“Pierce, you have to help her! She’s barely breathing, and she’s not responsive. She’s fucking blue, Pierce! Please, hurry! I don’t… I don’t know what to do!”
That’s the voice message that’s waiting for me from Shelly three months after my sister starts going out with Ryan Anderson, and I have to take the rest of the day off and run to her place. I take her to the hospital. Stay with her for the whole period—two whole days—never leaving her side.
Anderson never bothers to visit her. Not even once.
Can’t say I’m half-surprised.
She isn’t exactly in a coma, but she is out of it for long hours. When she finally opens her eyes, she smiles at me apologetically, and for one heartbreaking minute, she looks like the girl I used to know, the one who took me for an ice cream every Friday and helped me decorate the Christmas tree we had to order online because our parents never bothered to buy one.
“It wasn’t Ryan, Pierce. It was me. I did too much. He told me it was laced with something, that it wouldn’t take as much to get me high, but I guess I got a little carried away.”
I’m not a religious person, but if there’s a God, he needs to kill Ryan Anderson. Strike him down here and now. I clasp her hand in mine and smile, pretending not to give a damn, even though I do.
“It’s okay. Can I have his phone number?” I gave up on getting his address a long time ago, and now the only thing stopping me from finding out the information myself is the stupid loyalty I have for my sister. “I just want to let him know you’re okay.”
Gwen frowns, seeing through me, even in her state. “Pierce, no. I told you. This one’s on me.”
No, it’s not, Gwen.
No, it’s not.
After they discharge her, I lock her in my apartment. She doesn’t have a key, and I guess she can try to jump from the second floor I live on if she really wants to, but she won’t. That’s the only thing that gives me hope. Gwen doesn’t want to die. She just wants to be loved. Too bad she is looking for that love in the wrong place. From the wrong person.
I go to work, come back, and find out that my lock has been doctored. It can’t be Gwen because she is still a rich little girl from California at her core. But I know who it could be, and I’m glad I finally get to meet him.
Walking into my apartment, I find them lying on my sofa. Naked. Looking dead to the world.
I now have a face to the name. Ryan Anderson still looks like a kid. But also like a thug. He is tall and tan with trouble written all over his face. And he is slowly killing my sister.
I grab him by the throat and squeeze. His eyes are slow to adjust, and it takes him a minute to come out of his drug-induced daze.
“If you give her drugs again, I am going to fucking end you.” I smile, my voice easy. He’s so high off whatever the fuck his drug of choice is that he doesn’t seem to know where he is or what’s going on. I doubt he even knows what planet he’s on.
“What the fuck,” he says, scrambling and tripping out in slow motion.
I throw his clothes out the door and kick him out, hoping he’ll never come back.
“Is age an important factor in a relationship?” Samantha asks, tapping her chin with her pencil. Every Friday, I let my students pick the subject they’d like to debate. I find it makes them more interested and engaged in class, and it also keeps me in touch with their interests. I’m not that old. Twenty-nine is not exactly ancient, but I don’t have the time or the need to read their magazines and watch their stupid movies and shows to stay in the loop. So I take it. And every year without fail, this subject comes up.
“All right, Miss LaFirst, let’s hear your introduction to the subject.” I lean on my desk and listen to her. Herring, the preppy fuck who sits to Remington’s right, is slipping notes to her. I ignore them, if only to remind myself that I don’t have a particular interest in Miss Stringer herself, but in her brother. I better remember that, because the lines are beginning to blur, just a tad, and that makes me somewhat uncomfortable.
LaFirst talks. She makes sense. The class starts the discussion.
“I would not date an old dude.” A girl from class, Tiffany, snorts, widening her eyes. “I mean, what would be his motivation? Is he just a creep after fresh meat? Or does he want someone he can manipulate because I’m not as experienced as he is?”
“I would totally date an older guy!” another girl, Faith Matthews, exclaims. “In the end, it’s all about the connection and the chemistry between two individuals. Right, Mr. James?” She held herself back from winking at me. Just. I lift a brow.
“There are many issues you still haven’t touched. I want you to dig deeper into this subject: laws, expectations, stigmas, interest, and goals,” I answer dryly, my eyes scanning the class. I see Herring—the idiot—slipping another note into Remington’s palm. I haven’t even seen her open any of them, so I can’t pick on her. Not that I should want to, but it’s making me irrationally angry.
“Mr. Herring, anything to contribute to this conversation?”
He raises his head and grins slyly. This kid is a tool, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Mommy and Daddy are loaded, he wouldn’t have a single friend here.
“What? How I feel about dating a MILF? I think I would. I mean, why not? Though for now, I’m sticking to high school girls. I even have my eye on one in particular.” He winks and pretends to elbow Remington, though they are too far apart. Remington’s expression is bored and apathetic. It placates me a bit, even though it shouldn’t.
“Yeah, like your girlfriend?” Mikaela Stephens snaps, and Herring doesn’t even look a little sorry.
“My bad, babe. I forgot you were here.” He laughs, and his friends follow suit. Dumbasses.
“Miss Stringer?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Not that it looks suspicious. She regularly partakes in these discussions, and everyone is expected to participate. It’s because I am too fascinated with this girl, and it unnerves me.
“I wouldn’t care about the stigma,” she says, her eyes still stuck on the board behind me.
“And the expectations?” Herring asks. The class laughs, and I find I’m actually curious to know her answer.
“I’m fine with the expectations, too.” She doesn’t even blink.
“Well, you look like a ride or die chick.” Schwartz laughs.
“You look like a biker chick,” Miss Matthews mumbles.
“No need to sugarcoat it. The term you’re looking for is ‘white trash’.” Mikaela Stephens snorts. My head snaps up.
“Stephens, come again, please,” I say, as indifferent as I possibly can be. She lifts her head from the doodles on the notebook in front of her and opens her mouth, at a loss for words. She didn’t think I’d hear. Mikaela Stephens. The senator’s grandchild. A cheerleader. The poster child for everything empty and superficial herself.
“Sorry, Mr. James,” she mumbles.
“That’s not what you said.” I smile easily. “And that’s not what I asked. Repeat your last sentence, Miss Stephens.”
She looks left and right, clearly uncomfortable. I chance a glance at Remington. It doesn’t look like she cares too much, and that not only puts me at ease, but makes me feel a misdirected sense of pride.
Mikaela repeats her words, looking down, looking guilty.
“Miss Stephens, a word after class,” I say. She nods.
We continue the discussion. The bell rings. Everybody stands up but Stephens. Remington, included. “You, too, Miss Stringer.”
“Again?” Herring mutters, annoyed, as he flings his backpack over his shoulder and stalks to the door. I need to stop. I need to stop this, but the prospect of revenge is too much to resist. I tell myself it has nothing to do with this invisible pull I feel when it comes to Remington.
I sit behind my desk.
“Stephens, come sit next to Stringer.”
She does without hesitation. For a split second, I think she might challenge me, but then I remember that Remington Stringer is the only girl at West Point who ever would. And the only one crazy enough to get off on it.
“Apologize to Miss Stringer.”
“I’m sorry,” she tells Remington, who doesn’t even acknowledge her. She continues picking at her chipped black nail polish. “I didn’t mean that.”
Yes, she did.
“Miss Stephens,” I pull out the detention slip, “two days.”
“Oh my God! Are you serious?” She flings her arms in the air, exasperated.
“A week,” I say easily. “Starting Monday.”
She cups her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide, shaking it back and forth. She knows what’s going to happen if another word slips between her lips. I scribble on the detention slip, tear it off the pad, and hand it to her with a smile. “In my world, your actions today in class classify as bullying. I will not tolerate bullying, in any shape or form. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
She stands up and walks out of the classroom, slamming the door behind her. Remington is still in her seat.
“You can go now, Stringer,” I say. What I fail to add is I don’t want her to. What the hell is wrong with me?
She lifts her face from her hands finally and smiles.
“I’ve been thinking about you this week.”
Oh, fuck no. I get up and gather my things. Laptop, notebook, wallet, and keys.
“You’re excused, Miss Stringer. Don’t test my patience. Not again.”
“Do you like my shoes?” she asks, parting her legs open a few inches. Not a lot. Enough to make me want to peek and see what’s between them—the way her stepbrother did the other day—and that thought makes me feel like a scumbag.
I don’t know why she’s still wearing her old shoes, and she’s obviously baiting me, but I don’t give anything away.
“Not particularly,” I say shortly. “If you don’t evacuate my room in ten seconds, I will take it as a sign you would like to join your good friend, Stephens, in detention.”
“I don’t mind.” She shrugs. “It’s not like I have a ride home today. My stepbrother is out of town.”
I swallow.
“Stringer,” I warn.
“Pierce,” she retorts.
Reluctantly, I move my eyes to look at her. My desk is clean, and it’s time for me to move my feet and go. Her legs are wide open, and all I have to do is scroll down and see her panties. She smiles. She knows what she is doing to me, and it makes me want to break all the rules and show her that she’s not the only one who can be brazen. Fuck, I invented brazen, sweetheart.
“Close your legs.” I blink away, fast. “If you pull this kind of shit on me one more time, I’m telling Headmaster Charles. You claim to want out of your situation, but you know what I think? I think you’re scared.” On the surface, she appears unfazed, cocking a sardonic brow. But I know my words are getting to her if the pursing of her lips is any indication. Her lower lip trembles just a tad. I show no mercy. She needs to hear it.
“You’re scared,” I repeat. “You have a chance here, and now that it’s a real possibility, you have no idea how to handle it. So, here you are, seducing your teacher. Sabotaging your opportunity because this life, in this city, is all you know.”
“Is that what I’m trying to do?” Her red lips curve into a smile, her walls rising back up, higher than ever before. God, this woman. Yes, woman. Little girls are not my type. Never have been. But Remington Stringer is only technically a teenager. She is so much older than her years.
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do.” I take a step toward the door, tilting my head, signaling her to join me. “I just want you out of here.”
“Why can’t I stay? Maybe you’re the one who’s afraid?”
“I’m locking the door behind you.”
“Maybe you should lock it with us inside.” She grins.
Blood rushes to my dick, and I really need to get out of here.
“You just earned yourself a week of detention.”
“Fine.” She pouts her pretty lips in a way that makes me think she just got exactly what she wanted. When she stands, I allow myself a quick fix, checking out her creamy, long legs and hourglass figure. I need to blow off steam tonight. This girl is trouble of the worst variety.
I hold the door open for her, and she finally leaves, swaying her hips exaggeratedly. Fuck. Me.
I watch her leave, resisting the urge to offer her a ride once school is out.
We’re not even going in the same direction.
Not only geographically, but in life.