When Fully Fused

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When Fully Fused Page 22

by Shari J. Ryan


  Now I pray for her peace, and I wish death upon her murderer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LOOK AT ME. You know you want to.

  I slide my pen in between my teeth and arch my left brow slightly. Eye contact. Check.

  I love a good first day of school. The scent of floor cleaner, paper, and whiteboard markers waft through the air. Everyone is dressed neatly in their back-to-school attire and brand new shoes. These are things students get excited about, looking the new year head on with a fresh outlook. I look at it as a ticking time bomb—there’s no telling how long I’ll be able to stay here. Sometimes it’s a week; sometimes it’s six months—usually not much longer. And it’s already been five months.

  The classroom is moderately sized, fit to seat thirty students at most. The seats are filling in slowly, and the professor is fumbling with a pen at the podium, studying each student who enters into the classroom. Most professors decorate their classrooms with articles, pictures, and diagrams. Not this guy. The walls are all empty except for the whiteboard behind the podium. But even the whiteboard is blank.

  “Welcome to Cognitive Psychology,” the professor says. His voice is gruff and sultry—it sounds forced, like he’s reeling in his bait.

  I’ve gotten too good at this no blinking game. It works the fastest: large doll-like eyes seem to be the object of his attraction. Therefore, I earned his attention five minutes ago, and I can see a nervous twitch developing behind his menacing brown eyes. What an act. A teacher should be used to students staring at him, but he’s not a real teacher.

  I glide the pen slowly out from between my teeth and curl my tongue around it before removing it from my clenched bite.

  He clears his throat. Check.

  “I’m going to pass around the syllabus now. Why don’t you all take a few minutes to look it over, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.” He lifts the stack of papers from his desk and wets the tip of his thumb with the side of his tongue. I bite down on the bottom corner of my lip in response. I know he can see me.

  Lucky for him, I’m sitting in the front row. He stands before me with an unsteady hand and fumbles through the papers before handing one to me. A strand of his perfectly quaffed auburn hair falls over his forehead. Keeping my focus steady, I take inventory of every freckle on his face, noting the slight cleft in the center of his chin, and memorizing the location of the slight bend in the middle of his nose. I can hear the fluctuation of his breaths. They quicken as his hand reaches out to mine.

  My fingertips purposely stroke over his tough ivory skin as I tug at the papers. “Thank you, professor—” I place the tip of my finger between my teeth. “Did you forget to introduce yourself? Or were you too…preoccupied to notice?” I look him up and down, playing into the game I already know he likes to win.

  He stumbles backwards until he knocks into the podium. “Class, I apologize. I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Professor Lance,” he says breathlessly as he scribbles his name across the board. His handwriting looks as though it belongs to an eight-year-old boy, which confirms his animal-like tendencies and lack of confidence.

  “Ah, much better, professor…Lance.” My voice is brash and carries over the muffled whispers behind me. He shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Check. I have this game in the bag.

  Might just be the fastest one yet.

  When he passes by me to the next aisle, my hair is tugged and my head is pulled backwards. I swivel my body around in my blue plastic seat and offer a guileful grin.

  “Cali, seriously?” Lex sighs, giving me an exaggerated eye-roll. “Leave him alone. He looks like a nice person.”

  “Those are the most fun, Lex.” I thrust my chest out and release an exaggerated sigh. “You wouldn’t believe me unless you tried it.” She won’t try it. So unknowing. So innocent.

  “You need help, lady,” she says with a sidelong smile.

  I waggle my eyebrows and turn back around. It isn’t me who needs help, I want to say out loud.

  “He’s married. And not interested,” she whispers in my ear with a hint of hostility.

  “Is that a challenge?” I whisper back. I love proving her wrong. She has yet to acknowledge my expertise on the male brain. I’ve only been in this town for five months, but Lexy has followed me around like a lost child. I’m guessing I’m entertainment for her.

  I study his every word, his every move, and his every blink over the course of the next hour. The bell in the hallway chimes and the class filters out and excitement begins to wave through me.

  Lex slaps my arm, nudging me out of my study. “Let’s go, Cali. Lunch.” I can sense she’s beginning to get bored with what she thinks is just a game.

  “Meet you there in five,” I say, pulling my arm out of her reach. She groans, ultimately giving up the fight, then turns and bustles out the door with the rest of the eager lunch-ravenous students.

  I drop my notebook into my bag and stand up slowly. Once again, I pinch my lip inbetween my teeth. Then I sling my bag over my shoulder. Perfect. Last one to exit the room.

  Three. Two. One—

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get your name?” he calls over. I shake my head, locking my most innocent gaze with his. “Nice to meet you,” I say in a hushed voice. “I’m Cali Tate.” A nervous smile tugs at his lips. Captured.

  It’s clear he doesn’t know what Tate family I belong to. I twirl a strand of hair around my finger and widen my eyes. “You didn’t ask any of the other students their names. Why me? Do you…like what you see? Is that why?” I curl my lips into a slight smirk, knowing I just twisted his fucked up mind into pretty little knots.

  “I. Ah. Ah. Have a nice day, Ms. Tate.”

  I fidget with the zipper on my coat and drop my gaze to the ground. “Um. You too, professor?” I spin on my heels and quickly leave the classroom. I’ve added the icing to this cake. I love fucking with fuckers.

  I slump down into the warm leather driver’s seat of my car, and I pull down my mirror to reapply my lip-gloss. When I look at my eyes, I feel ashamed. I feel like Mom would be disappointed in me. Then I wonder if she would be proud of me for protecting the innocent. Although, I’m not sure retaliation falls under protection. In any case, I try to avoid my reflection—the uncontrollable devil as I’ve been told. It’s hard to remember back to when I wasn’t like this—when I wasn’t on a constant revenge kick—when Mom and Krissy were still alive. I feel like when that happy life ended, this new shitty one was its replacement.

  The vibration of my phone disrupts my stony glare. I press the speaker button on the screen and place the phone back down on my lap. “Hey.”

  “Where are you, Cal?”

  “School,” I respond matter-of-factly.

  “Well, you need to drop out and leave.”

  I bite my tongue. We’re like oil and water and I try to keep our arguments to a minimum. The big brother routine has gotten old. “Jase, I’m fine where I am.”

  “The hell you are,” his voice lowers into a whisper. “He’s inbound to your location.”

  Shit. I impulsively check the rearview mirror. It’s clear.

  “Okay,” I reply earnestly. “Four days and out.”

  “Whatever, Cal. Watch your back, sis.”

  I press end and drop the phone back into my bag. Dammit. I have four days to complete this task. I look back at the devil’s reflection. The bright blue hues that used to reside within my irises are now dull, making the color appear gray. My eyes appear half-lidded, and my complexion is pale. I’m worn out, and my mind is constantly in battle with the mission my eyes are always set on. I’m doing this for the right reason. This one is for Sasha, the only person who tried to help me pick up the pieces after Krissy was murdered. Everyone gets what they give, and I’m going to make sure it happens that way.

  I flip the mirror shut and duck back out of my car. I guess I don’t need four days. I can do it today.

  I poke my head back i
nto the classroom I left only minutes earlier. It’s his lucky lunch hour. I enter into the room and close the door quietly behind me, pressing my thumb into the lock button at the same time.

  “First name?” I ask in a breathy voice.

  “Zach.” He visibly swallows the rising lump in his throat. I love this moment when they have no fucking idea what’s about to happen. “Can I do something for you, Ms. Tate?” I allow my eyes to draw a line from his lips down to the bulging seam in his pants.

  “Yeah.” I let the strap of my bag fall off my shoulder and drop to my feet. I unfasten the top button of my blouse, giving him the okay to move in toward me, which he does, timidly. His eyes dart back and forth between my face and the doorknob. “Locked,” I whisper.

  His hand sweeps around my back and he pulls me into his hardened admirer. “I don’t like games, Ms. Tate.”

  That’s not what I heard. “That’s too bad.” I lean forward and skim my teeth against his ear lobe. “Because, I love them,” I utter the words into his ear, and his grip tightens in response. His other hand cups around my chin and he pulls my lips into his. He smells like coffee, but tastes like mint. He’s rough in all the wrong ways, and he’s impatient as well as unpleasantly forceful.

  His hand slips down the back of my jeans and palms my ass as he lifts me up, forcing my legs to straddle around his thin, bony waist. My shirt is pulled up over my head and his tongue is immediately tracing a line over my collarbone. His movements are animalistic and untamed. He’s slobbering, and it’s making this hard to get through.

  I lower my lips to his ear. “You want me?” I honestly scare myself with how well I can do this.

  “You’re a bad girl, Ms. Tate.” You have no fucking idea.

  “Have you ever raped anyone in here?” I ask while running my tongue over his earlobe. He hesitates, and I graze my lips down to his jawbone. “I get off on that kind of shit. Did you know that?”

  “In that case, yes.” Got it. “She asked for it, though.”

  “Sasha, wasn’t that her name?” I nibble on the skin below his ear. “So, if I stop you from going any further,” I pant a little, for effect. “Are you going to pretend I’m Sasha?”

  His answer comes out in the form of a growl as he mutters, “I don’t need to pretend. After these little teasing games of yours, you will be mine one way or another. You can call it rape, but I’ll call it retribution for you coming in here like this.”

  I push myself off of him and take a few steps back. In a honeyed voice, I say, “Before you rape me, I need a second.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and click send.

  “What the fuck did you just do?” he asks. “Get over here you fucking bitch.” He grabs my arm and pushes me over to his desk. He pounces on top of me from behind and starts clawing at my bra. I let out a few cries—pretend cries. But he doesn’t know they aren’t real. He tries to shove his hand down my pants, which gives me the perfect opportunity. I lift my leg and wrap it around the back of his neck. He lifts me up to his chest, and I wrap my arms around his head.

  “It’s your move,” I let out a small laugh. “But I warn you. You make the wrong one, and I’ll kill you.”

  He drops me to the ground, but I rebound quicker than I fell. I slide my shirt back on and fix the few stray hairs that are curled up on the top of my head. I pull my lipstick out of my back pocket and glide it slowly over each lip.

  “What the fuck is your problem, pyscho?” He moves in behind me, and I back kick, shoving the stiletto of my boot right into his perpetrator.

  “Fuck you. That’s what,” I respond, staring down at his crouched body and clenched red face. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about hiding that rape from your wife, the dean, or police anymore.” I slide my phone back out of my pocket and play up my smug grin while checking the screen. “YouTube works so freaking fast nowadays. I’m pretty sure this is record timing, actually. Don’t you think?” I ask in a playful manner. I show him the display on my phone screen. “Damn. I’m good. That totally just went viral.” I laugh a little more, knowing I’m pushing him far over the edge.

  His jaw drops open. He adjusts himself and backs up until the back of his knees buckle at his desk chair. “What the—“ He stumbles over his words as a white pallor washes over his strawberry licked cheeks. “Why would you—?“

  “Have you heard of Eli Tate?” Recognition washes over his already flushed face.

  “Oh shit,” he says with a scowl. “You’re fucking Carolina Tate—Eli’s daughter.”

  “You think because you’re a psychology professor you can work a girl’s mind over?” I quirk my brow. “Did you ever wonder what would happen when one of them worked your mind over?”

  I straighten my sweater and lift my bag up from the ground. “By the way,” my voice rises in tone as I turn around and tap my finger into the air for effect. “If I were you? I’d just go ahead and off yourself. I mean…your wife is gone.” I count the reasons on my fingers. “Your career is gone.” I press my fingertip into my chin and grin for the final upshot. “Oh, and you’re looking at some serious jail time—you know, the place where you’ll get raped by massive dudes every day? Fun times ahead, I’m sure.”

  ***

  I pull my Elios pizza out of the microwave and drop myself onto the couch for what’s going to be my nightly entertainment. Just as I’m about to shove a greasy slice of pepperoni into my mouth, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Dammit. It’s probably Jase, warning me again. I reach over and snatch my phone up. I stare at the caller ID for a minute, realizing it has already been a week. Time seems to fly when you never sit still.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, sounding as bored as I normally do.

  “Turn on the TV.” Hello to you too. His voice sounds worn and tired. I wonder where he is today. I always wonder where he is, but my imagination is the only source of information I will seem to have.

  I flick the remote at the TV and switch to the news station.

  “Is this your work?” Dad whispers, as if someone were tracing our call—not that whispering would keep them from hearing this.

  “Yes.” I can’t hide the pride in my voice.

  “Dammit, Cal. Not good.” He forces a long heavy sigh into the phone. “Leave. Tonight. You hear?”

  “Sure,” I say as the call ends. Love you too, Dad.

  I shove the slice of pizza into my mouth and turn up the volume. Sweet. I love when people take my advice. Dead at thirty-five. Psychology professor and a recently reported rapist. Zach Lance was found in his classroom with lacerations across his neck. The motives are unclear at this time, but this is an assumable act of suicide.

  Job complete.

  I press Sasha’s number in my phone. She answers after one ring. “Cali-girl, did you see?”

  “Good riddance, huh?” I say, while listening to her faint sobs in the background.

  “Maybe it all finally caught up to him,” she says.

  “I agree. I’m sure that’s what happened,” I say.

  “You can rest easier now.”

  “I’m glad I never told anyone. They would be tracing it back to me now, ya know?” she continues crying into the phone.

  “It was suicide. Nothing more,” I reassure her. Or at least I try to reassure her. If anyone in this world knows me and what I’m capable of, it’s her.

  “Cal?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you,” she whispers. She doesn’t know what she’s thanking me for. I don’t actually know what she’s thanking me for.

  “I gotta run, Sash. Talk to you soon.” I hear her kisses being blown into the receiver and I click the end button.

  ALSO BY SHARI RYAN

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  Fissure Free: Chloe and Alex reunite in book 2 of the Schasm series in Paris. The young couple discovers any choice they make will ultimately land them in a place they
never knew they were destined to be.

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