by Julie Kenner
Her right foot reared high. It was the one that had lost traction. It flew upward—really, really high—and impacted with something solid. Micki’s eyes flew open, but her leg was still moving while the rest of her body followed. Hell, she had been falling backward, but now gravity was rushing her forward, into Damian’s fists.
Micki thrust out her hands to catch herself—or to block one of his blows—only she moved her hands too high. She struck Damian’s jaw with the heel of her hand. His head snapped back while her other hand—the one that was trying to grab onto something, anything, to steady herself—slammed down hard on his neck. She blinked. Had her hand been straight, like in a karate chop to his neck? There wasn’t time to wonder.
She scrambled to the side, her hand numb. But that was nothing compared to Damian. His momentum was carrying him forward to where she had been standing before she slipped. But now she was well out of reach, and he apparently couldn’t move his arm to protect himself. Micki watched in stunned slow motion as he staggered forward to bang painfully into her desk.
If she could have spoken, she would have gasped out an apology. Something. Not because she really cared if she beat the crap out of Damian, accidentally or not, but she was trying to connect with Lucy. Giving her boyfriend a black eye was counterproductive. Getting herself beaten to a pulp by that same boyfriend and his goons wasn’t all that helpful either.
She turned, thinking she had to get both herself and Lucy out of there before it got ugly, but all she managed was a too bright “C’mon, Lucy, let’s go shopping!” before the room exploded into chaos.
In the hallway, the boys started hooting and pointing while simultaneously blocking the exit. Lucy was staring wide-eyed at Damian who—oh hell—was just straightening from his face-plant on the desk. His lip was fat and bloody, but there was nothing wrong with his fists or the burning anger in his eyes. Worse, he had obviously recovered from his surprise.
“Look, Damian. I’m sorry. I kinda slipped,” Micki started to say. She stood between herself and Lucy, slowly trying to back them both out of the classroom. Maybe if they pushed, they’d get through the group at the door. But Lucy wasn’t cooperating.
“Damian, baby, she’s not worth it. Let’s just get out of here. We can go make out.”
“Lucy—no!” Micki was not going to have a child trade sexual favors for her! “Lucy—”
“Is there a problem here?” A deep male voice cut into the chaos, and automatically Micki’s breath eased. Looking to the doorway, she watched Damian’s posse magically melt away as Joe DeLuce—school cop—stepped into the room. “Miss Becker?”
Micki smiled gratefully at the man. He was the hottest detective on the force, but a bullet in the knee took him out of the game for a while. Instead of taking light duty, he chose instead a job as the high school cop. So now all the girls—Micki included—lusted after the man from afar. All the gangbangers thought twice about causing problems on school grounds. He was a boon to the school, and at this second, the answer to Micki’s prayers. “Mr. DeLuce,” she said way too breathlessly.
“Damian just got his ass kicked by the Mouse,” sniggered one of the retreating gang. “He should sue or something.”
From his position by the desk, Damian growled—yes, growled—at his friends, but his eyes remained on Micki. The sound was so terrifyingly animal that Micki nearly squeaked in response. As it was, she could only reach out for Lucy, trying to tug the girl back from her boyfriend.
It didn’t work. Lucy shrugged her off and wrapped her arms around him. “It ain’t nothin’, Mr. DeLuce,” Lucy said. “Me and Damian here were just screwing around. I think we frightened Miss Becker, but we’re real sorry.”
Damian, of course, wasn’t talking. He was just staring at Micki. It was a cold stare, filled with an inhuman violence that squeezed her chest tighter than possible. Which was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. A teacher, for God’s sake! She couldn’t let one boy—even a large, muscular, senior—scare her like this. He didn’t even have a weapon. Or not one that she could see. And yet, she couldn’t speak. He was going to kill her and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that she could do about it.
“So it’s nothing, huh, Mr. Ralston?” Mr. DeLuce drawled as he moved slowly into the room. His limp was barely noticeable as he stepped between Micki and her assailant. “Hey, Damian! It’s nothing, right?”
Mr. DeLuce’s voice still sounded congenial, but there was an underlying threat in his tone. They were like two boxers squaring off against each other, and God help her, Micki was grateful. At that moment, she didn’t care what was between her and that cold stare, she was just happy for the breather. She knew it would bother her later: she needed to be able to stand on her own against these kids. But right now she was happy to hide temporarily behind Mr. DeLuce’s broad shoulders.
Lucy broke in. “Nothing at all, sir. We was just on our way to the Chem Lab,” she said with false cheer. “Damian’s real good with chemistry.”
A lie if there ever was one. As far as Micki could tell, the boy was failing every class. Truthfully, she didn’t even know why the kid kept coming to school—though she would bet her next paycheck that Mr. Gorzinsky had something to do with it. The older chem teacher had some magical way of keeping these kids in school way longer than anyone wanted them. Micki didn’t know what it was, but she envied him his skills.
Especially since a simple mention of the man’s subject seemed to defuse the situation. From her place a half step behind Mr. DeLuce, Micki could see Damian’s face shift into a disgusted grimace. “Come on,” he grunted as he started shuffling forward. “I got business that ain’t with no English teacher.”
Micki released a loud breath of relief, then immediately regretted it. Mr. Gorzinsky had told her to never let the kids see her sweat. That one puff of air had just told Damian she’d all but wet her pants. And a glance at the school cop confirmed her mistake. He was practically rolling his eyes.
“Move aside, boys,” he said to the gang in the hallway. “It’s obvious Damian needs a little help out the door.” It was a jab, no doubt about it, and it had its intended effect. The boys separated, snickering all the way. Damian threw an icy glare at DeLuce, and everyone ignored Micki. Everyone except Lucy. Shooting a glance at her teacher, she tucked herself tighter into her boyfriend’s side and preened.
“Damian likes me right by his side,” she said. And then they were gone, the boys and Lucy swaggering down the hallway.
“Great,” Micki murmured to herself. “Just frigging great.”
Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone in her classroom. Mr. DeLuce hadn’t followed the kids out. He’d stopped at the door and now turned back to her. She glanced up, struck by his presence. As usual.
He wasn’t handsome. Far from it, actually. He had a stocky build and a nose that wasn’t completely straight. His jaw was square, his eyes a pleasant brown, and his skin had that roughened look that should seem scruffy but was actually kind of sexy. Nothing about Joe DeLuce was exceptional. Common stock, Micki’s mother would say. And yet, when he walked into a room, everybody noticed him. He was quiet, competent, and impossible to ignore. He had Presence, and Micki couldn’t help but stare.
“So what really happened here?” he asked.
She answered, because that’s what you did when Joe DeLuce smiled, all friendly like that. “Nothing. I slipped and accidentally clocked him. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be a bloody mess right now.”
“It’s difficult for outsiders to understand how much power these gangs have. They’re a law unto their own, and Damian’s just recently become the new leader. He’s going to be especially prickly, especially bold, or he’ll lose his position. It’s not the time to face off with him.”
“I know.” She sighed and looked at her hands, self-disgust riding her hard. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“You don’t sound very grateful.”
She glanced up, startled because his voice was so close. He’d move
d silently in front of her. Close enough to kiss, she thought. Then she blinked, startled by her disconcerting thought. She’d given up such fantasies about Joe six months ago, right after she’d seen him with Sar-ahhhh, the blonde bombshell with size DDD breasts. She’d only seen them together one time, but the sight was burned into her memory.
“Um . . . yeah. No. I mean . . .” She swallowed, forcing her thoughts—and her gaze—away from his mouth. “Thank you. Truly. I’m just sorry I needed rescuing.” Then she made the mistake of looking into his eyes: soft chocolate brown and filled with sympathy. Before she even realized what was happening, her vision went wavy with tears. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she confessed. “I try so hard, but I’m not getting through to any of them. Even the good ones.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes widened with a brief moment of panic. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
Too late. Her lashes were already spiky with tears, and they both knew it. So rather than completely horrify the man, she bustled behind her desk to grab her purse. “Nah. I’m not the tearful type,” she lied.
“Yeah. Thought not,” he lied back.
She took her time gathering her things. She wanted to have herself completely under control before she faced the man again. He moved to stand on the opposite side of her desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the way his pants hugged his lean hips. Even with his limp, the guy obviously kept in shape.
“Um, hey,” he said, rather awkwardly. “I need caffeine. You want to go to a café or something? I know one close by.”
Micki straightened slowly, forcing her gaze to travel up his trim waist, past his white shirt and broad shoulders, to finally look him in the eye. At the beginning of the year, she had fantasized about just this event. She had dreamed that he would show up in her classroom one day and casually ask her out for coffee. It would be the beginning of a beautiful romance. But then teaching became unexpectedly awful, and he became notorious for taking certain teachers out for coffee and getting them to completely rethink their lives. They even had a name for it: pity coffee.
She swallowed and found a boldness that was completely new to her. “Pity coffee, Mr. DeLuce? What if I start crying again?”
He arched a brow, obviously startled. “I thought you weren’t the crying type.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I lied.”
He shifted his stance, his eyes lighting with humor. “And if you think coffee with you is a pity date, honey, you need to look in the mirror more. A gorgeous blonde—if anyone’s getting the pity, it’s me.”
Micki smiled, her legs growing steadier now that she was back on familiar ground. She’d mastered flirting in middle school. And yet, she wasn’t in the mood for this subtle dance of attraction, despite the chemistry she now imagined between herself and Mr. DeLuce. “Come on, Joe. We both know that petite blondes aren’t your type.” Her tiny, almost-B cups were well shaped in her Victoria’s Secret bra, but they were nothing compared to the women she usually saw him with.
He looked at her, surprise sharpening his features even more. Then he slowly folded his arms across his chest, making his biceps bulge and emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. “And what would you know about my type?”
She considered answering. What better way to get back your self-esteem than engage in a spirited flirtation with a handsome lawman? But then her gaze caught on Damian—arm wrapped around little Lucy—as he and his buddies swaggered past her classroom window. The group couldn’t see her from outside; she was on the second floor and well away from the sill, but he still paused long enough to shoot her window a malevolent glare. She couldn’t help it. A shiver of fear ran down her spine. Lord, she was such a weenie.
Joe’s mellow voice interrupted her self-loathing. “Have you thought of taking some self-defense classes?”
“Already done,” she said, without shifting her gaze from the window. “But yelling ‘no!’ at a friend in padding isn’t the same thing as facing down an Indianapolis gang leader.”
“True, that,” he murmured in response.
Her gaze hopped back to him, startled by the teen slang he’d just voiced. For a moment there, she might have imagined it was one of the kids talking, albeit in a deeper, thicker, more manly voice. “Is that why you want to have coffee with me?” she challenged. “To tell me how to be stronger with the kids? How to face my fears and not let the little bastards walk all over me?” She did a fairly good imitation of Mr. Gorzinsky, who was always lecturing her on the subject.
“Would it help?”
She sighed. “Maybe.” She hefted her slim Gucci purse. “Come on. I’ll buy; you advise. But be warned: you’re not the first person who thought he could toughen me up. Stronger men than you have failed.”
He grinned, startling her with the mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I doubt that, Miss Becker. I most sincerely do.”
CHAPTER TWO
Café Kopi was quiet, the music trendy, and the tables tall. Sitting on a high stool, Joe DeLuce looked distinctly out of place, and yet he seemed completely at ease sipping a mocha latte, double sweet. It was quite a disconnect for Micki, and she struggled with even looking at him. First of all, he was too big for the place. Too big for the tiny tables, too big for this intimate little space in the front corner. Hell, he looked too big for the huge picture window that backlit him with warm afternoon sun.
“Nervous?” he asked as he took a long drink.
“What? No! Not at all. Of course not.” She clamped her mouth shut before she started gibbering like an idiot.
He just nodded and looked at her with his dark gaze. He knew, of course. She could look her parents straight in the eye and give a bald-faced lie: Yes, Dad, I desperately want to be a corporate lawyer. Yes, Mom, teaching is what I’ll do until I can marry a future senator. And, Yes, I know the best way to work with inner-city youths is with a checkbook and an intermediary. Lying to her parents had become second nature. But with Mr. DeLuce, her insides seemed too jittery. Hell, even her feet kept twisting beneath her for no obvious reason. Her new Chinese velvet Mary Janes had felt like heaven when she put them on, but for some reason they now pinched or were too large or something. It was weird. Or maybe she was just avoiding continuing this conversation with the enigmatic school cop.
“Okay, let me have it,” she said, bracing her hands around her candy apple red travel mug. “What am I doing wrong?” Then she abruptly took a gulp of coffee rather than look him in the eye.
“What makes you think you’re doing anything wrong?”
She was so startled by his question that she forgot to put her mug down; she held it before her lips and stared at him over the rim. “Is this some cop technique? Answer a question with a question? Two can play that game, you know.”
He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. He had a weathered look she really liked: tan and used to smiling. Awful on a woman, but on him it screamed rugged, manly stud. “No trick,” he said, interrupting her lust. “Sometimes it’s important to identify exactly what isn’t working.”
She shrugged. “That’s easy; the kids don’t listen to me. Which means they don’t learn.”
“So, that’s your goal? To make them learn?”
She set her mug down and frowned. “That is my job, isn’t it?”
“Nope,” he said, then took a long draw from his paper cup, forcing her to wait for his explanation. “Your job is to teach English. Is that your goal?”
She rolled her eyes. How many times had she suffered this discussion: What are we really teaching, and is knowing Shakespeare truly vital to an underprivileged child? It was a fun debate in the abstract from the ivory tower. But George Washington High in Indianapolis was a long way from her masters thesis, in both time and attitude. “I’m looking for specific tips here, not an academic discourse.”
His eyebrows shot up at her curt tone. She could tell that she’d surprised him, but hadn’t a clue why. Then it hit her. “You didn’t think I was serious
, did you? You didn’t think I wanted any real advice.”
He shrugged, but she saw the flush of dark red hit his cheeks. “Not many people really want help. They just want to gripe, then use me as an excuse to quit.” He shrugged. “That’s the real story behind those ‘pity coffees.’ ”
“So you think I’m ready to quit? That I’ll resign tomorrow because it’s too damn hard?”
He took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes dark and serious. “Nah,” he finally admitted. “I guessed you were too stubborn to go that route. If you were going to quit, you’d do it without using me as an excuse.”
She frowned.
“So, why ask me out for coffee if you didn’t think I’d listen? Why even try?”
He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Because you’re cute?”
He had nice eyebrows, she realized. Nicely arched, bushy enough to be male, but not a tree farm. Nice. And he had just said . . .
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Your ego needs me to repeat that?”
“Because I’m cute.” It took a moment for her brain to process his words, but when it did, irritation cascaded through her. This was all an elaborate come-on? “I get nearly beaten to a pulp in my own classroom, and you use it to try to get with me?” Earlier in the school year, she would have been thrilled. Hell, yesterday she would have accepted any excuse to spend some time with him. But after today’s failure with Lucy, she needed honest advice. She got to her feet, grabbing her purse as she turned for the door. “I wanted help, Mr. DeLuce, from a man the kids respect. I thought maybe you had a new perspective. Apparently, I was wrong.”
“No, wait!” He made it to his feet faster than she expected. He didn’t touch her, but his body was large and effectively blocked her exit from the café. It might have been intimidating, except that he looked contrite. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. And I do want to help.”