“I wonder if we should contact her parents somehow and see if she came with a handbook to give to Kelvin.”
I shake my head. “I think Keeks is writing the handbook as she goes. God, I love her. I wish I had the same balls of steel as her, able to tell it like it is.”
“Yeah? Who do you want to knock down with the truth?” Stella dips her calzone into the accompanying marinara sauce.
“No one in particular.” At least that’s what I tell her. “Living your life freely like that must be nice though.”
“True.”
“Hey, ladies,” Gunner says, coming up to our table, Arlo at his side. “How were your calzones?”
Stella turns in her chair. “Watching us eat, Gunner?”
“Everyone was,” he answers. “The calzones smell amazing. I think we were all hoping there would be leftovers.”
“Have you seen Keiko’s appetite after a saucy round of teaching? She’s ravenous. Greer and I are just grateful we were able to get our fair share.”
I glance up and catch Arlo staring at me. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away; instead, I watch his eyes rake me over. I chose a simple blue sundress with yellow polka dots and capped sleeves. I paired it with yellow high heels and a tiny yellow bow tucked into my low bun. Nothing special, but from the dark look in Arlo’s expression, he appreciates the outfit.
Which seems odd to me, because I make sure that my dresses are never revealing, for obvious reasons. I keep the necklines high and the hems longer, over my knees. They do accentuate my waist, but that’s about it.
Men—not sure I’ll ever understand them.
“What did you have for lunch, Arlo?” I ask.
“He always has a steak salad, no dressing, tons of veggies. That’s unless his sister brings something in. He prefers a certain structure in his life, isn’t that right?” Gunner knocks Arlo in the arm, but it doesn’t shift him from looking at me.
“I can answer for myself,” Arlo says.
“Sheesh, no need to get sensitive about it,” Gunner says.
“So, you like routine?” I ask, something clicking in the back of my head.
“Loves it, thrives off it, hates when his routine is thrown off,” Gunner answers again.
I smile. Gunner doesn’t seem to have a clue.
“Ahh, so let’s say a new teacher comes into your life and starts playing loud music in the classroom and disturbing your peace, you’d find that . . . disruptive?”
“Nah, he was just saying—”
Arlo whacks Gunner in the stomach, causing him to buckle over slightly. “Enough, let’s go.”
They start to walk away, and I call out, “Wait, what were you just saying?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Arlo says, retreating with Gunner.
Once they’re gone, Stella picks up another piece of calzone and says, “I bet it had a lot to do with you.”
“I think so too,” I say, staring at the door. I just don’t know what to do with that information.
* * *
“That’s a great idea,” Evelyn Barney, one of our ninth grade English teachers, says. “It’ll be fun for the students and bring more life to the curriculum.”
Arlo sits on the edge of his desk, nose pinched, head tilted down, clearly in distress . . . from me.
Once a month, we have a department meeting to go over our curriculum, where our students are tracking, and suggest any new ideas we might have to help liven up the classrooms. The last part is courtesy of Principal Dewitt, not Arlo. If it were up to him, we’d all be teaching a strict regimen of stuffy literature with accompanying papers.
“We are not dressing up as literary characters,” Arlo says, lifting his head, obviously exasperated.
“Why not?” I ask. “The students will love it, and hey, you could dress up as Jay Gatsby. All your dreams will come true.”
He flashes his scowl at me. “There’s no point in dressing up as a literary character other than to make a mockery of ourselves.”
“I disagree.” Turning toward our colleagues, I say, “All in favor of dressing up next Friday, please raise your hands.” Everyone raises their hand except Arlo. “Then it’s settled. We’re dressing up.” I pound my fist on my desk. “Meeting adjourned.” I stand from my desk and so does everyone else.
Arlo stands tall and calls out, “Meeting is not—”
“I have kids to feed, Turner,” Evelyn says. “Can’t be here all night. Greer, will you send us the details and requirements for dressing up?”
“I’d be delighted.” I smile. “What’s for dinner?”
“At this point, beanies and weenies.”
“Oh, that’s . . . uh, yummy.” I give her a wave, feeling a little sorry for her kids. “Goodnight.”
The teachers file out, and I start packing up as well, ignoring Arlo’s blatant stare down. Once packed up, I shoot him a quick smile and say, “Successful meeting. Well, I’ll be on my way—”
“Greer,” Arlo says, his voice full of malice.
I wince and turn toward him, plastering on a large smile. “Yes?”
His nostrils flare and I brace myself for the tongue-lashing that I know is coming. I overstepped. I pushed him past his comfort zone and created an English teacher mutiny, all in a matter of minutes. I’m sure he’s not happy about it, if his face is any indication.
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
Ehh . . . what?
Did I just hear him correctly? He said plans for dinner, right?
Is this some sort of trickery?
Like he gets me to say no, and then he throws down an insult, like . . . uh . . . well, you can, uh . . . eat my dick for dinner.
Hmm . . . Arlo doesn’t seem like a “eat my dick” kind of guy.
But he also doesn’t look like he wants to share dinner plans with anyone, not with the way he’s steaming with anger, so I tread carefully.
“Well, I was probably going to stop and pick something up on the way home. Not much of a cook when I’m tired.” I shrug.
“Where do you live? Close?”
“Just off Johnson Boulevard. Why?” I tilt my head to the side. “Are you planning to murder me with a hoagie?” I chuckle.
“That would be far too easy.” He grabs his bag and says, “Let’s go.”
“Uh, go where?”
“Your apartment. We have things to discuss and I’m hungry.”
“But . . . I didn’t invite you over.”
“Yes, and I didn’t invite you to run my faculty meeting either, but I guess that didn’t stop you.” He reaches the doorway and nods at me. “Move it, Gibson. I’ve been known to get hangry.”
Well, at least he’s honest.
Chapter Ten
ARLO
On the way to our cars, we decided on Thai food. I placed an order to be delivered, Greer gave me her address, and we left. She hopped into her black Honda Civic and I got into my Tesla—which she commented on jealously.
When we pulled up to her apartment building, I was surprised.
Good area, but I know from Coraline looking over apartments that these are all studios.
Our teaching staff isn’t paid what they deserve, but they’re also not salaries that would require you to rent a studio apartment.
“You know, I still think this is weird,” Greer says, getting out of her car. “Why couldn’t we have just had dinner at a restaurant?”
Because I want nothing more than to spank you after that meeting.
Because I feel like yelling and screaming my frustration.
Because I’m desperate to have you alone.
“You really want to fight in public?” I ask.
She pauses, halfway up the stairs to her apartment complex. “We’re going to fight?”
“What do you think?”
“That we could have a civil conversation.”
“When has that ever happened?” I counter.
“There’s no time like the present to change.” She gives me a giant smile, and f
uck, I want to kiss it right off her face.
Given my stance on keeping my distance where this girl is concerned, I’m going into this dinner with plans of keeping my hands to myself, eating, talking to her about insubordinate behavior, and then moving on with my night.
That’s it.
She leads us to her apartment and just as I suspected, when she opens the door, I’m welcomed into a cozy studio apartment with a lake view. Kitchenette to the left with a two-person table pressed against the wall. An unmade bed that lines up with the large floor-to-ceiling window. No curtains, no privacy, just the hope that no one is able to look into her apartment. Across from the bed is a dresser with a small TV on top, and then to the right is a closet and what I assume is the door to the bathroom.
The space is small, colorful . . . and messy.
Clothes are draped over every surface, including . . . small string thongs.
Hell.
She tosses her purse to the side and says, “Wasn’t expecting company. Want me to straighten up for you?”
“Might be nice to sit somewhere.”
“It’s not that bad, and they’re all clean clothes. I like to save money on drying.” She picks up a laundry basket and starts tossing her clothes inside. Picking up a neon-yellow thong, she swivels it on her finger and says, “This one is my favorite.”
“Don’t need the commentary on your underwear. Thank you.”
“But it’s more fun that way.” She picks up a black lace bra and says, “This barely contains my tits. I only wear it on dates.”
My jaw clenches. “Does that mean you’ve been on a date recently?”
“Only with myself.” She winks, and I swear, she’s fucking with me right now.
Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and I stand to get it, but she waves at me. “I got it.” Bra in hand, she goes to the door and opens it. “Yum. Thank you. Smells amazing.”
“Sure,” a male voice says. “Uh, do you need anything else?”
“We’re fine,” I call from my chair.
“Oh, okay. Yeah. Have a good one.”
“Bye,” Greer says in a cheery voice before shutting the door. “He was nice.”
Rolling my eyes at how oblivious she is, I lean back in the small wooden chair, trying to get comfortable.
There’s no couch.
Just two small, child-sized chairs and a bed.
I really should have thought this through.
She brings the food to the table, sets it down, and then grabs us plates and silverware. I open up the to-go boxes and wait as she pours us both a glass of water.
“This is all I have, sorry.”
“Water is fine.”
We both serve ourselves and dig in. For a few moments, we’re quiet, simply enjoying the food. But it doesn’t last long, because Greer glances up at me and asks, “So . . . when are you going to start yelling at me?”
“Do you mind if I eat first? It will benefit you if I’m fed.”
“Oh, right. The whole hangry thing. Got ya.” She winks, then picks up a giant scoop of noodles and shoves them in her mouth. While she chews, cheeks puffed, she smiles at me.
Shaking my head, I turn back to my plate, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to her, how I’m going to approach this conversation without—
“I think there’s steam coming out of your ears.”
I look up at her. “What?”
She motions at me with her empty fork. “You’re thinking awfully hard. I think smoke is coming out of your ears.”
“Think you’re funny?”
“Not just me, a lot of people do. Gunner and Romeo. Stella, Coraline . . . Keeks—well, she has her own sense of humor, but sometimes I can get a chuckle out of her. Oh, and Kelvin thinks I’m a hoot, as well as—”
“I don’t need the rundown.”
“I mean, you sort of asked for it.”
I set my fork down. “When you woke up this morning, was it your primary goal to annoy me?”
“No, but it became my secondary goal at the meeting. Is it working?”
“What do you think?”
“From the throbbing vein in your neck, I’m going to say yes.” She smiles again, and I swear, I’m seconds away from tipping this table over and doing something about that smile. “Ooo, I can feel your anger from all the way over here. Maybe we should have an icebreaker or something. You know, a way to loosen up before you tear me a new one.”
“Were you a camp counselor?”
“No, why? Do I have the spirit of one?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Good for me.”
Of course she’d say that. She lives in chaos, so how is she always so happy and cheerful? I’m not the most . . . let’s face it, I’m a grumpy bastard a lot of the time. Why is she like this? Why does it fucking annoy me?
She finishes up her plate and takes a large gulp of her water. She shifts in her seat and says, “While you finish up, do you mind if I get out of this dress? It’s usually stripped off my body by now.”
“Do whatever you want,” I say in a grumpy tone.
“You’re an absolute doll.” She winks and stands, taking her empty plate to the sink and putting the leftovers in her empty fridge. She plucks a few things from her laundry basket, then goes into her bathroom and shuts the door.
Jesus.
Why does it feel like I’m holding my breath?
Maybe because I’m extremely uncomfortable.
Maybe because I want to know what she chose from that laundry basket.
Maybe because my mind and dick are fighting an epic battle of who to listen to.
Once finished, I take my plate to the sink and then pull out my phone from my back pocket to text Coraline.
Arlo: Late night. Be home in a bit. You okay?
She texts back right away.
Coraline: I’m fiiiiiiine, Arlo. Stop worrying about me.
Arlo: Where are you?
Coraline: At home. Where are you?
Arlo: Not home. Do you need anything?
Coraline: Not home . . . hmm, why does that seem suspicious? And no, I don’t. I’m a grown woman.
Arlo: Who is going through a divorce.
Coraline: Best decision of my life. Now will you leave me alone?
Arlo: Okay, well, I’ll be home in a bit. We can watch a movie if you want.
Coraline: Will you braid my hair too?
Arlo: Don’t be a smart-ass.
Coraline: Stop being overprotective.
Arlo: I care about you.
Coraline: I know and I love you for it. Now go back to being elusive. See you later, bro.
Sighing, I stick my phone back in my pocket, just in time for Greer to open the door to her bathroom and walk out wearing a silk spaghetti-strap tank top and matching silk shorts.
That’s what she chose to wear?
That?
She takes a moment to release her hair from her bun and shake it out, letting the long ombre-colored tendrils float around her shoulders.
Fucking . . . hell.
“Okay.” She claps her hands together and sits on her bed. “Let’s have this conversation.”
She’s not wearing a bra.
Her nipples are poking against the fabric.
Her shorts are riding high between her legs.
She looks so goddamn fuckable right now, I feel my dick starting to win the battle with my brain.
Leaning against her counter, I say, “What are you doing?”
She smiles wickedly at me. “Getting comfortable.”
“You’re fucking with me again.”
She holds up her hands in defense. “You were the one who wanted to come to my place. I’m just getting comfortable for whatever you have to say to me.” She pats her bed. “Come, sit. Let’s gab.”
“No way in hell I’m sitting on your bed.”
“Oh, it’s not a bed right now.” She shakes her head. “Only a bed when I’m under the covers. This is a couch curren
tly. So have a seat.” She pats it again.
“I’m good where I’m at.”
“Suit yourself,” she says while shifting. Her foot hits her nightstand and all of a sudden, a buzzing sound rattles in the drawer.
Oh . . . hell . . .
“Uh.” Her face pinkens and before she can move, I walk over to her nightstand, open up the drawer, and find a jiggling purple vibrator. “Finicky power button.” She chuckles and reaches for it, but I grab it first and switch it off.
“Use this often?” I say, holding it up.
“You do realize you’re holding my vibrator, right?”
“Well aware.”
“And you know where that goes, right?”
My eyes flash to hers. “Between your legs, maybe up against your clit.” I examine the length. “Inside of you. Maybe you tease yourself, rubbing it against your nipples before you slowly lower it over your stomach and then to your cunt.”
She blinks slowly, her mouth falling open.
“Do you come quick, Miss Gibson? Or can you hold out, not letting yourself fall over until every muscle in your body is bunched up and ready to explode?”
She swallows . . . hard. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips wet.
I place it back in the drawer and shut it. I don’t sit on the bed but instead stand in front of her, my cock pressing against the zipper of my jeans, starting to grow painful with need.
“What is it? Do you come hard?”
“I . . .” Her hand floats up her neck. “I highly doubt this is what you came here to talk to me about.”
“You’re right. I came here to lecture you.”
“Yes, so let’s just, uh, get that over with so you can be on your way.”
“Fine.” Stepping closer, I press my finger to her chest, forcing her to lie back on her bed, then I pull her legs off the edge and lower my hands so they straddle her body. I can make out her hard nipples as the swell of her breasts nearly fall out of the loose silk top. “Care to explain to me why you thought it was necessary to take charge of my meeting?”
“You know, maybe we could have this conversation at the table.”
“Nah, I’m good here.” Wetting my lips, I say, “Explain.”
“I, well, I wasn’t trying to cause a disturbance.”
See Me After Class Page 14