Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  I take one deep breath and open the door. Not one person looks up. No one, except Mr. James, of course. He scowls in my direction as I duck my head down and scurry to my desk.

  “Miss Stringer, a word?” Fuck my life.

  He’s sitting at his desk while the rest of the class flips through a packet of some sort. He’s wearing a plain baby blue dress shirt and black slacks. His hair is pushed back off his face, and his eyebrows knit together as he takes me in. His eyes seem to soften for a fraction of a second, but then the severe expression is firmly back in place so quickly that I wonder if I’m imagining it.

  “I’m so sorry,” I start. “About yesterday, and being late. It won’t happen again,” I promise. He hands me a packet.

  “See that it doesn’t,” he bites out. “I don’t tolerate tardiness. Now, today is a fresh start. Tell us something about yourself. You didn’t get the chance yesterday.”

  Is he for real? This isn’t kindergarten. We don’t need to play ice-breaking games anymore. But the expectant look in his eyes tells me that he’s serious. And he’s waiting for an answer.

  “I, uh,” I start, articulate as always. I clear my throat and try again. “I like to take pictures.” This time more firmly.

  Some kid mumbles something about nude photos under his breath, but Mr. James either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore him.

  “What kind of pictures?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested, and it throws me for a loop. Yesterday he was callous and aloof, and today he still seems frosty, but almost human.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Sad things. Beautiful things. Everything.”

  Mr. James studies me for long seconds before he jerks his head in the direction of my desk. I take that as my cue to take my seat.

  Once I’m seated, I turn my attention to the papers in my hand. It’s a syllabus. Mr. James stands and starts walking the class through the outline for the year, and I know I should be paying attention, but all I can focus on is the way his full lips move when he speaks, the perfect amount of stubble on his face, and the casual way he runs a hand through his dark hair as he leans a hip against his desk. He’s such a fucking man. And even though it’s clear that he’s got more class in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body, you can just tell that deep down, he’s a bad boy. Or maybe a reformed bad boy. But he reeks of sophistication and wealth. So, why is he a teacher? My mind works overtime trying to make sense of this dichotomy before finally settling on “does not compute”.

  I wonder if he’s married. I wonder what she looks like. I hate her already. Then I imagine him and his perhaps non-existing wife rolling in bed, him eating her out while she tugs at his perfect hair, and cross my legs, squeezing the soft damp fabric between my thighs.

  My eyes roam all over his body with shameless appreciation for the way his shirt hugs his chest and biceps. His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow and who knew forearms could be sexy? I’m perving on my teacher approximately two seconds after being manhandled by my pseudo stepbrother. Seems legit.

  I shake those thoughts out of my head and attempt to focus on the words coming out of his mouth once more. When I look up to his eyes, they’re trained on me.

  “Write down any questions and fill out the back page,” he addresses the class, but he’s still glaring in my direction. His jaw hardens, and his eyes narrow as they drift down my body. My heart races, and I feel my ears get hot under his attention. I drag my teeth across my bottom lip and cross one leg over the other. His eyes aren’t wavering from my legs, and his expression morphs into one of…anger?

  I glance down and immediately know exactly what he’s looking at. Fuck. Ryan left a little present in the shape of his goddamn hand on my thigh. It’s bright red, and the four obvious finger marks leave little question as to what made them. I tug down my skirt and shift in my seat, hating that he must think I’m some sort of helpless victim.

  I avoid eye contact for the rest of the period, and when the bell rings, I practically run toward the exit. But Mr. James can’t make anything easy.

  “Stringer, hang back. I need a word.” There is no question in his voice. I freeze in place, not wanting to defy him, but definitely not wanting to stay behind and face him. I’m a street-smart girl. Maybe I haven’t seen it all, but I’ve seen most of it, and God knows I’ve dealt with a lot of people. Scarier people than Mr. James. But somehow, he scares me more than any of the criminals and creeps I’ve encountered over the years. It doesn’t even make any sense.

  I turn on my heels and stare him straight in the eye, because even though I’m uncomfortable around him, it’s not in my nature to let this kind of thing show.

  “Yes, Mr. James?” There’s a bite to my tone. I can’t hide it. I’m not sure I even want to. His hands are tucked inside the pockets of his black dress pants, he is standing at his full, impressive height, and his eyes glide up my body, from my toes to my head, halting briefly on my thighs. I suck in a breath and close my eyes. Goddammit, Ryan.

  “Riddle me this.” He takes a step in my direction, rounding his desk, and my heart is in my throat. Danger rolls off of him, and I don’t know how to stop my body from responding to his. Because it’s there. The electricity. The attraction. The lust.

  I can’t be the only one who feels it. It feels too big to be one-sided.

  Oh, how pathetic would that be if I’m the only one who burns under these clothes.

  Mr. James continues, “Yesterday, when I saw you for the first time, you appeared to be in good shape, except for the shoes, of course. Today, I found something different. You’re a smart girl, so you don’t need me to spell it out for you. Tell me, Miss Stringer, is there a reason to worry about your safety?”

  I gulp and look away so he doesn’t see what’s in my eyes. I’m not even sure what’s in there myself. Fear? Desire? Anxiety? All I know is that I need to get out of here, fast.

  “No need to worry.” I shake my head. “May I be excused now?”

  “No, you may not.” His voice is so cold, it provides a little comfort to the scorching hot waves he seems to be making inside my body. “What happened? Explain. With words. Preferably an adequate amount for me to make an educated decision on whether to call social services.”

  “Funny you should say that, you use so little,” I whip out without even meaning to. I have to stop doing that. Taunting him like this, like we’re equal. Mr. James lifts a lone eyebrow, a ghost of a smirk finding his perfect lips.

  “Miss Stringer,” he warns, his ice-cold tone licks at my burning flesh. “You’re not getting out of here until you explain.”

  “I got into a fight with my kitchen drawer handle,” I say dumbly. “I lost.” I let the lie roll from my tongue, and Mr. James’ expression tells me that he doesn’t believe me for even a second.

  “Put your palm flat against the mark,” he orders. My first thought is, fuck, he knows it’s a handprint. My second thought is even more alarming. His demanding tone is turning me on.

  I chance a glance at him, and his eyes are half-mast, so I know I’m not the only one who is feeling it. Feeling this. That thought hits me like a ton of bricks. Mr. James is a grown man, and I affect him.

  And suddenly, putting my hand on my thigh doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe I’ll put those morals of his to the test.

  I do as I’m told, not breaking eye contact with him. I don’t need to look down to find the mark because it is still searing, even after all this time. His eyes roll down—slowly, I don’t fail to notice—until they stop.

  Starting just above my knee, I slowly trace my black fingernails upward, bunching my skirt up my thigh in the process. I lay my hand flat on the mark, not giving away the fact that it still stings to the touch.

  His throat bobs on a swallow, and he looks up.

  “Are you going to make a habit out of lying to me, Miss Stringer?” He steps toward me, backing me into my desk. I sit perched on the edge with my skirt still bunched. I have the urge to push him further, to spread my legs,
and to let him see what he does to me.

  “Are you going to keep asking me questions I can’t provide the answer to?” I ask honestly, letting my skirt fall back into place. “I’m a big girl. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”

  He takes his final step toward me, erasing the space between us, and now I can see him and smell him and feel him. So help me God, I need to keep my knees from buckling and see this thing through, because he makes me want things. Things I shouldn’t want to do with my teacher. Things a girl shouldn’t ever want to do at all.

  “That’s the problem,” he hisses. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Miss Stringer. I’m trusting you here. If something happened to you, and I failed to report it, well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad that would be for the both of us.”

  “Thank you,” I say curtly, because apparently, I’m done acting like a brat for the day. “But there is no need.”

  “On the contrary.” He turns around, sending one last look on my thigh. I don’t ask if I’m excused. I know that if I don’t leave his class now, I’ll do something we’ll both regret. So, I turn around toward the door, taking tentative steps, both afraid that he will stop me and that he won’t.

  He doesn’t stop me.

  He lets me go.

  And he should.

  Because he’s my fucking teacher.

  But a second before the door closes behind me, I hear him say, “There won’t be a next time, Miss Stringer. Not to your tardiness, not to talking back to your educator, and not to putting on your little show. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” I swallow as I shut the door behind me and rest the back of my head on its window, closing my eyes.

  Holy. Fuck.

  I pop open the trunk of my Audi SUV and take out the paper bags of groceries. I will get them all the way to the fourth floor, like I do every month.

  I knock and she doesn’t answer, but that’s nothing new. I don’t give a damn. I kick the old door open, which is easy because this building is rotten and everything is decaying, including my sanity, and walk into the apartment. She doesn’t greet me, but she’ll come out once she’s sure it’s just me, and for just a couple hours, I’ll feel close to Gwen again.

  Arranging the peanut butter and jam and bread and pickles on the shelves—Shelly’s diet consists of that of a four-year-old mixed with pregnancy cravings—I hear the bedroom door creaking open.

  “Pierce? Pierce, baby, is that you?” Her tentative voice followed by a deep cough punctuates the question as she makes her way to the peeling kitchen in her ratty slippers. I turn around and lean my waist against the counter, folding my arms on my chest and taking her in. Shelly is in her early thirties, but she might as well be sixty. She was beautiful once, but drugs, alcohol, and life ruined her.

  “Who else are you expecting? The Pope?” I quirk a brow, and she laughs and coughs, tucking strands of greasy hair behind her ear. She clasps me into a hug I accept, for no other reason than the fact she was my sister’s best friend.

  “You look good, kid,” she says. Tell me something I don’t know. If teaching high school girls has taught me one thing, it’s that I’m easy on the eyes. Young girls with crushes can be dangerous, so I lay low and stay my asshole self. It seems to be working fine so far.

  Things got really difficult when Gwen left me. I would say ‘left us’, but it’s me she left, really. My parents stopped giving two fucks the minute she failed to be the person they wanted her to be. They cut off her cash flow and let her fend for herself instead of helping her with her addiction. For me, it wasn’t that simple. Maybe because my parents were always so busy with keeping up appearances and their precious careers, they didn’t make the time to actually parent me or get to know me, but Gwen did. Gwen took me to swimming classes twice a week and tried—but failed—to make me birthday cakes every year and mothered me more than my mother ever has. Now that she is gone, a part of me is, too. A part I miss and would really fucking appreciate having back.

  “Thank you,” I say, exhaling harshly and grabbing a garden chair—the cheap kind you get for a buck at Dollar Tree—which is a part of her dining area. I plop down on it, throw my head back, and close my eyes on a sigh. “I miss her,” I say.

  “I miss her, too.” Shelly puts a hand on her shoulder. “They say it gets better.”

  “They lie.” I suck my teeth. I hear her laugh, but there’s nothing happy about it.

  “You’re still so young and successful, Pierce. I may not know much about life.” She laughs bitterly. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll make it to next month, but I do know you can be happy again. Put this all behind you and live your life before another life is wasted. Maybe find a girl. Have a family of your own one day. Don’t you want that for yourself?”

  I guess that’s the saddest part. Women don’t occupy my thoughts. Not for more than one night at a time, anyway. I have no recollection of showing interest in more than a warm body to spend the night with in the last few years. Remington’s face flashes in my mind, and I shut it down as fast as she came. I don’t even know her, but I find her fascinating. It’s like watching a car crash. She is spectacular in a sad, beautiful way. I know there’s more lurking behind those big, green eyes. Luckily, I’m not crazy and self-destructive enough to ever find out.

  “Thanks for the tip, Mom,” I bite out, and that awards me a light punch to the shoulder. “What about you, Shell? Don’t you want that? How is what you’re doing to yourself any different?” Her eyes glaze over with tears that she tries to conceal as she focuses on a piece of lint on her pants.

  “You forgot my cigarettes,” Shelly says, avoiding my question altogether.

  “I didn’t forget. Those things will kill you,” I retort, even though I know I’ve found myself smoking more in the past few days than I have in my entire life. Smoking is Shelly’s least dangerous vice. We always go through the motions of this conversation. I will most definitely go get her cigarettes. And I will do so because I know she’ll be waiting upstairs, taking out the old albums of her and her late best friend—Gwen—and she’ll tell me all about their adventures in being young and wild and free. Then, I’ll question her about Ryan’s whereabouts, and she’ll deny me. If I’m lucky, she’ll inadvertently give me another small piece to the puzzle.

  “Camels. Soft packs. It’s crucial.”

  “They’re going to kill you.”

  “No, baby. The drugs will.”

  “Is that the goal? To die? If so, you’re right on track.” I finally get up from the chair.

  “At least I’m good at something.”

  I decide to walk to the Rebel gas station a few blocks away. It’s a rough part of town, but I actually like it. How real the streets feel. In Summerlin, it almost feels like nothing bad can touch you with its secluded, gated communities. Which is, of course, bullshit. A lot of bad things touched me. Touched Gwen. They left marks. The permanent kind. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they’re not there.

  I round the corner when I hear the exhaust of bikes behind me. I tune it out and push open the door. The overhead bell dings. A large, sleepy guy with a curly black ponytail lifts his head from a Playboy magazine and picks his nose as he follows my movements behind the counter. Hello to you, too.

  “Three packs of Camels, soft, and a pack of Reds.” I point at what I need. I decide to cut my visit with Shelly short this week. I’m in the mood for fucking. To blow off some steam. Especially after today. The fucker who left an imprint to last a few weeks on Remington Stringer’s thigh has been occupying my thoughts. Hurting women is not my style. In or out of bed. Hurting people who hurt women, however, is something I’m completely open to.

  Especially as I know exactly who he is, and I want to do a lot of things about it, but none of them will benefit her. Or me, for that matter. I need to be patient and play my cards right.

  I still don’t know what role he plays in her life, and reporting this to Headmaster Charles would dra
g her into a lot of drama I’m sure she doesn’t need. But I can’t, in good conscience, turn a blind eye.

  The cashier rings me up, and I grab my stuff. Just as I turn around, I bump into a shoulder.

  Speak of the devil.

  Ryan Anderson, AKA Remington Stringer’s ride, is looking me right in the eye. I stare at him hard but impassive, my face not giving away one damn thing. We hold each other’s stare far too long for it to be a coincidence, until someone in a leather cut without a shirt underneath and holey jeans grabs onto his shoulder and pulls him away.

  “C’mon, Ryan. We have shit to do. Let’s get outta here.”

  I want to kill him for doing what he did, and not just to my sister, but I find myself helpless. For now. Just for now.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” I lift my chin up and inspect him. This part is crucial for me, because I need to know how I proceed with Ryan Anderson. What my angle will be. He doesn’t say a thing, just looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. If he recognizes me, he doesn’t let on. What the hell is wrong with this guy?

  “Doubt it,” he snorts. “I don’t go to no country club.”

  “I’m Remington Stringer’s teacher, Pierce James,” I spell it out for him myself, because there’s no way this Neanderthal is going to connect the dots without a little help. He gives me a slow once-over, assessing the situation, and his forehead crumples.

  “Oh, yeah? I’m Ryan,” he spits out, not offering his hand.

  “A family friend?” I feign ignorance.

  “Stepbrother,” he clarifies, adding emphasis on the word step as if that makes a difference. “I also own her.”

  You’re also about to get your ass whooped.

  “You do?” I smile casually. “And here I thought that was illegal since 1863.”

  Of course, this idiot doesn’t get the reference and stares at me blankly.

  “She’s mine,” he says again, slow this time, taking a step in my direction. I make no move. This asshole doesn’t intimidate me. “Make sure you remember that.” He delivers the threat directly into my face, the veins in his neck popping.