The stoic, always-in-control Mia Bradford. In all the time he’d spent in detention under her eagle eye, he’d learned a lot about her. Ms. Bradford really did care about her students. She cared about him. She had worried about where his life would go. No one else had ever done that, not until he’d met Derek and Latisha. Even now, not even his mother cared one way or another which path he would take in life, as long as he didn’t marry beneath them or otherwise shame the family name. As long as there was money.
Mia worked tirelessly to get students to take the right classes to prepare for college. She made sure every student’s college application was perfect before submission. She helped them get grants, scholarships, awards.
The more he’d talked with Ms. Bradford, the more he’d admired her. She was a rare breed—a teacher who actually cared and fought the system for the betterment of her charges. Brett had helped her with those projects. He’d always enjoyed working with her when it came to the other students’ educations, so detention hadn’t really been a hardship for him.
Cleaning the dry board. Taking out the trash. Running notes to various teachers, and sharpening pencils. That last one, however, chapped his hide. At the time, he’d thought that punishment had gone out with writing ‘I will be a good boy’ on the chalkboard. The scenarios replayed like a broken record in his mind. Although he had put himself in that position on purpose with all the antics, he always sensed she’d gotten a lot of pleasure from controlling his every move. Yes, some of the time he’d spent in detention had been productive, but for most of it, he’d been her personal slave boy, doing one humiliating task after the other.
Of course there was the main reason he hadn’t been stressed about staying after school—her slamming body, her luscious coloring, which was like melted dark honey, and her hair. He mentally rolled his eyes as he thought about her hair, all tightly wound into a bun so severe she always looked surprised. That damned bun…how many times had he fantasized about taking that hair down and putting his hands in it while she….
He wiped his face with his hand. Nope, you’ve never gotten over her.
And he didn’t want to. He had unfinished business with her.
How she might react if the tables were turned?
Chapter Two
Early Summer—Kingsley University
“Mr. Wyndam, we’ve been looking over your application and your academic record, and as usual, everything is exemplary.”
Yadda, yadda, yadda. Brett sat back in the chair, trying with all his might to look interested.
Assistant Dean Richards called him to his office to go over his application for the microbiology internship. It was one of several objectives on the road to earning his Master’s degree and hopefully starting the research laboratory in Ghana. The plans where on paper, but he needed financial backing and a network of people to see it through, so this internship was crucial.
Leaning back in his chair as he tented his fingers, the weather-beaten assistant dean appeared small and frail. The ancient wingback chair practically swallowed him. “You know,” he began, tapping on the table. “We really miss your father.”
No, you miss my father’s money, Brett thought sardonically. Ever since his father’s death six years ago, the vultures had descended on him as though he were fresh road kill.
His father always gave money to his alma mater. Unlike his generous father, however, who found the need to pay good deeds to his old school, Brett saw his millions going to better use. As a matter of fact, going to Kingsley University was the only concession Brett had allowed his father when it came to making decisions about his life.
Brett sat up in his chair, leaned over the table, and looked Richards straight in the eyes. “Forget it.”
“Forget what?” Richards asked, trying to look innocent.
Brett had a knack for seeing through people to their true intentions. Richards was like cellophane. “I’m not giving this university one thin dime unless I see some changes.” Brett got up from his seat.
Richards let out a deep sigh. “I don’t understand your animosity in regards to this institution. You’ve been like this since day one. Didn’t this university, which you seem to hate so much, give you a full scholarship?”
“Yeah, and I threw it right back in your faces and suggested you give it to someone who truly needed it.” Brett ran his hands through his hair, anything to keep from strangling this pompous ass. He thumped the desk. “You were hoping that Wyndam money would continue to come in, and it did until dear old Dad died.”
“I don’t understand. This is a fine university—”
“Yes, this is a fine university,” Brett cut him off, “but your priorities are a little twisted. And I plan to do a little untangling.” He began pacing the office. “Sure, you and your elitist friends give money to every charity known to man, but how about giving manpower? Have you sent any scientists, doctors, or researchers to places in need? You have your conferences about the plight of the helpless people in the world, but you never send anyone to do the backbreaking labor that brings those people hope.”
Brett was exasperated. It was always the same speech to the same type of people—the rich and clueless. He went to the window and looked out over the campus grounds. Damn. I should have gone to Berkeley.
“I know I must sound like a bleeding-heart liberal, especially compared to my father, but I only share his DNA, not his conscience,” Brett said, looking over his shoulder at the top of Richards’ bald head.
“What would your father think of your…ahem…endeavors?” Richards asked.
“He’s dead. It’s a moot point. Okay, let’s talk business.” He walked back to the front of the desk and leaned in close. “I am willing to donate five million dollars,” he said in hushed tones.
Richards’ eyes lit up. “Well, Mr. Wyndam, we would be hono—”
Brett raised his finger before Richards went any further. “You haven’t heard the conditions.”
“But of course, if you want a hall named—”
“I don’t want a damn building named after me!” Brett waved his hand in dismissal. “The five million is for research and development in third-world countries, not for some stale hall or completely unnecessary sports stadium. I want the research to focus on poverty, hunger, and disease.” He began ticking off his demands with his fingers. “I want pumps for irrigation and materials for organic agriculture to be set aside for these countries. I want it ready to go by September. And I want to oversee all of it.”
Richards’ face was unreadable. Brett didn’t know if the old fart suddenly died or had just fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then his jaw moved.
Richards let out a chain-smoking, rattling sigh, and then pulled what looked like more red tape from his drawer.
“Here’s what’s in it for you, old man,” Brett continued. “Your campus will be featured in every major media outlet, announcing the fact that you plan to offer a subsidized major in social work for third-world countries, and more students will enroll in this fine institution.”
Richards sat there, wheels turning in his head; Brett could almost hear the squeaking. “All right, Mr. Wyndam,” he finally said. “I will get the paperwork going and have the appropriate people get in touch with you.”
So far, so good, thought Brett. He hadn’t thought Richards would give in so quickly, but at the first sign the dean or the university were diverting the funds and not offering the courses he wanted implemented, Brett would pull the cash out so fast it would make their heads spin.
“Fine. We only have the summer months to get it all in place. I want to talk to your team as soon as possible.” He sat back down in the chair and crossed his leg over his knee. “Now. You said there were a few additional things my application needed.”
“Ah, yes. You seem to be missing your letters of recommendation.”
That wouldn’t be a problem. He’s been volunteering and doing social work since he was a sophomore in high school. And he made sure word
got around to the right people about his work in Ghana, but the need for a recommendation did give him an idea.
Cincinnati. Fremont High came to mind. More specifically, Ms. Mia Bradford.
He slowly shifted in his seat and began staring at nothing in particular. His mind went back to one place: her office and those days he’d spent in detention.
The fact that she kept crossing his mind and the fact that he entertained the thought of going back to Fremont High reaffirmed one thing—he had unfinished business to take care of. He felt a smile creep to his lips. Oh, Ms. Bradford, I got some lessons in discipline to show you.
“Mr. Wyndam!”
Brett shook his head and the unkempt vision of Richards was there. “I’m sorry?”
“I was asking if there is anything else. Any other concerns you might have?”
“Uh, no, that’s it. I’ll get with you about the funding in the next two weeks.” He stood quickly and grabbed his briefcase. “Have a good day.”
***
Brett left the building and proceeded to the parking lot. He slid into his Porsche and put on his shades. Once the top was down, he let out a long sigh. He felt like a new man.
Recommendations from professors at Kingsley were no problem. He would take care of those as soon as possible. Fremont High, however, was going to be very interesting. A lot of his old teachers still taught there, which, he supposed, wasn’t surprising. It hadn’t been that long since he’d graduated.
Brett started his baby and put her into gear. He needed to get back to his place and start making plans.
A day or two back in Cincinnati wasn’t going to do, especially if he was going to pay a visit to Ms. Bradford and indulge in his favorite activity. He would go back to Ghana in between, but not before he made a few things clear between the two of them.
Finally, he was going to live out his fantasy, something he’d wanted to do for a long time. Eight years to be exact, ever since he’d discovered things about himself while he’d sat in her office those days in detention.
Boy, if the gang knew what his secret passion was, they’d throw him in the Sudanese River. But this was his private life, and he’d make sure it stayed that way.
As he drove, he began replaying in his mind the times he’d purposely gotten into trouble just so he could stay after school in Ms. Bradford’s office.
Ms. Drill Sergeant, he’d wanted to call her with the way she barked orders and everyone jumped to attention. She got off on the whole power-trip thing. He could tell by the little smirk she would have plastered on her face whenever he’d groaned his objections.
He noticed it during staff meetings, too. It was amazing how everyone fell into place when she entered the room. They had nothing but respect for her. The power she commanded in a room fascinated him. Why? Because he knew, deep down, it was a need for her to be in control. She was afraid of the alternative.
Yeah, he’d learned a lot in his early years, and he was still learning. But he’d mastered his own desires and needs early on.
Watching Ms. Bradford was like watching royalty. When she graced the halls, everyone stepped aside to allow her passage. Sometimes, kids or some of the staff would bow as though she actually were the queen. She held her head up with a haughtiness that was worthy of a sovereign, that was for sure.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a Century 21 office. He asked a few pointed questions and watched with concealed amusement as he was whisked to the large, corner office. The owner, a balding man named Baker, hovered over Brett and the money promised by his prominent family name.
“So you’re looking for a place in Cincinnati. That’s an interesting place to buy real estate,” Mr. Baker said, as he reviewed his list of properties.
“It’s not for investment purposes, per se. I’m actually going to be living in it. I’m thinking of staying there for the summer.”
“Oh, I see. Well, anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Yeah, close to Fremont High.” Brett thought a moment. “And I need a basement. A large one, some place to do some…entertaining.”
“Ah, yes, people are turning their basements into regular movie theaters nowadays.” Mr. Baker turned the monitor toward Brett.
Brett didn’t have that sort of entertainment in mind.
“I think you’ll like this one.”
He pointed to a 4,000-square foot, turn-of-the-century, Spanish-style with a basement that ran the length of the house. “Location, location, location” was the saying for real estate, and this was a great one. It was within walking distance of Fremont High School.
Perfect. Brett got his jacket and keys. “Contact the seller and make an offer. I’ll have a cashier’s check ready for the full asking price.”
Mr. Baker’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, sir, Mr. Wyndam! Right away!”
***
It had been two weeks since he’d walked into Jonas Baker’s office, and already Brett felt back at home in Cincinnati.
In his absence, he’d hired an interior decorator to re-do the first two floors of his new house. The basement had been last. Everything was finished by the time he’d arrived, and it was perfect.
He sat in his car at a stoplight and watched some kids as they walked back to campus from a nearby fast-food joint. His cell phone interrupted his thoughts. “Hello?”
“Brett, my man!”
“Derek! Hey, how’s it going?”
“Great; couldn’t be better. The little woman and I are back in Ghana. You know we had to go to the UN again for permission to get more workers.”
Brett laughed to himself. If Tish knew Derek called her ‘the little woman’, she would beat him senseless. “Fantastic. Hey, how are—”
“Before you go on, hold up a minute,” Derek said, leaving the phone.
Brett pulled over to the curb and put in his earpiece. He had an uneasy feeling about this. Then he heard what could only be described as music to his ears as two small voices rang through the earpiece.
“Hello, Brett!”
He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks as the Otoo twins greeted him. “Hey, you guys. How are ya?”
“We are both fine,” Kwame said.
“When are you coming back?” Menaya yelled in the background.
“Hopefully by the end of the year. You two sound great! I’m so glad to hear your voices again.”
“We’ve been playing futbol on the new field.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.” Brett’s voice cracked with emotion. He took off his shades to wipe his suddenly wet eyes.
“Here’s Derek. Bye!” They put the receiver down, and Brett heard their joyful squealing in the background. He was so happy they had survived and seemed to have rebounded with no serious effects.
“Hey, what’s this I hear about you coming back here at the end of the year?”
“Look, they asked me—”
“And they’ll expect you. I told you to get your Master’s and keep working in the States. We got it covered here. By the way, how is the program coming?”
“A little snafu.”
“What’s the problem?”
“One research internship was put on hold until the fall, so I can’t take it this summer.”
“Oh. So what are you doing until then? And don’t say bringing your lily-white ass here.”
Brett burst out laughing and began driving toward the school again. “No, no. I found something to keep me occupied.”
As if on cue, he drove into the parking lot of Fremont High. As he pulled into a vacant spot, he spotted her near the main gate. She was on yard duty, talking to some other adults, probably teachers. She hadn’t changed a bit. She was still breathtakingly beautiful and still wearing that damn bun! He rolled his eyes and blew out an exasperated sigh.
Well, he was here, and there were going to be some changes.
“Brett! Brett!”
“Huh? Oh!”
“I thought I lost the conn
ection.”
“Nope, still here. Say, how’s your better half?”
“Great. Missing you and wants to cook you up something as usual.”
“She’s going to fatten me up yet.” Brett patted his stomach, remembering her good cooking.
“We have pictures of the twins and the new library that was built last year.”
“Fantastic!”
“Can’t keep the people out. Might have to keep it open twenty-four hours.”
“So be it. Can’t get enough reading. Just make sure the girls are getting their equal time.”
“Got it. Hey, I’m going to let you go. Running up the bill on my end here.”
“You two take care, and kiss the twins for me.”
“You got it.”
They disconnected. Brett took out the earpiece and set the phone aside. Pushing the button that raised the convertible roof, he locked it and leaned back against the seat. He took a deep breath. Okay, what to do next?
After careful consideration, and remembering how controlling Ms. Bradford used to be around him, he decided to be sneaky about it. He stepped out of the car, still looking at the gathering of teachers where Ms. Bradford held court.
The sound of firecrackers pieced his ears. Brett ducked a bit and turned toward the noise. Kids were shooting off fireworks across the street. The Fourth of July was coming up, though not for a few weeks. He laughed, shook his head, and turned for the administration building.
Then their eyes met. Ms. Bradford was staring straight at him—or at least in his direction. She could have been searching for offending students. As he continued walking, his assumption was confirmed. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she marched into the building.
Yeah, Brett. We have to approach with care. He made his way to her office.
***
Mia didn’t think her nerves could take any more. The fireworks were enough, although she’d been dealing with those all week. But seeing Brett Wyndam, all grown up, was just too much. What was he doing back in Cincinnati? Better question, why was he back at Fremont?
She quickly returned to her office, nearly running and knocking down fellow colleagues on the way. With a few mumbled apologies, she hurried inside and shut the door. She eased into her chair and sank deep into the cushions. She was beside herself. Was he there to see her? To see another teacher? And why did she care?
Detention Page 2