I sit, dangling my feet from the bench at the bus station with my camera on my lap, still stuck on my exchange with Mr. James. Part of me finds his attempt at psychoanalyzing me annoying, but the way he looks at me—like I’m every rule he’s ever wanted to break—gives me a high like no other.
I check my phone for the time. I don’t even know when the bus hits this part of town, and I’m just hoping I’ll get home in time before it’s too dark to walk the streets. Ryan is not around today—said he was going to check out a toy hauler a few hours away from home—and I really should have thought this one through. Maybe I should get some mace. Or pepper spray. Something to make me feel a tad safer. Even though, I argue inwardly, most of the people I should stay away from are the ones that usually hang out on my front lawn.
At least I have that going for me.
I didn’t care too much about Mikaela’s jab. Surprised Mr. James did. Then again, maybe it was just another way for him to embarrass me. And it seems like every time he does, I try to one-up him and beat him at his own game. Pushing back has always been something that I liked doing. It’s a daily struggle to stay neutral.
You’re playing it smart, Remi.
Listening to Queens of the Stone Age and mouthing the words to “No One Knows,” I still when I hear a familiar voice.
“Get in.”
I look up and see Mr. James. I’m more than a little shocked to see him here. Though he doesn’t look happy about seeing me at all. I see the indecision warring on his face.
I stub a finger to my chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. It’s just a ride. I happen to know you don’t live in the best neighborhood, and it is my duty as an educator to keep you safe.”
Again with this bullshit. Is he trying to convince himself or me? I smile and hop from the bench. “You give me detention and then a ride home? Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
I grab my bag and head toward his SUV.
“Sweet minivan,” I joke as I slide into the smooth leather seats that burn the backs of my thighs. This heat is no joke. He only looks mildly irritated at my jab.
“It’s an Audi Q7,” he explains as he pulls away from the curb, like I’m supposed to know what that means. I raise my eyebrows questioningly, causing him to sigh, exasperated. “Never mind.”
“So, am I just supposed to ignore the fact that you know where I live?” I can’t assume that he sought me out. Not when he’s vehemently shut down my advances. But, I can’t seem to come up with another explanation either.
“Buckle up,” he deadpans, giving me a sideways glance, avoiding my question. Interesting. Maybe he did look me up. I do as he says and buckle my seatbelt, stealing a glance at him, and literally feel my stomach flip. From his black Wayfarers and his perfectly disheveled hair to the way his forearm flexes when he grips the gearshift, he’s fucking flawless. I wish I could reach into my backpack and pull out my camera to capture him in this moment. And I decide to do just that.
Mr. James doesn’t even notice at first, but the sound of the shutter has his head snapping in my direction, his brows furrowed.
“What are you doing?” he asks, suspicion lacing his voice.
“Calm down, Teach. It’s just a picture.” I take a few more. His hand on the gear, my feet up on his dash, the new mural on the freeway.
I put my camera away, and my eyes trail their way back up to his. I can’t tell for sure through the sunglasses, but I’m pretty damn sure he’s zeroed in on my thighs, and his throat bobs with a hard swallow. My hands fist the edge of my skirt nervously, and I adjust my legs that are sticking to the hot leather seat. His head jerks up, and he clears his throat and focuses back on the road. I’m flushed and on fire, but it’s not from the Vegas sun.
I bite my lip to keep from saying something stupid and rest my forehead against the window. Flirting comes as naturally as breathing to me, but it’s one thing to bait him at school. This little game feels all too real off school grounds and in the intimate space of his car.
As we get closer to my house, my stomach is flipping for a very different reason. I don’t want him to see where I live. He says he knows, but knowing my address and seeing where I live are two completely different things. I hate that I’m ashamed of something I have no control over, and at that I feel a twinge of guilt. My dad works hard to keep a roof over our heads, and there’s no shame in that. I half expect Mr. James to ask for directions, but sure enough, he knows exactly where he’s going.
I don’t notice him at first, because our street is lined with shitty cars parked every which way, blocking my view of the driveway, but when I see Ryan and his friend Reed in the yard, my whole body fills with dread. And when I notice the beer in his hand, that dread turns into panic. What the hell is he doing home? And why wasn’t he there to pick me up if he was in town? I whip my head around, my wide eyes pleading with his to understand. Mr. James’ jaw flexes, and he shakes his head imperceptibly. He’s not going to make this easy on me.
“Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow?”
He unbuckles his seatbelt, and I turn to see if Ryan has noticed our arrival. Oh, he has, all right, and he’s marching straight toward us.
“Don’t,” I implore before Ryan is in earshot. “I don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight.”
“Deal with what, exactly, Remington? I thought you said you weren’t in any kind of danger?” I roll my eyes and hop out, coming face-to-face with Stepbrother Dearest. He’s in a muscle tank and grease-stained jeans, his massive ink-covered arms crossed over his chest.
“You play chauffeur to all your students?” Ryan flicks his chin in Mr. James’ direction. I don’t dare look at him, but I feel him come stand behind me and I sigh, knowing this isn’t going to end well.
“Just making sure she gets home safe since no one else cared to,” he says as he presses his palm to my lower back. It’s meant to be a polite gesture, I’m sure, but I know Ryan, and he’s not going to see it that way. I can’t even pretend that the weight of his large, warm palm on the small of my back doesn’t affect me. His pinky finger rests on the small space of skin above my skirt, where my shirt has ridden up, and if we were anywhere else, I’d be tempted to ask him to show me how good his hands can make me feel on other parts of my body. But Ryan notices the placement of his hand, and I know I have about two seconds to act before shit hits the fan.
Annnd here we go.
Ryan grips my bicep and pulls me out of the way. My foot catches on a rock in the yard, causing me to stumble into him.
“Get in the house, Rem,” Ryan says as he chugs the rest of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He tosses the empty bottle into the graveyard of bottles in our yard.
“Ry, he’s my teacher. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Remi. House. Now.”
“She’s not a dog, man.” At that, Ryan lunges at Mr. James, but I manage to jump in between them before he makes contact. My hands are on his chest, and I know he could flick me away like an insect, but he doesn’t. His breaths are coming out short and fast through his nose, and I know I need to diffuse the situation before he loses control. Once again.
Tick, tick, tick.
“Ry, take me inside.” My voice is steady and calm, belying the anxiety swirling in my gut. He doesn’t answer me. Ryan seems to be shooting daggers out of his eyes while Mr. James appears almost bored.
“Yo. Let’s go.” Ryan’s arm wraps around my hip possessively, and I know I’ve gotten through.
“Don’t touch my fucking girl again. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look at her unless she’s in class. I won’t tell you again.”
I lead Ryan toward the house, and this time, he lets me. Reed tags along behind us. After we’re inside, he goes straight for the fridge and grabs another beer. I set my backpack on the kitchen counter and look out the window, only to lock eyes with Mr. James. He’s leaning against his car, arms crossed over his chest, and a scowl on his face. I bite my lip and look back at Ryan who is already firmly planted on the couch next to Reed, downing another beer, oblivious to our little staring contest.
“Thank you,” I mouth silently. Mr. James nods once and heads back to the driver’s side. Despite the drama, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. He feels something. He has to.
“What the fuck are you so happy about? I mean it, Rem. Stay the fuck away from him. He’s bad news.” At that, I have to laugh.
“He’s bad news? You’re the one who bailed on me, leaving me to find my way home, and for what? To get drunk with this asshole in the middle of the day?” I fling my arm in Reed’s direction. “No offense, Reed.”
He burps and wiggles his eyebrows. “None taken.”
“It was just a ride. And stop telling people I’m yours. It’s creepy.”
“It’s the fucking truth,” he seethes. “And I had a change of plans. Shit happens, Rem, and believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you.” I wish that were true.
“Dick,” I mumble and turn back to the kitchen.
I make myself a turkey sandwich, grab a water bottle, and head to my room for the night. I’m not making dinner for those fuckers. I have a feeling they’re drinking their dinner tonight, anyway.
I wake up to rough hands pawing at my chest through my tank top and the scent of beer invading my nostrils. “Ryan, stop,” I croak out—my voice still groggy from sleep—as I throw an elbow into his gut. These middle-of-the-night meetings are becoming more frequent, and it’s equal parts irritating and alarming.
“C’mon, Rem. I need it.” I feel his hard-on pressing into my ass, and I wiggle away.
“You’re drunk. Get out of my bed.”
“Make me,” he slurs as he flips me onto my back and pins me with his weight. “Have you been giving this sweet little body to your teacher, Rem? Is that why you don’t want me anymore? That pretty boy can’t make you feel like I can. Let me show you.” He starts tugging at my sleep shorts, and that’s what has me snapping out of my sleepy haze.
“Get off me!” I thrash beneath him and manage to heave his drunk ass off me, and he lands on the floor with a resounding thud.
“Fuck, Rem!” he yells, still laid out on the tiny space between the wall and my bed. I know he could easily overpower me and take what he wants, but he doesn’t. He won’t. I know deep down, Ryan would never hurt me like that. He pounds his fist into my wall three times before standing up and storming out. I don’t even say a word. I stare at the ceiling, wondering how we got to this point. My stepbrother, best friend, and childhood hero has turned into someone I don’t even recognize. Every pivotal moment in our lives plays out in my head, and I dissect them all—wondering what we could’ve done differently—until the sun comes up. When it does, I’ve come to two conclusions. And it’s nothing I didn’t already know.
Ryan needs help, and I need to get the fuck out of here.
Ryan was gone all weekend, and my dad called to let me know that he was picking up another route, so I was home alone. Extreme boredom had me calling Christian, and he came to my rescue. I spent two full days drinking poolside in a house more gorgeous and luxurious than I ever knew existed. His parents weren’t home, so we had access to their endless supply of alcohol. Christian seemed to need the distraction about as much as I did, but we had an unspoken agreement. Don’t ask; don’t tell. I decided to save my interrogation for Monday, which is today.
I expect to have to drag Ryan out of bed to take me to school after I get ready, but to my surprise, he’s pacing the hall outside my door, fisting his greasy hair with both hands.
“I’m sorry, Rem. I’m sorry I’m fucked up.” He pulls me in for a hug, and I revel in the familiarity. No matter how unstable he becomes, I think his arms will always feel like safety to me. It doesn’t make sense, and it’s certainly not healthy, but it’s us. I run my hand up and down his back in a soothing manner, and he keeps talking.
“I’ve got the weight of the world on my back. I don’t know how to fix things. The things I’ve done…” he trails off. He’s rambling, not making any sense. I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his eyes look crazed.
“What do you mean? What did you do?” Ice fills my veins. As if he suddenly realizes what he said, he stands up straight and disconnects from me.
“Come on. You’re gonna be late for school,” he says, effectively changing the subject. I nod slowly, not knowing what to say or do for him, and grab my backpack off the counter. I stuff a banana and a water bottle into my bag and head outside.
“Have you slept at all?” I scan him, worry tugging an invisible string in my heart. He looks like complete shit. His eyes are red, and his skin looks clammy.
“I’m fine. Mind your business.”
Ryan is fidgety on the way to school, tapping his handlebars at every stoplight and jiggling his knee. Even when he pulls into the West Point parking lot, he can’t seem to get me off his bike fast enough, and he takes off before I can even mutter a ‘thank you’. He seems nervous. Paranoid, almost, with the way his eyes dart around, constantly surveying his surroundings.
After first period, I can’t find Christian anywhere, so I head to second period early. When I see that Mr. James is the only one there, I rethink my decision. I stop short in the doorway and hesitate a minute being turning around to leave.
“Come in, Miss Stringer. Have a seat,” he says casually, not giving any indication if Friday made things weird for him or not.
“I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here already,” I say lamely.
He gives me a brisk nod before returning his attention to his laptop.
I make my way to my desk and notice that our papers from last class are graded and waiting. I spot the B minus on mine and roll my eyes. That was an A paper, no doubt. I flip to the second page and notice a sticky note attached that reads:
Remington,
If you ever find yourself in trouble.
702-639-0628
Holy. Shit. My teacher just gave me his number. Part of me wants to do a happy dance in my desk, but my giddiness dies when I realize that it’s for all the wrong reasons. Or, I guess, the right reasons. He feels sorry for me.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, waving the note attached to my finger.
“It’s exactly what it says it is. You don’t seem to have a parent around. Your source of transportation is your unreliable, unstable stepbrother. And you live in the roughest part of Vegas.”
“And? That’s your business, how?” My wounded pride has me acting like a snot, but I can’t help it.
“It’s not. I just…” He sighs and scrubs a hand across his jaw. “I’ve seen firsthand what can happen to girls in your shoes,” he says cryptically while he gets a far-away look in his eyes. It’s an unexpectedly candid moment free of any sarcasm, and some of my irritation melts away. I don’t know what to make of it.
“You know many poor girls with absent but well-meaning fathers and borderline obsessive stepbrothers from the hood, do you?” I push my lower lip out and nod. His usual aloof mask falls back into place at my teasing, and the bell rings.
“Save the damn number, Miss Stringer.”
“Yes, sir,” I say sardonically. When he looks up at me again, I swear I see a hint of a smirk, but he wipes it away the second students start to pour into the classroom, and the moment is gone.
During class, I sneak my phone under my desk and program his number. In a moment of bravery, or maybe temporary insanity, I scrawl out my number on the back of the Post-it. He’s standing in front of his desk when we’re dismissed, and I take my time packing up so I’m the last one out. As soon as the last person stands, I follow and slip the Post-it into his palm. His warm hand squeezes mine, and he rubs his thumb over my wrist before jerking his hand away, pocketing my number with a quickness. His eyes dart around to make sure no one else saw, then he looks at me expectantly.
“In case you ever need me,” I explain, unable to hide my grin. His eyebrow cocks in amusement, and I walk away, my hand still burning from his touch.
“Somebody got laid,” Christian jokes upon seeing the stupid grin still firmly fixed on my face. He hooks an arm through mine.
“I wish.”
“I can help with that,” Benton Herring—the kid from second period that likes to harass me—says as he takes my books out of my hands.
“No thanks,” I snap, reaching to snatch my books back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m just trying to be a gentleman here.” Benton laughs as he holds my books over my head.
“Dude, come on,” I whine. “I have first lunch today, and it’s pizza day. Pizza,” I stress. “I’ll never forgive you if they run out before I get a piece. Or seven.”
“Agree to go out with me tomorrow, and I will.”
“Ew,” I say, crinkling up my nose, because it is the only appropriate response to that.
“Tick-tock, baby girl. Pizza goes pretty quickly.”
Before I can even roll my eyes at his little game, Christian steps in front of me and shoves Benton. Hard. His back hits the lockers, and he looks almost as confused as I am.
Well, that escalated quickly.
“Quit being a dick and give her the fucking books,” Christian demands through clenched teeth. Benton throws my books down and pushes Christian back.
“What the fuck’s your problem? If I didn’t know you were gayer than a bag of dicks, I might think you’re jealous.” Benton looks smug, but it doesn’t last long because Mr. James is now walking toward us looking his tall, imposing, sexy as fuck self.
“Break it up, ladies,” Mr. James says, sounding bored as he looks between Dumb and Dumber. Neither one says a word.
I don’t even know what the fuck just happened. Up until now, Benton was a harmless douche. A cocky little fucker who’s annoying but never malicious. But even more shocking is Christian’s behavior. I don’t even know what triggered that reaction.
When Mr. James is tired of their silent act, he orders everyone to get moving.
I bend over to grab my scattered books and head to lunch.
“Hey, Remi, right?” I turn toward the voice, and a little raven-haired Hispanic girl is hurrying in my direction.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask as I adjust my knee sock in the hall. School is out, but I still have detention. Awesome.
“I’m Samantha LaFirst. Or just Sam. We have second period together?” she states it as a question.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I think we have English together, too.”
“Yep.” She nods. “You need a poncho for the first row in that class.” She laughs.
“So I’ve noticed,” I grumble.
“Anyway, I’m an office aide for my third period, and Christian told me to tell you not to wait up. He went home.”
“I figured as much.” Something’s up with him today. “Thanks for letting me know, though.”
“For sure. See you tomorrow.”
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I see a text from my dad.
Hey, Hurricane. Just stopping for lunch and thought I’d check in. Staying out of trouble?
Dad calls me Hurricane Remi. Says I’m a force to be reckoned with, like my mom, and always causing trouble. If he only knew the kind of trouble I was looking for. I decide to respond later because I need to get to detention. Just as I turn the corner by Mr. James’ class, Mikaela comes into view.
“What are you looking at?” she snaps.
“I’m not really into snap judgments, but if I had to guess, I’d say I’m looking at an entitled, narcissistic little girl who is threatened by anyone other than herself getting attention and wears her mean girl mask to hide her insecurities. But, like I said, I’m not into snap judgments.”
Mikaela’s mouth drops open, but I don’t give her a chance to respond. I walk directly to my seat in Mr. James’ class. Mikaela steps in behind me, all but pouting.
“Ladies,” Mr. James greets from behind his desk. “Read. Do your homework. Contemplate the meaning of life. I don’t care. No phones and no talking.”
I give him a mock salute and pull out a notebook. His mouth twitches. Mikaela sighs dramatically and studies her nails. It’s going to be a long week.
I don’t know what I was expecting to accomplish or achieve with detention, but whatever it was—it didn’t happen. Maybe it was Mikaela’s presence in the room—it had to be, I convince myself—because Pierce James has never been so cold and disinterested in me in our entire short relationship.
It’s been five torturous days of detention. Five days of being in the same room as Mr. James and having to act unaffected. Five days of ignoring death stares from Mikaela. Five days of watching her shamelessly attempt to flirt her way out of detention and resisting the urge to strangle her. It’s been five days of hell, so why don’t I feel happy that it’s over?
“All right, Miss Stringer, Miss Stephens. Detention is officially over. Let’s try not to waste any more of each other’s time in the future.” Mikaela is out the door before he even finishes his sentence. I take a slower approach, contemplating my next move.
“Everything okay, Miss Stringer?” Mr. James asks as I study the doodles in my notebook.
“Everything is fine,” I mutter, tapping my finger against my full lips. The truth of the matter is, detention is not all that bad. I get to stare at him, which probably isn’t healthy, but it’s nice, and when you’re in my position, you take every little good thing that comes your way. I get to do my homework. Ryan is always late to pick me up anyway, so it’s not like I’d be getting more free time if I didn’t have detention. Oh, and let’s not forget—it’s not like I’m in a hurry to get home.
“Well, time to pack a bag,” Mr. James says, leaning forward, his palms flat against his desk. “And. Leave.”
Reluctantly, I gather my things. I see his eyes scanning me. I see him contemplating, too. He wants to ask me if I have a ride. I do. But I would ditch Ryan somehow if he’d ask. Only Mr. James doesn’t ask. He turns around and leaves.
I stand corrected.
I don’t have a ride—not for another forty minutes. Ryan texted me saying that he worked at the auto shop ’til late and is just now on his way, so I have time to burn.
At first, I loiter by the fountain at the entrance, but then I spot Mr. James walking to the nearest convenience store by foot. Since I’m an idiot with no self-control, I do the only thing I absolutely shouldn’t be doing—take the camera out of my backpack and follow him.
It’s not such a big operation to pull off, when you think about it. West Point is bang in the middle of a vast, broad, tree-lined street that looks like it’s been copied and pasted from a movie—the complete opposite of where I live. Suburbia-galore and packed with preppy, middle-aged women in obnoxiously big sunglasses, shopping with their daughters. In other words, I manage to follow him without being noticed. I stand behind a tree and ogle him as he enters the store. Through the glass, I see him plucking out a can of Cherry Coke and walking to the register.
Click, click, click.
He points at two things behind the guy who rings him up, and the latter throws a pack of cigarettes and condoms into his bag.
Click, click.
Slowly, I lower my camera and squint. My heart is galloping, slamming into my ribcage, and now it’s not just because I am borderline stalking the man who teaches me. Condoms? I mean, logically, I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s gorgeous. What exactly am I expecting him to do? Turn down women his own age for his student? Nonetheless, it feels like betrayal.
He shouldn’t be with anyone else.
Hell, I know I’m talking crazy—thinking crazy, to be exact—but he just shouldn’t.
It’s a dangerous game, but apparently, I’m still playing it, because when he leaves the store with his bag of sex and the cigarette after, I follow him still. He doesn’t walk back to the school grounds. He goes in the other direction, toward a small café. Seeing him like this, in broad daylight, outside of school, gives me a new perspective on Pierce James. I see how people look at him—how women look at him—and realize that whatever draws me to him captures other women, too. He is so tall, so commanding—you can’t not look. And I really should stop looking. He’s made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me, and even if he did, what the heck am I saying? I need to focus on getting out of here, not on screwing my way into another problem.
Click. Click, click.
My camera captures him shaking a guy’s hand. I don’t recognize the other man, but why would I? A crazy thought hits me. Maybe Pierce is gay. Maybe he bought the condoms so he can go to town with this dude. Unlikely. He wouldn’t look at me the way he does if that were true. They meet by the café, and the man hands him a manila envelope, which Pierce takes. I’m dying to know what’s in there, but I settle for taking a few more pictures. They talk some more, then five minutes later, he is walking back toward West Point. I wait a few minutes before I follow back to sit at the stairs and wait for Ryan.
And spend the rest of my waiting time going over the new images I have of Mr. James.
I’m in trouble.
Deep trouble.
Only difference is this time, I didn’t get dragged into other people’s woes.
I created it. All. By. Myself.