick kiss on his cheek, but he grips my chin in place and turns to plant his lips on mine. I squeal and jerk back, but he simply laughs.
“Fuck you,” I spit. I jump off and scramble toward the front doors.
I’m almost inside when I hear him yell out, “Bummer about your alarm, Rem. You should be more careful next time!”
I never told him that my alarm didn’t go off. That motherfucker.
After I make a quick stop at the office for a late slip, I run through the hall, not even stopping at my locker. Strands of hair have come loose from the ride here, and I rub at the tears that are starting to dry on my face. I’m a mess. I skid to a stop in front of the door to Mr. James’ class and take a second to gain my composure.
Get it together. Every second you waste is another second you’re late.
I take one deep breath and open the door. Not one person looks up. No one, except Mr. James, of course. He scowls in my direction as I duck my head down and scurry to my desk.
“Miss Stringer, a word?” Fuck my life.
He’s sitting at his desk while the rest of the class flips through a packet of some sort. He’s wearing a plain baby blue dress shirt and black slacks. His hair is pushed back off his face, and his eyebrows knit together as he takes me in. His eyes seem to soften for a fraction of a second, but then the severe expression is firmly back in place so quickly that I wonder if I’m imagining it.
“I’m so sorry,” I start. “About yesterday, and being late. It won’t happen again,” I promise. He hands me a packet.
“See that it doesn’t,” he bites out. “I don’t tolerate tardiness. Now, today is a fresh start. Tell us something about yourself. You didn’t get the chance yesterday.”
Is he for real? This isn’t kindergarten. We don’t need to play ice-breaking games anymore. But the expectant look in his eyes tells me that he’s serious. And he’s waiting for an answer.
“I, uh,” I start, articulate as always. I clear my throat and try again. “I like to take pictures.” This time more firmly.
Some kid mumbles something about nude photos under his breath, but Mr. James either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore him.
“What kind of pictures?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested, and it throws me for a loop. Yesterday he was callous and aloof, and today he still seems frosty, but almost human.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Sad things. Beautiful things. Everything.”
Mr. James studies me for long seconds before he jerks his head in the direction of my desk. I take that as my cue to take my seat.
Once I’m seated, I turn my attention to the papers in my hand. It’s a syllabus. Mr. James stands and starts walking the class through the outline for the year, and I know I should be paying attention, but all I can focus on is the way his full lips move when he speaks, the perfect amount of stubble on his face, and the casual way he runs a hand through his dark hair as he leans a hip against his desk. He’s such a fucking man. And even though it’s clear that he’s got more class in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body, you can just tell that deep down, he’s a bad boy. Or maybe a reformed bad boy. But he reeks of sophistication and wealth. So, why is he a teacher? My mind works overtime trying to make sense of this dichotomy before finally settling on “does not compute”.
I wonder if he’s married. I wonder what she looks like. I hate her already. Then I imagine him and his perhaps non-existing wife rolling in bed, him eating her out while she tugs at his perfect hair, and cross my legs, squeezing the soft damp fabric between my thighs.
My eyes roam all over his body with shameless appreciation for the way his shirt hugs his chest and biceps. His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow and who knew forearms could be sexy? I’m perving on my teacher approximately two seconds after being manhandled by my pseudo stepbrother. Seems legit.
I shake those thoughts out of my head and attempt to focus on the words coming out of his mouth once more. When I look up to his eyes, they’re trained on me.
“Write down any questions and fill out the back page,” he addresses the class, but he’s still glaring in my direction. His jaw hardens, and his eyes narrow as they drift down my body. My heart races, and I feel my ears get hot under his attention. I drag my teeth across my bottom lip and cross one leg over the other. His eyes aren’t wavering from my legs, and his expression morphs into one of…anger?
I glance down and immediately know exactly what he’s looking at. Fuck. Ryan left a little present in the shape of his goddamn hand on my thigh. It’s bright red, and the four obvious finger marks leave little question as to what made them. I tug down my skirt and shift in my seat, hating that he must think I’m some sort of helpless victim.
I avoid eye contact for the rest of the period, and when the bell rings, I practically run toward the exit. But Mr. James can’t make anything easy.
“Stringer, hang back. I need a word.” There is no question in his voice. I freeze in place, not wanting to defy him, but definitely not wanting to stay behind and face him. I’m a street-smart girl. Maybe I haven’t seen it all, but I’ve seen most of it, and God knows I’ve dealt with a lot of people. Scarier people than Mr. James. But somehow, he scares me more than any of the criminals and creeps I’ve encountered over the years. It doesn’t even make any sense.
I turn on my heels and stare him straight in the eye, because even though I’m uncomfortable around him, it’s not in my nature to let this kind of thing show.
“Yes, Mr. James?” There’s a bite to my tone. I can’t hide it. I’m not sure I even want to. His hands are tucked inside the pockets of his black dress pants, he is standing at his full, impressive height, and his eyes glide up my body, from my toes to my head, halting briefly on my thighs. I suck in a breath and close my eyes. Goddammit, Ryan.
“Riddle me this.” He takes a step in my direction, rounding his desk, and my heart is in my throat. Danger rolls off of him, and I don’t know how to stop my body from responding to his. Because it’s there. The electricity. The attraction. The lust.
I can’t be the only one who feels it. It feels too big to be one-sided.
Oh, how pathetic would that be if I’m the only one who burns under these clothes.
Mr. James continues, “Yesterday, when I saw you for the first time, you appeared to be in good shape, except for the shoes, of course. Today, I found something different. You’re a smart girl, so you don’t need me to spell it out for you. Tell me, Miss Stringer, is there a reason to worry about your safety?”
I gulp and look away so he doesn’t see what’s in my eyes. I’m not even sure what’s in there myself. Fear? Desire? Anxiety? All I know is that I need to get out of here, fast.
“No need to worry.” I shake my head. “May I be excused now?”
“No, you may not.” His voice is so cold, it provides a little comfort to the scorching hot waves he seems to be making inside my body. “What happened? Explain. With words. Preferably an adequate amount for me to make an educated decision on whether to call social services.”
“Funny you should say that, you use so little,” I whip out without even meaning to. I have to stop doing that. Taunting him like this, like we’re equal. Mr. James lifts a lone eyebrow, a ghost of a smirk finding his perfect lips.
“Miss Stringer,” he warns, his ice-cold tone licks at my burning flesh. “You’re not getting out of here until you explain.”
“I got into a fight with my kitchen drawer handle,” I say dumbly. “I lost.” I let the lie roll from my tongue, and Mr. James’ expression tells me that he doesn’t believe me for even a second.
“Put your palm flat against the mark,” he orders. My first thought is, fuck, he knows it’s a handprint. My second thought is even more alarming. His demanding tone is turning me on.
I chance a glance at him, and his eyes are half-mast, so I know I’m not the only one who is feeling it. Feeling this. That thought hits me like a ton of bricks. Mr. James is a grown man, and I affect him.
And suddenly, putting my hand on my thigh doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe I’ll put those morals of his to the test.
I do as I’m told, not breaking eye contact with him. I don’t need to look down to find the mark because it is still searing, even after all this time. His eyes roll down—slowly, I don’t fail to notice—until they stop.
Starting just above my knee, I slowly trace my black fingernails upward, bunching my skirt up my thigh in the process. I lay my hand flat on the mark, not giving away the fact that it still stings to the touch.
His throat bobs on a swallow, and he looks up.
“Are you going to make a habit out of lying to me, Miss Stringer?” He steps toward me, backing me into my desk. I sit perched on the edge with my skirt still bunched. I have the urge to push him further, to spread my legs, and to let him see what he does to me.
“Are you going to keep asking me questions I can’t provide the answer to?” I ask honestly, letting my skirt fall back into place. “I’m a big girl. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”
He takes his final step toward me, erasing the space between us, and now I can see him and smell him and feel him. So help me God, I need to keep my knees from buckling and see this thing through, because he makes me want things. Things I shouldn’t want to do with my teacher. Things a girl shouldn’t ever want to do at all.
“That’s the problem,” he hisses. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Miss Stringer. I’m trusting you here. If something happened to you, and I failed to report it, well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad that would be for the both of us.”
“Thank you,” I say curtly, because apparently, I’m done acting like a brat for the day. “But there is no need.”
“On the contrary.” He turns around, sending one last look on my thigh. I don’t ask if I’m excused. I know that if I don’t leave his class now, I’ll do something we’ll both regret. So, I turn around toward the door, taking tentative steps, both afraid that he will stop me and that he won’t.
He doesn’t stop me.
He lets me go.
And he should.
Because he’s my fucking teacher.
But a second before the door closes behind me, I hear him say, “There won’t be a next time, Miss Stringer. Not to your tardiness, not to talking back to your educator, and not to putting on your little show. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I swallow as I shut the door behind me and rest the back of my head on its window, closing my eyes.
Holy. Fuck.