Everything Grace told me about Carter Mahoney should have diluted my interest in him. While I don’t have a clear picture of who he is, one thing is abundantly clear—whatever he is, for whatever reason, that guy is every variety of bad news.

I tried to fact-check Grace’s story about the art teacher, but there’s no record of it. Of course, there wouldn’t be. I may not pay attention to the goings on around school, but Carter would have been 17 a year ago, and if a scandal involving a minor and a teacher had made the news, I would have noticed that.

I try to distract myself with things that actually matter—homework, a four-hour shift at the bookstore, and the $1 clearanced paperback I couldn’t resist bringing home with me since I don’t have to pay actual money to buy books right now.

Around bedtime, my mind drifts back to Carter. I decide to check on his social media again, and the newest picture causes my stomach to sink and my face to curl up with distaste.

It’s his rally girl, mooning at him as she leans in the window of his car. His number is painted on her cheek, her top is cut so low she might as well be wearing a Band-aid for a shirt, and she’s holding up a tray of carefully detailed chocolate-covered strawberries, decorated to look like footballs.

“Post-practice treat. Best rally girl ever,” he commented, with his stupid Longhorn hashtags.

As I’m giving my phone dirty looks, I shift my body, suddenly uncomfortable for reasons I don’t even understand. Then I pick the phone back up, my thumb slips, and the worst possible thing happens—I accidentally ‘like’ the photo.

Gasping, I stare, horrified, at the little red heart. “No! No, no, no, no.” I quickly click the button again to unlike it, then I drop the phone like it turned into a tarantula, afraid to even touch the damn thing.

It takes a moment for the screen to go dark, but I stare at it the whole time, as if it’s a bomb that might detonate. The panic begins to subside, and my desperate hope is that he’ll never know. I may have unliked it fast enough and he’ll never get the notification. As much action as his profile gets, it’s not at all unreasonable to think he would never even notice a single like. Unless he’s literally looking at his phone right now, surely by the time he checks, a dozen more people will have interacted with the post and our names will all be grouped together. Surely as many people as like his posts, he must not even read all the names—

My hopes die as my screen lights up with a notification that he just sent me a message. Motherfucker!

“Shit,” I hiss, grabbing the phone and sliding the message open.

“That’s shady,” he says simply.

My face flushes, even though he can’t see me. I can’t even think of a way to defend myself—I am outright stalking his profile like a creep. Telling him I can’t seem to sate my curiosity about him would be even worse than letting him think I’m a psycho stalker, so I figure I’ll just let him think that and ignore his message.

Only he doesn’t wait for me to respond; he sends another message. “Was that a passive aggressive like because I posted a picture of a girl, or an accidental like because you’re keeping tabs on me?”

All I can do at this point is roll with it, so I send back, “Neither. It was an intentional like, but it was all for the strawberries, not you OR the rally girl.”

“Uh huh,” he sends back, clearly unconvinced. “Strange how you saw my picture, but you’re not following me…”

“Your profile is public,” I tell him. “People on my feed follow you, and I saw that they liked that picture. Purely accidental. I didn’t even realize it was your profile, I just thought the football strawberries were super cute, so I gave them a like. I thought I was liking that girl’s picture, not yours. Once I realized it was your account, I unliked it.”

This is a feasible explanation. It’s total bullshit, but it sounds enough like the truth that I will cling to it with my dying breath.

“I see,” he answers. “Well, if you like the strawberries so much, I’m happy to share.”

“I’m good,” I assure him. Then, before I can even stop myself, I type out, “Did you date a teacher last year?”

“Date? No.” A moment later, he follows up with, “Asking around about me, huh?”

“No, my friend saw me talking to you and she thought I should know that you usually date teachers and strippers, so we’re not in the same league.”

“Didn’t date the stripper, either. You have bad information.”

“I may be using overly polite terminology,” I admit.

“Fuck is the word you’re looking for.”

I roll my eyes. “Gross. A teacher?”

“She was in her mid-twenties, definitely not gross.”

“And married?” I demand.

“I forgot to ask,” he sends back glibly. “Ordinarily I would never sin, being the good Christian boy I am.”

“I’m legitimately stunned you didn’t burst into flames just typing that,” I reply.

He doesn’t reply. I wait, wondering if he’s sending a long message. Maybe he stepped away. Finally, I close the app, figuring he abandoned the conversation.

I should probably get to sleep anyway. It’s late, and I’m already dreading the sound of my alarm in the morning. I climb off my bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I’m swishing the water in my mouth, another notification pops up.

It reads, “Were you convinced?”

I frown, typing back, “Convinced about what?”

“That I had burst into flames.”

I cock my head, momentarily confused, then I scroll back up read the conversation. Once it hits me why he stopped responding, a short laugh of surprise bursts out of me. “It didn’t feel like the world had suddenly become a better place, so no,” I send back.

“All that sass,” he types. “You need another lesson about manners, princess.”

“My manners are just fine,” I assure him.

“Come get some of these strawberries and we can have some fun.”

Shaking my head that he would even try, I shoot back, “I’m sure your rally girl is up for all sorts of fun.”

“She is,” he replies, not even denying it. “But I’m inviting you.”

“Should I feel special?” I ask, hoping my sarcasm translates.

“You can feel special if you want to. I’d rather make you feel dirty. I’d rather see all your feelings in your eyes when you hear the cold bite of my voice telling you how to please me. I’d rather you half-naked, on your knees, waiting for permission to suck my cock like a good little whore.”

His words steal the breath right out of my lungs. I don’t have a snappy comeback for that. The agonizing part is his words take me so completely off guard, they cause a pleasant stirring between my legs.

It’s a wicked scene he describes, but as I read his words, the scene unfolds inside my mind and I can see it. Half-naked and little afraid, just the way he likes me. He doesn’t hurt me though, not in my mind. We both know he could, but we both also know he won’t.

I try to shake off the image he planted in my mind. I’m sure that’s not what the scene looks like in his, so I can’t afford to let myself get carried away.

For a moment, I’m almost ashamed to feel a pang of arousal, but I immediately walk myself back out of that trap. Hell no. I’m not going to feel badly about that. It was my body’s natural reaction, and the words are written on a screen. If I just happened across naughty words like those unexpectedly online, of course my body would react to them.

It’s not because they’re from him.

I should probably try to use this to my advantage, try to get him to admit to what he did to me last time he had me on my knees. The way he worded it in this message, just like in the “notes” he wrote me in history class, it all sounds consensual. Naughty talk between lovers, not communication between a psycho and his victim.

Then again, it might be hard to sell that I would even be responding to his messages, if I wanted people to believe that. Maybe if I turned the tides right now, said something about what he did in that classroom to try and trick him into admitting to his crimes, but I’m tired, I don’t feel like potentially provoking his mean side, and I don’t think he’d fall for that anyway.

Instead of trying to trick him, instead of responding at all to his highly inappropriate message, I close out of the app, set my alarm clock, and climb into bed. I know I’ll have to see him at school in the morning, I just hope that visual he planted doesn’t get stuck in my head. The last thing I need is the inability to escape Carter Mahoney even in my dreams.

I’m running late on Wednesday, so by the time I make my way into the school, there are no longer kids assembled outside in their various groups: mere mortals sitting on the black metal benches, the jocks assembled around Carter in front of the wall. I make my way inside with no nasty looks, no whispers, no “Zoey the ho” nonsense. It’s lovely.

Being late to school seems to set me on a path to rushing all day long, though. I barely make it to history before the bell rings, and when I fall into my desk with a huff, I don’t even have time to glance in Carter’s direction before Mr. Hassenfeld begins his lecture.

Once class is over, I gather my things and head straight out the door, lamenting the rumbling of my stomach. Since I got so far behind this morning, I didn’t have time for breakfast, and I didn’t pack myself a lunch. I could buy food in the cafeteria, but that would require going to the cafeteria, and I won’t do that.

Once we are out in the hall, Carter falls into step beside me. “What’s up, Ellis?”

“Nothin’ new,” I tell him.

“Did you fall asleep on me last night?”

I flash him a smile. “Nope, I just stopped responding.”

He feigns a puppy dog pout. “Meanie.”

“I’m sure you didn’t lose too much sleep over it,” I say casually. “You could have always hit up your rally girl; I’m sure she’s always around, ready to dirty talk with you to keep up your team spirit. Best rally girl ever and all that.”

Carter grins over at me. “Man, you are insanely jealous of my rally girl.”

My gaze snaps to his and narrows. “I am not jealous. That’s absurd. Do I find the whole concept of a girl literally assigned to cater to you, give you presents, and fawn all over you just because you know how to throw a football a little archaic? Yes. But it’s not jealousy, and it has nothing to do with you.”

“Hey, rally girls boost our morale and give us encouragement. Our own personal cheerleaders.”

“Right,” I say dryly. “And I’m sure none of you ever take advantage of the stars in their eyes to have sex with them.”

“Is it really taking advantage if they want it?” he questions.

“It’s icky,” I inform him.

He shakes his head, rejecting my explanation. “You’re jealous. Are you territorial, Ellis? Now that you’ve sucked my dick, you don’t want anyone else to? You’re gonna have to be more diligent, if that’s the case. My dick requires a lot more attention than you’re giving it.”

Swallowing down a ball of embarrassment, I snap, “I didn’t willingly show your dick any attention.”

“No?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “I seem to remember you saying you wanted it.”

“You made me say that,” I remind him, wide-eyed.

“Nah, I gave you options and you made your choice.”

“You’re insane,” I inform him, aghast.

Not sounding all that concerned, he says, “Maybe.” Then, barely missing a beat, he changes the subject. “So, where do you sit for lunch? I noticed yesterday I never see you. Not that I expect you’d be sitting with the cheerleaders, but I took a quick look around the cafeteria and didn’t see you anywhere else, either.”

“I don’t eat in the cafeteria. Not since all this… stupid Jake stuff started. People stare and make disparaging comments. Your cheerleader friends can be real bitches, and I don’t even know why they care. They should be offended on my behalf, not taking his side. They need their girl cards suspended until they take a remedial class on girl power or something, I swear.”

“Birds of a feather,” he says simply. “Jake is one of theirs, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“You could be,” he says, giving me a once-over. “You’re attractive enough, and even though you keep to yourself, you’re clearly not shy or you wouldn’t be able to spar with me the way you do. Get yourself some Longhorn gear, one of those sparkly pony tail holders, and slap a smile on that pretty face, I’m sure you could find a spot at their table.”

“I’ll pass,” I tell him. “I used to sit with Grace and the youth group kids from our church, but they became quickly offended by the ‘ho’ coughs your jock buddies would walk by and deliver. I didn’t want to make Grace uncomfortable anymore, so until it all blows over, no cafeteria for me.”

“Well, you’ve gotta eat.”

“Last time I tried to sneak off somewhere solitary to eat, I got cornered by three jock assholes and—wait, I think you know the rest of this story,” I say sarcastically. My tone dropping to its normal decibel, I conclude, “Now I eat in my car with the doors locked.”

“That’s sad, Ellis.”

“It isn’t sad. Well, today it is, because I didn’t have a chance to pack my lunch, but most days it’s actually quite peaceful. A little bit of quiet time in the middle of the day, I can read a couple chapters of whichever book I’m reading. It’s like a little mid-day break from people. I enjoy spendin’ time by myself. I don’t need company all the time.”

Carter nods his head. “Well, today you’re gonna have company.”

“No, today I’m gonna read the whole time, not even interrupted by the sound of my own chewing.”

“Nope. You like wings?”

“Wings?” I question, glancing over at him.

“Chicken wings. You’re not some kind of vegan, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, I like wings.”

“Great. Let’s go get some.”

My eyes widen and I slow down. “What? No. It’s—We’re—The school day isn’t over, for one thing, and if you think I’m goin’ anywhere alone with you—”

Holding up a hand to halt me, he says, “Relax, Ellis. I’m not going to fuck you at Wingstop, I’m only going to feed you. You just said you didn’t bring your lunch, and as I mentioned before, I feel like I owe you a meal.”

“I am not getting in a car alone with you,” I inform him.

Unconcerned, he shrugs. “Drive yourself, then. I mean, it’s literally a one-minute drive so I think driving separately is pretty stupid, but if that makes you feel safer, knock yourself out.”

I shouldn’t even consider going anywhere with someone who has to add “if that makes you feel safer” to an invitation to hang out with him. The thought of wings does make my mouth water, though. It’s been ages since I’ve had them. We used to order wings on a Friday night once every month or so for a treat, but then Hank had to get his car fixed, it was an expensive repair, and my parents haven’t caught up enough to be able to afford even the occasional wing night at home.

“You promise this isn’t a trick?” I ask, that icky vulnerable feeling hitting me again.

Carter offers a reassuring nod. “Temporary truce.”

This is probably a terrible idea, but as if on cue, my stomach rumbles, begging me to let the nice man buy it some chicken wings. I tell my stomach he’s not a nice man at all, but my stomach decidedly doesn’t care what kind of man he is, so long as he’s buying it some chicken wings.

Sighing, I clutch my books tighter. “Fine.”