See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2020

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - The Dugout

  More Books by Meghan Quinn

  Prologue

  GREER

  “Before we get started, I’ve been told I need to ask you a question.” Stella sits cross-legged in front of me, a nervous look on her face, water in hand.

  “Oh?” I ask, trying to act casual as I bring my glass of red wine to my lips. I have a scary inkling what this might be about.

  She glances over at Coraline and winces. “Uh, I feel weird asking.”

  Oh God . . . I was right.

  Shifting, I say, “You know, we don’t have to—”

  “Then why bring it up if you’re not going to propose your query?” Keiko asks impatiently while pushing her green-rimmed glasses up on her nose. “You know the frequency of these meetings is dependent upon staying within the comprehensive itinerary I composed during my lunchbreak.”

  “Cool your bloomers, Keeks,” Coraline says while taking a large sip from her wine glass. “I want to know what’s making Stella so fidgety.”

  The four founding members of the Ladies in Heat Book Club—aka my mismatched collection of friends—each bring diverse and unique character traits to our group.

  Keiko “Keeks” Seymour—resident AP chemistry teacher at Forest Heights High School. Her social etiquette is lacking, her intelligence is off the charts, and she’d rather play with beakers than penises. She wasn’t thrilled about the book club name and made a noble attempt to explain why her suggestion, the Austen Empowerment Collaborative, was far more credible. Majority ruled, she lost.

  Stella Garcia—Spanish teacher at Forest Heights and my co-coach. Currently single, makes the best tamales I’ve ever had, and is one stamp away from getting a free donut at Frankie Donuts. Can be shy at times, but when it comes to her family and friends, she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Loyal to the core, one of the reasons I adore her.

  Coraline “Cora” Turner—recent divorcée and living with her brother, Arlo. Jobless at the moment and couldn’t care less about it since both she and Arlo have enough inheritance to last them a lifetime. Often annoyed by her older brother or annoying him, doesn’t partake in Twitter—says it’s a filthy pool of opinions, and is the first to offer up a bottle of wine.

  Then there’s me . . .

  Greer Gibson—twenty-four-year-old fresh to the teaching scene as Forest Heights’s new English teacher and women’s volleyball coach. I love running, have a penchant for a man in a cardigan, and can get a little noisy in the classroom while teaching. I currently share a classroom wall with Arlo Turner, Forest Heights most prestigious English teacher, and might have lost my underwear—

  “Out with it, Stella,” Cora says, snapping at her.

  “Please, so we can proceed,” Keeks says, straightening her notepad on her lap.

  Stella looks me in the eyes and says, “Brock wants to know if there’s anything going on between you and Turner. Apparently, Turner won’t say a thing, but Brock thinks there’s some strong sexual tension building.”

  Cora whips her head to me, her eyes wide. “Are you getting it on with my brother?”

  Finger pointed in the air, Keeks leans in and says, “The proper term amongst company would be coitus.”

  Rolling her eyes, Cora asks, “Did you have coitus with my brother?”

  “You could also say intercourse if that amuses your jargon more,” Keeks adds. “Or copulating would be sufficient. But if you are inclined toward romantic terminology, since we are in the presence of the book club, you could say lovemaking or performing intimate acts. Although, given the circumstances of when coitus took place—in the work environment—I would deduce that your actions were performed carnally rather than with the interest of developing a devoted accord.”

  “Good God, Keeks,” Cora says, irritated. “Who cares what it’s called? We just want to know if it happened.” Cora looks me in the eyes. “Did it?”

  Did it . . .

  Good question.

  I’d like to preface this by saying it was never my intention to ever get involved in a workplace romance when I was hired at Forest Heights, let alone get involved with the most surly, agitating, and pompous man I’ve ever met.

  My intentions were to show students how English and reading books could actually be fun, bring the volleyball team to a state championship, and make a new life for myself in the suburbs of Chicago.

  But so far, I’ve managed to be called into the principal’s office.

  Infiltrate the teachers’ athletic league.

  And had passionate fights with Arlo Turner over education, decorum, and student-teacher friendships.

  Not to mention I’ve lost my panties to him in my dreams more than I care to admit.

  Why did this all happen?

  Simple.

  The man dresses in a cardigan, that’s how.

  Arlo Turner. The bane of my existence, annoyance to my sanity, and the only man who’s ever made me want to spread my legs in a classroom.

  He’s torn down my metaphorical walls, strapped on a cottony cardigan—pushed up the sleeves—and has driven me to the brink of insanity, so now whenever I hear the mention of his name, my legs automatically spread, and my heartrate picks up.

  Known as Mr. Turns Me On, he’s the reason my star athlete is struggling to keep her grades up.

  He’s the reason I tend to avoid the teacher breakroom.

  And he’s the reason I might get fired from my first ever teaching job.

  Chapter One

  GREER

  “A master’s in English from UC
LA is impressive, and your references are excellent. Can you tell us a little about yourself?”

  The urge to fidget is painfully overwhelming, but I keep my hands in my lap as I keep my eyes on Principal Nyema Dewitt.

  This has to be the weirdest interview I’ve ever had. We just spent a half hour on my education, my student-teacher experience, and my goals. Nyema has led the charge, but there are a few people behind her, studying the interview, that I can’t quite see. Not sure if that’s supposed to be less intimidating—faceless laps with clipboards—but it’s not. It’s more intimidating knowing there are people watching us.

  Smiling, I straighten my back and say, “Of course. I grew up in Nebraska on a farm. I’d like to say I helped out a lot, but my dad had hired help, so I spent most of my time playing volleyball and reading. My high school years were filled with volleyball; I was quite obsessed, to be honest. I was so immersed in the sport and my goals to go to UCLA that I forgot to have a social life.” I shrug. “I didn’t miss out on much, though. I wasn’t the party girl. I was the girl whose nose was stuck in a book.”

  “I like that,” Nyema says. “Shows your strong will and ability to make your own decisions.”

  “Thank you. Never been a follower, really. Always did my own thing. Love to think outside of the box.”

  “Lovely.” Nyema sifts through her papers and asks, “What are some of your favorite books?”

  I smile softly. “I’m sure you’re expecting me to say something like Pride and Prejudice or Of Mice and Men, right? Maybe Fahrenheit 451?” I shake my head. “Although I do love Mr. Darcy and it’s my favorite book to teach, I’m going to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of the classics.”

  Nyema’s eyes widen, and I know it’s a risky thing to say, but I feel the need to say it.

  “I understand the importance of teaching them, but I also understand the importance of instilling interested reading habits into students. Some of those books come off as . . . stodgy, holier-than-thou, and frankly—boring.”

  There’s a faint snort in the background, and I catch a hand scrawling across the clipboard.

  “I see,” Nyema says. “What books would you say keep your interest?”

  “Honestly?”

  She nods.

  “I love romance. I grew up reading it and it’s one of the reasons I love teaching Pride and Prejudice so much. With romance, I get lost in the story and tend to forget everything around me. Now, I’m not saying romance has the educational substance you’re looking for when it comes to teaching deep-rooted metaphors and symbolism, but it has offered me the chance to fall in love with reading. For someone else, it could be mystery, suspense, maybe a thriller, or even a fictional story loosely based on something true that happened in history. It doesn’t matter the genre, what matters is the escape. The appreciation for getting lost in words.”

  Nyema smiles and is about to ask something when someone from behind her pipes up.

  “So, if you seem to hate the classics so much—”

  “I didn’t say hate,” I say quickly, the tone of the man’s voice instantly putting me on high alert.

  “Excuse me while I finish my question, Miss Greer.”

  Miss Greer.

  The snap in his voice with those two words—it sends a shiver straight up my spine as I try to make out the faceless voice in the back.

  “Pardon me,” I say, my leg starting to lightly bounce up and down.

  “As I was saying, if you seem to dislike the classics so much, how do you intend to teach them? Because Forest Heights has educational expectations; as a teacher, you’re required to meet them.”

  Oh God.

  Nyema, completely unfazed by the deep-throated interruption from the back, sits and awaits my answer.

  Swallowing hard, I say, “Great question. I would still touch upon all the required literature, but I’d teach it in a way that brings the words to life. I think it’s important to do more than just stand in front of a class and lecture.”

  “Lecturing is an effective and proven way to teach, Miss Greer. Are you saying it’s not?”

  “I’m saying it’s boring.” My heart dips, and I quickly search for the words to retract my answer, until I catch the slight smirk on Nyema’s face as she stares down at her paper. It’s a big enough smirk to give me the confidence to keep going. “Teachers who stand at the front of the class and demand excellence without doing the work are elitist and should possibly reevaluate their way of teaching. I plan on—”

  “Are you calling me an elitist, Miss Greer?”

  Dear Jesus, who is this man in the back?

  “Um, are you . . . the lecturing type?”

  “I am.”

  I smile awkwardly and swallow. “Well . . . then I guess I am.”

  Nyema interjects before I can say anymore. “I think I’ll take it from here.” Her eyes snap up to mine, and I can’t tell if she’s pleased, irritated, or horrified.

  The smirk is gone.

  The air in the room is tense.

  And I’m pretty sure I just blew this interview.

  * * *

  “That’s Kelvin Thimble. He teaches geometry and dresses up every Friday as a character from Star Wars. Rumor has it he has a crush on Keiko.”

  “Keiko Seymour?” I ask Stella as we’re huddled off to the side, glasses of champagne in hand.

  Yes, champagne at faculty night.

  Champagne at a backyard barbeque faculty night.

  At least that’s what it was called when I received the email from Principal Nyema Dewitt.

  Yeah . . . I got the job.

  Shocking, right?

  I couldn’t be more shocked myself, but Nyema said she thinks I’ll bring a fresh approach to the English department. She’s also excited about my coaching ability and immediately introduced me to Stella, the other volleyball coach. We’ve been hanging out for the past two weeks.

  But back to the champagne backyard barbeque. According to Stella, the Friday before school starts, Forest Heights holds a party for the faculty where the newbies—like myself—can get to know everyone and where we can talk about our summer. When my Uber pulled up to the address on the invite, I wasn’t expecting to see to a lake house gated in by seven-foot-tall hedges.

  But I did.

  After I picked my jaw off the ground and made my way toward the white brick, Tudor-style house, I found Stella, who handed me a glass of champagne and led me to the backyard, where high-top tables were meticulously placed along the large stone patio. A pathway leads to the lower yard, which is covered in pristinely cut grass and at least a dozen lawn chairs that overlook Lake Michigan.

  Let’s just say, Principal Dewitt is loaded.

  “Yeah, Keiko Seymour. Is there another Keiko you know of?” Stella laughs.

  “Guess not.” I glance around and say, “I thought this was supposed to be a backyard barbeque. This is more like an event thrown by the Great Gatsby himself. I mean . . . look, there’s a green light right there.”

  “That’s Arlo Turner for you.”

  “What?” I ask, facing Stella. “This isn’t Nyema’s house?”

  Stella throws her head back and laughs. “How much do you think a principal gets paid?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know . . . a lot?”

  Stella shakes her head and leans in. “Houses along Lake Michigan are in the millions, Greer.”

  “Okay, so who’s Arlo Turner?”

  “Uh, he interviewed you for this job.”

  “No, he didn’t.” I shake my head. “Nyema did.”

  “Were their people sitting in the back of your interview?”

  “Yesss . . .” I drag out.

  She nods knowingly, a smile pulling up her lips. “Yeah, he was there, and this all makes sense. That’s why he wasn’t happy.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Good Evening.” Keiko walks up to us, holding a cup of what I’m assuming is water from the clear liquid. She’s dressed in a m
odest green dress with red roses scattered haphazardly along her bodice. Her black hair is tied up into two pigtail knots with a few wisps framing the front of her lovely face. “I see that you’re partaking in adult effervescence during this professional sundown.” She sips her water. “Risk takers.”

  “We didn’t sneak the drinks in, Keeks, they’re serving them,” Stella says.

  “Maintaining a constant disposition while amongst colleagues would behoove you. Especially after last year . . .”

  Okay, the interview thing could be put on hold for a second. Turning to Stella, I ask, “What happened last year?”

  “Nothing. Had a few too many drinks,” Stella says, waving her hand in dismissal.

  “On the contrary,” Keeks says, “she had precisely two IPAs indigenous to Chicago, three margaritas, one buttery nipple, and then schlepped her tongue over Brock “Romeo” Romero’s formidable abdomen, which was dappled in salt, right before consuming two tequila shots. She then proceeded to gyrate her exotic undergarments over her head while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. There’s a video of this exasperating occasion if you would like me to procure it for you.” Keiko adjusts her glasses and smiles.

  “I think we’re good—”

  “I’d love to see that,” I say with a laugh.

  “I shall put a note in my phone to remind myself.” Right then and there, she takes out her phone from one of the pockets in her dress and types away. I know already Keiko and I are going to be great friends.