See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  After I already laid down the groundwork for a civil teaching environment, she blatantly disregarded that and decided to not only get back at me tenfold, but to rope in my unapologetic friends, as well.

  It’s obvious in a few short weeks she’s been able to irritate me and get in the good graces of my friends. Which means only one thing—I need to be ready for whatever is thrown my way today.

  Coraline hops off the counter and comes up next to me. She pokes me in the arm. “Thinking about Greer?”

  “What?” I shake my head. “No.”

  Coraline lets out a belly laugh. “Liar. Isn’t she about my age?”

  I shrug, even though I know for a fact she’s twenty-four.

  “That means you’re about eight years older than her, since you’re ripe with age and all.”

  “I’m thirty-two, that’s not ripe with age.”

  “Still, leer at someone your own age.”

  “I’m not leering at her. I’m not . . . anything with her. You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”

  “Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Then tell me that this food fanfare you worked on for the better half of the day isn’t for her.”

  “The fuck it is.” I walk over to the pantry and grab a bag of sour cream and onion chips, thinking maybe I should put out one more side. “Just making sure people are fed.”

  “Uh-huh, we’ll see about that.”

  The doorbell rings and I glance over at the clock—ten minutes before people are supposed to arrive, which means that’s Gunner and Romeo. Thanks to the strict regimen they went through as student athletes at Brentwood University, they’re programmed to arrive ten minutes early to every function.

  Moving past Coraline, I answer the door to my two friends, finding nervous looks on their faces. They should be nervous. I haven’t spoken to them since the nipple twisting.

  “Hey . . . buddy,” Gunner says, waving his hand.

  “Best friend of all time,” Romeo says, arms wide, walking toward me.

  “I dare you to hug me right now.”

  Romeo’s arms automatically fall to his side. “Maybe another time.”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  “Are we, uh, allowed to come in?” Gunner asks, holding both hands over his nipples as a shield.

  “Not if you’re going to walk around like that all night.”

  He drops his hands and I let them in. Coraline catches them in the hallway and starts slow clapping. “Really, boys, valiant job with the pranks. I know you were just doing the grunt work and you weren’t the masterminds, but still, well played.”

  “Maybe we don’t talk about that,” Romeo says from the side of his mouth.

  “Smart man,” I say, walking past them and into the kitchen. They follow.

  “Holy shit,” Gunner says, taking in the island. “This looks fucking good . . .” His voice trails off as his eyes land on the melon. “Dude, you separated the cantaloupe for me? You know I hate the taste of it all mixed together.”

  “Oh, you’re right, you do.” Picking up the melon bowl, I dump it in with the rest of the salad and then mix it all together. “Couldn’t remember who it was who didn’t like melon. If it’s just you, then who cares?”

  “Dude,” Gunner says, hands falling to the island. “You did that on purpose. That’s cold.”

  “Want to talk about cold?” I ask, brow raised.

  “Drop it,” Romeo says. Pointing to the ambrosia salad I know Romeo loves, he says, “I’m going to guess you put mandarin oranges in that because you know I hate them and they ruin the dish completely for me.”

  “Oh, that’s what I forgot.” From a drawer in the kitchen island, I take out a bowl of canned mandarin oranges and dump them on top of the ambrosia salad. “There, better.”

  Coraline chuckles from the side. “It’s the simple things that can truly ruin someone’s day.”

  “That was the point.” Pointing to both of my friends, I say, “You know better than to fuck with me. Do it again and the consequences will be way fucking worse. Got it?”

  Romeo lowers his head to the island, his forearm acting as a pad between him and the marble. “I can’t believe you added mandarin oranges—in front of me. That’s fucking cruel.”

  Gunner pats his back. “We deserved it, man.” Gunner clutches his heart. “I’m just glad Dylan and Lindsay didn’t have to see me go through this.”

  “Were they going to come?” Coraline asks, picking up a chip and shoving it in her mouth. I told her about Gunner and Lindsay a few weeks back and she couldn’t have been more excited to meet them. She’s been wanting Gunner to bring them over for a while, more to drill Lindsay about Gunner’s inadequacies than anything.

  “That was the plan, until Thursday went down. I, uh”—he pulls on the back of his neck—“told her maybe it wasn’t the best time to come over, given Turner’s mood.”

  “Good call. He’s been very unpredictable lately,” Coraline says.

  “Pot calling the kettle black,” I mutter next to her.

  “My whereabouts have been unpredictable, not my attitude,” Coraline counters. Coraline turns to my friends, Romeo still nursing the loss of his ambrosia salad, and asks, “Do you guys know if there’s anything going on between Arlo and Greer?”

  Gunner’s eyes flash to mine and I silently tell him to tread lightly, not that he knows anything.

  There’s nothing to know. Nothing is going on.

  “Uh, not that I know of.”

  Good, he’s teachable.

  “Even if there was,” Romeo bemoans and lifts his head up, “I wouldn’t say a goddamn thing at this point.”

  “Ugh, you all are annoying.”

  The doorbell rings and before I can take off to get it, Coraline walks to the front door.

  From the hallway, I hear, “Greer, hi, we were just talking—”

  “Where’s your brother?” she snaps.

  Gunner and Romeo’s eyes both widen and travel to mine.

  “Oh shit,” Gunner mutters.

  “What the hell did you do to warrant that tone of voice?” Romeo asks just as Greer steps into the open kitchen and living room space.

  Wearing a pair of leggings and a long sleeve T-shirt, her hair braided into two tight French braids, she locks eyes with me and . . . oh shit is right.

  If looks could kill, I’d be dead and buried six feet under with that one glance.

  But because I don’t tend to show emotion outwardly, I keep calm as she approaches me, guns blazing.

  “I need to talk to you, in private.”

  “Ooo, someone is in trouble,” Romeo sing-songs, and I glance over Greer’s shoulder to flash him a withering look. He shuts up quickly.

  “Do you truly believe this is the time to air whatever childish grievances you might be harboring, Miss Gibson?”

  “Oh, the condescending tone isn’t going to get him anywhere,” Coraline says, lining up with the boys, bowl of chips in hand, watching us carefully as if we’re a movie playing out in front of her.

  “Terrible move on his end, but then again, he doesn’t have a knack for diffusing a situation. Let’s see how this plays out,” Gunner whispers, grabbing a handful of chips and shoving them in his mouth.

  Standing tall, Greer slaps a paper on my chest and says, “We need to talk. Now.”

  Not moving, I say, “Try that request again, but without the demand in your voice. You catch more flies with honey, Miss Gibson.”

  Her eyes flame, nostrils flair, and fuck, it feels good to be on this side of her pissed off.

  “Uh, is anyone else fearing for their lives?” Romeo asks.

  “You know, my balls aren’t feeling safe right now and I’m not the one she’s mad at.”

  “Is it weird that I’m oddly turned on by this entire interaction?” Coraline asks.

  “Yeah, because it’s your brother,” Romeo says. “But, hell, I think I might be turned on too.”

  “Will you please shut up?”
Greer says, whipping around to them. All their eyes widen as they take a step back.

  Maybe it’s time to take this elsewhere.

  Stepping to the side, I walk past her and toward my office.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she yells at me.

  “To my office. I’d rather not be mindlessly badgered in front of an audience.”

  “Dude, watch it. I think she has the ability to cut you down with one roundhouse kick. Stella said she’s feisty,” Romeo calls out as I disappear down the hall and toward my office.

  Calling out to Coraline, I ask, “Please make sure when the others arrive they’re directed to get some food and then head out back.”

  Greer stomps behind me and just as I turn to shut the door to my office, she slips in. Casually, I go to my desk and sit on the front.

  “Care to explain to me why you’re yelling at me in my own house?”

  She holds up the paper again. “This is why.” She tosses the plastic-covered paper with a giant F circled on the front onto the desk. She then folds her arms over her chest and asks, “Care to explain why you took your anger with me out on one of my athletes?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Blair Venezuela. She’s my setter and she brought this paper to me. You failed her.”

  I glance at the paper, immediately remembering what was so awful about it. “Very good, Miss Gibson, you understand what an F means. Now if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my guests.”

  “Do not play that asshole game with me. You’re failing her because of what I did to you.”

  “As much as I’d love to play into your self-absorbed thoughts, that isn’t the case here.”

  She points at the paper and says, “I read through it. Yes, there were some grammar errors and some misguided thoughts, but it didn’t warrant a failing grade.”

  “Maybe not in your eyes, Miss Gibson, but I’m not seeking out mediocrity. I demand excellence, and this paper missed the mark. It was mindless drivel, random thoughts, and nothing cohesive that actually explains the symbolism in the book. It was as if she was paraphrasing what her friend wrote. Which is exactly what she did.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “And neither do you. Did you read Sonia’s paper? Because Blair’s is a misguided version of it. Now, why don’t you stick to your musical chairs classroom where nursery rhymes are taught to understand the intricacies of a well-written novel, and I’ll stick to my classroom where higher education isn’t only demanded, but expected.”

  I stand from my desk and start to walk past her when she cuts me off, her body moving into my direct path to the door.

  “It was not a failing paper, Arlo,” she says through clenched teeth.

  “It wasn’t a pass. If you don’t believe me, then I’ll be happy to expose you to a passing paper, one that actually has great thought put into it, not ramblings built from Internet searches.”

  “You’re going to mess with her life.”

  “Are you suggesting I give her a free pass?” I shake my head, closing what little space we have between us. “She’s attending UCLA next year. You’re aware of their academic excellence. Why would you want to provide her with a shortcut?”

  “I don’t want to provide her with a shortcut, Arlo.” She sticks her chin up, her eyes trained on mine as she speaks. “I don’t want you picking on her because she’s my athlete.”

  “You really think I’d do that?”

  “I do.”

  Unbelievable.

  I don’t have to stand here and listen to these accusations. Pushing past her again, our shoulders bumping, I head for the door, only for her to swoop in and stop me again.

  “You’re going to stand there and tell me that while grading her paper, you had no intentions of giving her a bad grade just because she’s my athlete? Because you were mad at me?” She pushes my shoulder, trying to grab my attention, which I don’t want to give her. “Because you thought it was one way to get back at me.”

  I take a long, hard look at where she pushed my shoulder and then I look at her.

  Eyes furious, raging.

  Neck flushed, a vein twitching on the right side.

  Chest rising faster than before.

  Hands curled into fists at her sides.

  The anger washing over her is mirrored in me, and before I know what I’m doing, I press one hand against her hip and back her against the closed door. The other hand lands against the wood next to her head. She gasps from the quick movement but doesn’t falter.

  She holds strong.

  Stands her ground as I battle with roaring animosity and unbridled arousal.

  Fuck.

  Even though her beauty strikes me in the pit of my stomach, it doesn’t overshadow the resentment I have for her implications. I would never jeopardize a student’s future by failing them unnecessarily. For eight years, I’ve worked relentlessly to enable my students to perform to the best of their ability, to attain the GPA required to gain entry into their desired university. Blair’s grade was deserved.

  In a voice that comes out menacing, I say, “You might want to rethink your accusations, Miss Gibson. If brought to Principal Dewitt, there could be major implications.”

  “Maybe they should be brought to her.”

  My thumb drags along her hipbone, she sucks in a sharp breath, and her tongue wets her lips.

  “I wasn’t speaking of implications for me . . . I was talking about you.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” she asks, her voice wavering as my thumb slips under her shirt. Just the pad of my thumb presses against her bare skin.

  “Principal Dewitt takes complaints seriously. If you told her I was punishing your athlete, my student, because I was mad at you for pranking me, not only would she investigate the pranking and the harm you could have imposed on a faculty member, but she’d also have the paper sent to a review board where they’d run it through a plagiarism program first and then grade it from there. Not only would you possibly lose your job over mindless pranks that disturbed the environment of the school, but your athlete could also be punished for possible plagiarism, resulting in suspension. How do you think UCLA would like that?”

  “You . . . asshole.”

  She raises her hand. I grip it, pushing it against the door, above her head. She’s pinned in place.

  I lower my mouth to her ear once again. Speaking softly but firmly, I ask, “Is that a risk you’re willing to take?” My thumb slides a little farther under her shirt, and she lets out a harsh breath, her torso twisting as her lungs seek more air.

  “You . . . don’t know she plagiarized,” she says as my nose grazes the side of her cheek.

  Fuck, she smells so good. Her skin’s so soft. Her fiery disposition’s turning me on more than I care to admit.

  This isn’t how I handle conversations or disagreements. But this girl is making me lose my mind. Being around her causes me to forget how to hold a civil conversation. Instead, I have this urgent need to be next to her, touching her, so close to her that my lips can practically taste her. And I hate that. I hate that she can overrule my common sense and self-control. Maybe I should hate her.

  “There were some unoriginal thoughts in her paper.” My breathing slows down, anticipation building heavy in my chest as I move my head so we’re looking each other directly in the eyes.

  And when our pupils connect, the air stills around us. The rest of the guest arrivals fade into the background, and what’s left is this moment, with Greer, temptation knocking me in the dick, pulling me closer and closer until I don’t think I can stop myself . . .

  Knock. Knock.

  Greer jolts up but I don’t move, keeping her pinned against the door.

  “What?” I seethe.

  “Uh, should we start eating?” Romeo asks.

  “Yes,” I snap.

  “Okay, uh, sounds good.”

  When he steps away, Greer whispers, “We need to get out there.”<
br />
  “You were the one who wanted to have this conversation.”

  “Well, I can’t have it when . . . when you’re this close to me.”

  “And why’s that, Greer?”

  “Because . . . you’re . . .” She groans as I lower my mouth to her ear and capture her lobe while my hand slides up her stomach a little higher. “Fuck, Arlo,” she gasps, and it’s like an aphrodisiac, hearing her say my name with capitulation.

  And when I think she’s going to push me away, her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders.

  “Admit it,” I say while her hands drag up my neck to my face, where she maneuvers my forehead to press against hers. Our noses touching, our breaths mixing. “Admit that I’m right.”

  “Never,” she says so softly that I almost don’t hear her over the pounding of my heart. Her hand slides up to the side of my face, cupping it. “You’re an arrogant prick who believes the world revolves around his agenda.” Her thumb passes over the scruff on my jaw, the movement igniting the flames in my stomach to a roaring inferno. She turns my head, brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, “Well, it doesn’t.” And then she drags her mouth along my cheek until she reaches the corner of my mouth, where she stops.

  I hold my breath.

  Waiting.

  Anticipating what I know will be explosive.

  What I know will be a passionate kiss full of hate.

  Full of distaste.

  Full of unadulterated emotion that neither of us seems to be able to control.

  And as she sucks in a sharp breath, I prime myself, get ready for her lips on mine . . .

  “We need to go,” she says, pushing at my chest and slipping out from under me.

  Stuck in my position, one hand still leaning against the door, I look to the side and catch the flush of her cheeks, the fidgety movements as she attempts to right herself.

  Pushing off the door, I drag my hand through my hair and try to calm the rapid beat of my heart. “You’re going to go out there like that? Flushed? Turned on?”

  Her eyes widen. “I’m not turned on.”

  “You’re not?” I ask, brow raised, moving closer again. “So if I feel your pulse, it wouldn’t be pounding just as hard as mine?”

  She shakes her head, backing up until she reaches the wall.