Ryan has never been accused of being reasonable or rational, but tonight, he seems to be taking his unstable behavior to a whole new level. I don’t know what climbed up his ass, but I can practically hear the time bomb ticking. I’m lying on my stomach on the cold kitchen tile, attempting to cool off while doing my English homework. Ryan won’t let me turn the air-conditioning any lower. My hair is sticking to my neck, and even in a spaghetti strap tank top and a pair of hot pink sleep shorts, I’m still on fire. Between the heat, Ryan’s angry stare, and his leg bouncing in place, focus is not coming easy.
“Somethin’ on your mind, Ryan?” I huff, rolling onto one elbow to meet his eyes.
“You runnin’ your mouth, Rem?” he snaps back.
What the hell is he talking about?
“Not any more than usual,” I quip.
He nods bitterly and takes a swig of his beer.
“Funny, your teacher says otherwise.”
My what?
Ryan stands and slowly walks toward me, and I scramble to get out of my vulnerable position on the floor. I stand with the counter at my back and straighten my shoulders. For the first time in a long time, I don’t only hope—but pray—that my dad will come back home sooner rather than later from Los Angeles.
“I don’t know what you’re—” I’m cut off by Ryan slamming his beer bottle against the cabinets above my head. It breaks, dousing my shoulder with lukewarm liquid and bits of shattered glass. I flinch so hard that I slip in the beer that’s puddled at my bare feet, but Ryan squeezes my bicep to keep me upright.
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Ryan screams, and his spit lands on my cheek. My eyes are wide with fear, but it’s not for myself. It’s for Ryan. With each passing day, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that something is seriously wrong with him. And I don’t know how to fix it.
“Are you fucking him, Rem? Is that how you got into that fancy ass school of yours? Well, if you’re selling your ass, then I should at least get a family discount,” he sneers, grabbing my waist and squeezing. Not lightly either.
“Do you even hear yourself? There are so many things wrong with this conversation. You’re not making any sense, Ryan.” I push him away, and this time, I’m not nice either. His eyes soften briefly before turning cold again.
“You keep your mouth shut about me. I don’t need any extra attention right now. Don’t need anybody breathing down my neck.” He brings his fists to the cabinets, boxing me in. “Your pretty boy teacher isn’t gonna save you, Rem. You and me—we were meant for this life. We’ll never be good enough for people like them. It’s time you get used to it. Don’t let that pretty head of yours get filled with sweet sounding lies. I am your truth, baby. It’s just you and me.”
I give a short nod, and he storms off and slams the metal screen against the frame. Once I hear his bike fade off into the distance, I let my tears fall. I cry for me, because a part of me believes Ryan when he says I’m meant for this life. And I cry for Ryan. For the boy he was, and the man he won’t get to become. This town is poison that seeps through the veins of everyone who lives here. And the only antidote is getting out.
Ryan is too far gone, I can see it now. And a part of me is scared he won’t make it out alive.
A part of me is scared it’s already too late.
Ryan and I didn’t say a word to each other the entire day yesterday. I was too pissed at how he treated me, and Ryan was just, well, pissed in general. When he called out my name after dropping me off at school, I thought maybe he’d apologize, but instead, I got a stern reminder to keep my mouth shut.
Now, I’m in second period where I’ve been shooting daggers with my eyes at Mr. James for the past forty minutes. With each passing second, I become progressively irate at him for interfering. I don’t even know what went down with him and Ryan, but it’s clear that I cannot trust him.
Blinded by sheer hatred—hatred that is dipped in lust, slightly coated by something feral, and completely heady—I don’t even realize that he is talking to me until his voice becomes a low, pissed-off growl.
“Miss Stringer, I asked you a question.”
I straighten my spine, military-sharp, and tilt my chin up. “I apologize, Mr. James,” I say robotically, and see his features melt into confusion at my tone. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear that. Can you kindly repeat?”
I’m not going to let him ruin this for me. I am getting out of this place, with or without Mr. James’ help. It’s a debate class, for fuck’s sake. An elective period. I’m acing everything else so far. I just need to survive this man for the rest of the year.
“We’re talking about the subject of same sex marriage. Would you like to contribute?”
“I’m pro,” I mutter. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not a survey, Miss Stringer. Explain yourself.”
I look around me, acutely aware to the fact that all eyes are on me. It’s not the other students’ eyes that I am afraid of. It’s those gray-blues that are staring down at me through a furrowed brow. They betrayed me, and now they want my cooperation. I shouldn’t be so goddamn angry, but I am. Poised as I could be under the circumstances, I answer, “Equal rights.” I part my lips, and his eyes drop to them before moving back to my eyes quickly. Win. I’m going to fuck with him a little just to get back at him and show him he may hold most of the power here, but certainly not all of it.
“People should have the right to marry whoever they want. It’s not my business, anyway.”
“Whoever?” Mr. James questions, his hands knotted behind his back as he starts walking the narrow gap between my row of desks to the one near the wall. “So, Miss Stringer, can I marry my pet?”
I scoff. “Of course not. It’s not the same thing.”
“Enlighten me.”
This is so stupid. Why is he doing this?
“People should marry other people. Otherwise it creates…chaos.”
“Chaos is bad?” he asks, this time the whole class. A pimpled girl in the back lifts her hand and answers.
“Yes. Because where there’s chaos, there’s anarchy.”
“And where there’s anarchy, there’s fun,” I mutter, not asking for permission to speak. I feel Mr. James’ eyes on my back, even though I don’t turn around to check. I ignited something there, and I’m going to let it burn until he feels the wrath and flames of his actions.
“Anarchy is fun,” he repeats my statement, as if mulling this over.
“If you can handle it.” I shrug.
“I can handle it, if you need willing candidates.” A preppy, pretty boy from my right snickers, fist-bumping his friend. They are both wearing burgundy varsity jackets and smug-ass faces I can break without even breaking a sweat.
“Mr. Herring, Mr. Schwartz, watch it,” Mr. James whiplashes.
“Sorry, sir,” the idiot mumbles, deflated.
The bell rings, and students get up from their seats, chairs scraping and books snapping shut. I flip my hair over my shoulder as I bend down to grab my backpack, but a pair of chestnut leather shoes attached to long, lean legs covered in dark denim stop me in my tracks. I pause almost infinitesimally and return to the task at hand. I stand, swing my bag over one shoulder, and attempt to move past him. Mr. James sidesteps and blocks me, our fronts nearly bumping. I roll my eyes and pivot on my feet to walk the other way, but he grabs my wrist, causing me to freeze in place. Adrenaline courses through me at his touch, and I shake out of his grasp.
We’re alone. In class. He wants to corner me again, but this time, I’m going to get the upper hand.
“Remington. Stop.” He says my first name for the first time with an air of authority that has my belly flipping with desire. I turn around and paint my face with indifference.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Mr. James,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
“Cut the nonsense. What’s going on with you today?” His brows are wrinkled, like he honestly doesn’t know that he made my life significantly more complicated by one little conversation.
“You think you know me well enough after a few days to make that assessment? Well, you don’t. I’m not some project for you to fix up to make you feel better about yourself. And I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of my business.” I could get reprimanded for speaking to a faculty member like this, but I can’t stop myself. All I want to do is keep a low profile, graduate, and get into a decent fucking college anywhere but here.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, moving in even closer. “Huh? What’s your game?”
Mr. James drops his head back, and he sighs at the ceiling, hands on his hips.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know what he wants from me. Or if he does, he sure as hell doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
He is making me crazy. There’s no other way to explain my next move. Maybe it’s retaliation for him butting into my business. Maybe it’s just an excuse to ruffle his feathers. But even as I do the unthinkable, the unimaginable, I still don’t regret it. Not even with one bone in my body. I take a step in his direction and place my hand over the first button of my crisp dress shirt, toying with it.
“Do you want this?” I part my lips, my eyes dropping to his mouth. “Hmm? Is that it?”
He takes a step back immediately, and I release the button, exposing milky skin and a hint of cleavage. If I release the next one, he is going to see the valley of my fat, heavy tits that are secured by nothing but my tattered Walmart bra.
“Miss Stringer,” he warns, but I know enough about Mr. James by now to know that this warning doesn’t hold the usual authority. He knows he should stop me, and he is, but his attempt is half-assed at best.
My finger slides down to my second button, and I take another step in his direction. He takes another step back. We tango. I don’t know if I’m fucking with him to show him that I’m dangerous, that he should just leave me be, or because I’m desperate for his reaction. His attention. God, his everything.
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. James.” I pop free the second button, and my pushed-up tits are staring at him now, daring him to look at them. He doesn’t. His eyes become hooded, and his nostrils flare.
“I didn’t answer because I don’t want to insult you. Would you really like an answer to your question?”
“Yes.” I lick my lips, taking another step, and this time, he doesn’t even realize that he stopped walking backwards. We’re almost chest-to-chest now, and I know how it would look if someone opens the door. He does, too, because he folds his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up, his stance guarded and stiff. So unlike his usual self-assured posture. Good thing it’s lunchtime, or students would already be pouring in right about now.
“I’m not interested in high school girls, Miss Stringer.”
“I think we both know I’m not your typical teenager, Teach,” I retort. I’m pushing it, big time, but I want to see how far I can take this without getting my ass thrown into detention, or worse.
“Call me Teach one more time…” His face gets into mine, and hell, I see it. In his pupils. They’re burning.
Yes, I’m not imagining this.
This is mutual. This is magic.
“And what?” I smile, shamelessly pushing my chest between us. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?” My voice turns cold in a second. “Stay out of my personal life. I will be the best student I can, Mr. James, but you don’t get to talk to my stepbrother and stir chaos in my life.” I throw the words we spoke in debate class in his face.
“I wasn’t stirring anything, Remington. I was merely dropping a very subtle warning.” His lips thin. I’m not sure who is scarier, him or Ryan. They are intimidating in very different ways. And lookie here, he referred to me by my first name again.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I beg to differ. Look at your thigh.”
“Maybe you should stop looking at it, Mr. James. Your job is to educate me, not to ogle me.” I just went there.
“That’s rich coming from the woman who’s throwing herself at her teacher,” he whiplashes quickly. A debate teacher, after all.
“So now you admit that I’m a woman?” I smile sweetly, twirling a lock of chestnut hair around my finger, putting on a stupid show he can see right through.
That awards me with a smile, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from Mr. James. Funny, I haven’t even noticed he doesn’t really smile until now. But it is glorious and beautiful, and I want this smile to be only for me.
“You should be a lawyer, Miss Stringer,” he says darkly, motioning with his head to the door, excusing me. “You’d be dangerous.”
“I’m in the right class then.” I shrug my backpack onto my shoulder and walk away. He collapses in the chair by his desk behind me and sighs.
“You’re in the right class, but you’re definitely the wrong kind of student.”
“What’s up with Mr. James?” Christian asks as he slings an arm around my shoulder on our way to the cafeteria. I snort and hitch one shoulder up.
“What do you mean?”
“He kept you after class. Again.” He wiggles his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“Ugh,” I groan as I toss his arm off of me. “He has it out for me. Not sure why.” I like Christian a lot, but the less people I have knowing my business, the better.
“Ah-uh,” he says, unconvinced.
“Miss Stringer.” I recognize Headmaster Charles’ curt voice and look up to see him down the hall, heading toward me. Jesus Christ, I can’t catch a break in this place.
“I expect you’ll have the proper shoe wear by next week?” I glance down at my Chucks that I’ve made exactly zero effort to replace.
“Working on it!” I promise.
“Very good.”
“Looks like Mr. James isn’t the only one who has it out for you,” Christian whispers into my ear after Headmaster Charles passes.
“Shut up.” I laugh and bump his shoulder with mine.
The cafeteria hall isn’t crowded or noisy like Riverdale. God, even social hour is quiet for these people. How boring. Christian heads straight for the food line. I don’t have lunch money today, so I pretend I’m not hungry. Christian doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t press me either. Once we’re seated, he tosses a roll in my direction.
“I said I wasn’t hungry,” I say, catching it with one hand.
“Gotta keep that booty ripe, Remi. Ripe Remi. That has a nice ring to it,” he muses.
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re stubborn. Are you really not going to tell me why he’s kept you after class for two days in a row?”
“Can you keep it down?” I hiss, my eyes darting around to gauge whether we have any eavesdroppers. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Then I guess you’re not interested in the rumors about him,” Christian teases.
“I wouldn’t go that far. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” I bat my eyelashes exaggeratedly.
“I don’t usually play this game with girls,” he drawls. “But for you, I’ll make an exception. Spill it.”
Taking a deep breath, I decide that there’s no harm in telling Christian about Ryan. For one, judging by his reaction to him the other day, I’m sure he already suspects something. And two, I just don’t see Christian as the malicious type.
“My stepbrother is going through some stuff. He got a little rough with me the other day, and Mr. James noticed. He just wanted to make sure I was safe. Sort of part of the job description, you know?”
Christian shakes his head.
“I knew something was off with that guy.”
“Seriously, Christian, I’ve lived with him for most of my life. He’s not a threat. He’s…struggling,” I reiterate.
“Doesn’t matter, babe. Don’t be that girl. Don’t make excuses for him.”
“Listen, I’m not an idiot. I know Ryan, and he’s not dangerous.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if that’s still true.
“Your turn,” I remind him, taking a bite out of the softest roll I’ve ever had in my entire life.
“Okay, here’s what I know. His first name is Pierce.” Pierce. I never knew a name could be sexy, but I stand corrected. He looks like a Pierce. All dapper with a side of darkness. Brosnan has nothing on this guy.
“Twenty-nine years old,” he continues. “Perpetually single, but never lacking female companions. He was teaching in California, but came here a couple years ago. Then, in the middle of the year, he left. He never came back,” he says, pausing for dramatic effect. “Until now,” he adds thoughtfully. “That’s all I know.”
“You got all of this information in less than a week? I don’t even know the school’s mascot, and you have everyone’s life story.”
“People like me.” He shrugs. “It’s a gift.”
The warning bell rings, and we both stand.
“Knights,” he says.
“Huh?” I ask dumbly.
“West Point Knights. That’s our mascot.” He winks.
“Noted.” I laugh. “I’ll be sure to file that under Things I Don’t Give a Flying Fuck About.”