Teacher's Pet - The Complete Series: Books 1-4

by Avery Phillips

  I looked down at my cock, feeling it rise from the grave and tent-pole my towel, pointing straight up at attention. Lynn always liked it that way. When she would stroke it with her hands or take me in her mouth, she always seemed so appreciative of the fire we created together.

  My phone rang again. The caller was persistent. The only person on earth that would call this many times, of the few that had my number, would be my mother. I sighed as placed my spaghetti in the microwave, set it on high and felt my cock go limp. My mother was always one to kill my mood.

  As I ate, I thought about what I would say once I picked up the phone and called her. It’d been a few weeks since I’d spoken to my mother, and the party was just on the horizon. I snatched her invitation off the coffee table: some expensive white stock with simple black typing that said, “You're cordially invited,” with her address on the bottom. She changed the invitations every year. She had them specially delivered on a silver oval platter by some poor sap in a butler’s suit—tails, bowtie and a top hat.

  My hand hovered over my cell phone before I reluctantly picked it up. I took a deep breath and settled in my chair, and before I could dial her number, it rang.

  Lesson # 3

  Mother knows best?

  “When a Foster loves someone it’s never truly over; it only changes shape to something else.” -Caroline Foster

  Simon

  I was sure my mother was calling to choke an RSVP out of me. If she didn’t hear from me soon, she would call or send an employee by the house to see what was causing the hold-up. Caroline Foster could be hell on wheels when she wanted something done and you got in her way. I for one didn’t want the aggravation, so I normally chose to comply.

  My mother had an odd sixth sense and that otherworldly timing she was known for in her circle. I pressed the accept call button and heard her yelling at someone in the room. “Did you dust off the mantel? No? Well, why isn’t this done yet? You know we’re on a time crunch! Move it!” This went on for several minutes before she actually said hello. I was thinking I should take this opportunity to hang up and call it a night.

  “Hello?” My finger rested on the button to end the call.

  “—and I’d like to have it done before I end this call. Thank you!”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes now, wait… hold on for a minute!” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Simon honey; you know how these people are. I just got a new assistant last week, and she clearly has a learning curve to conquer. I’ve been rushing around all day trying to get things ready for the party, and it seems I’m doing all the work myself. I am so glad I caught you, dear. Please, tell me you’ll be coming!”

  I scoffed. “When is it again?” I felt the need to walk in the kitchen and pour a glass of scotch and down it before it was my turn to talk. My feet started to move before I’d made up my mind.

  She huffed, clearly frustrated but, worst of all, distracted. This was how she got before an event. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten! It’s not like you at all, Simon, to have to be reminded of such things! It’s two Saturdays from now starting at nine o’clock sharp, but I would like you to be here before then. Maybe you can come Friday morning and help your mother prepare. We can take you to get a new tuxedo if you’d like. I know your old one is probably moth fodder by now.”

  “Shopping? Eh, I’m not sure about that.”

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun! You know you miss your mother, and your sister hasn’t seen you in years. She can come with.”

  Selene? Shopping with my sister was like juggling a buzz saw. Just when you think you have a grasp of it all, it gets away from you and makes you regret you ever did it—but by then you’re missing an arm or a leg. I snickered but tried to keep it contained before I laughed.

  My mother was always too intense. Always so sure of what everyone else wanted. “I’ll see, Mom but I can’t make any promises.” I sighed and took another swig of my scotch.

  “Honey, is there anything going on with you? You sound strange.”

  “There’s nothing going on, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “Simon! I know you.” That’s doubtful. “I’m your mother and you’re going to tell me what’s wrong or I’ll have Hank drive me over this instant.”

  I let out a breath, because I knew she would do it. As a matter of fact, there was no doubt in my mind she would be her in a second if that were possible. “I’ve got woman problems. Nothing I can’t handle.” I cringed, knowing then she wasn’t going to let it go at that. I could almost imagine her standing in front of me with her hands on her Pilates-slimmed hips and her eyes laser-focused on me.

  “What about these… woman problems?”

  My mother was a socialite at heart. She always was and always would be, so she was more than ready to hear the latest dirt, even if the dirt involved her son.

  “Fine, if you’re going to play coy with me, I’ll just have to guess.” She paused for a second. “Okay, the girl is a brunette, yes? You’ve always liked brunettes. Let me see… you met her at a nightspot, the high-end kind, in the VIP, most likely in the city and she is an accomplished woman of some kind, maybe in business… oh no, wait… marketing? She is younger than you and has a great sense of humor but also knows when to be serious. Am I hitting the nail on the head yet?”

  I should’ve known. My mother was describing to a T my ex-girlfriend Katelyn Turner. And she’ll never let me forget that I dumped her. “You’re impossible, you know that?” I decided to end the game. I wasn’t in the mood, and besides, Katelyn was the last thing on my mind. “The girl I’m speaking of is blonde, actually, and I met her at the university. She is funny, and yes, a little younger than me, but that’s where the similarities to your description of her end.”

  I imagined my mother pursing her lips, collagen bulging at the seams. She didn’t like to lose her games of control. I guess that was probably where I got it from. “Well, is she from a nice family like Katelyn is?” Here we go. “Would I have heard of her family at least?”

  This was the million-dollar question, literally. “Nice” for my mother usually meant “wealthy.” I wasn’t sure, of course, but I doubted from the way Lynn dressed most of the time and the way she acted so free and without restraint that Lynn came from any amount of money or higher class. Truth be told, I preferred it that way. It wasn’t what I was used to.

  “I’m not sure about her family’s financial standing,” I said, “but I doubt they’re wealthy. I never actually met them, so I wouldn’t know.” I felt the question why not? in my head. Would we have made it to that point? I didn’t know. My anger and pain were quickly morphing into grief. What the fuck was going on with these soppy feelings of mine?

  “Well, I for one think it would’ve served you better if you stuck with Katelyn. You should listen to your mother. I know what’s best for my children and Katelyn was a great girl for you. But I don’t want to be the daunting type of mother; you do what you want with your life. So, that being said, I’d love for you to bring this new one by sometime so we can get a good look at her.” She said it, but that was a huge no-no. I wasn’t going to do it. My mother would rip Lynn to pieces.

  “Absolutely not; besides, it’s over with us anyway.”

  “Simon dear, if there’s one thing you have to know it’s that when a Foster loves someone it’s never truly over; it only changes shape to something else. Like a caterpillar into a butterfly and sometimes… just sometimes it can be a beautiful sight as you watch them fly away. If you hold someone too tight, you’re bound to squish them. Understand?”

  The way she said that caught my attention. So I went with my gut and asked her. “So how are you and Dad doing? You two getting along okay?”

  “Oh, your dad and I are fine.” There was a slight hesitation in her voice. “You know how your father is. He’s been busy with the company, and I’ve been busy with my social events. It’s what I love to do, and I enjoy it, and he’s doing what he loves, so… I guess I can’t complain.”
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  I knew better than to press her on the issue. However, something in her tone set off my sensory alarms, so I made a note to revisit the issue sometime later.

  “Well, I have an event to plan, dear. I expect to see you at the party bright and bushy-tailed with that beautiful young lady on your arm. No one has ever attended my white party stag, and my son will not be the first.” She was rushing me off the phone—another sign that something was up. Normally she would talk me into oblivion.

  “I’ll be there, you know I will. But before you go, can I ask you one more thing?”

  My mother stayed silent like she knew what question I would ask, but of course she couldn’t possibly know. Could she?

  “Is there any chance that you heard of, or knew of a guy, perhaps a close relative of ours, pretending to be my brother for whatever reason?” It came out sounding more silly than I expected.

  There was a deafening silence on the other end of the phone for several lengthy seconds; a rare moment of rendering my mother speechless. “A brother?” She chuckled, but it was nervous and pushed. “No, Simon, I’ve never heard of anyone pretending to be your brother. Wouldn’t that be something if I had?

  Her voice was dry and tense, like she was forcing out the words, exactly like I sounded when I was forced to lie.

  “Okay, well, dear—”

  “I know you have to go.”

  “Yes, unfortunately I must.”

  “Unfortunately…”

  Lesson # 4

  Your problems will always find you

  “A bouncer must’ve seen us on the dance floor, caught on to my distress and decided to intervene.” -Lynora Minnelli

  Lynn

  It'd been weeks since I'd spoken to Simon, at least on a personal level. I still held my job as his assistant—which was good—but our communication was minimal to nonexistent. We were back to our old ways of him giving me instructions and me having no choice but to follow them. I wouldn't have minded under normal circumstances, but the difference this time was that it had nothing to do with sex.

  It was a shame, really, because I missed what we had between us. Naughty little thoughts hit me in flashbacks out of nowhere, sending flutters of pleasure to my clitoris. It happened at the most inopportune times. Like when it was quiet, while I daydreamt in class or while taking my time correcting tests. I would start to wonder about the things he'd like to do to me; like nibbling on my neck, or kissing my inner thighs, or pushing himself inside me with no mercy.

  Every day of the week I spent an hour of my life sitting closer to Simon Foster than anyone, without being able to touch him or have meaningful conversations like I yearned for. I spent another hour attending his class as a student, with my head down, somewhat embarrassed, trying not to catch him in a mood. So he wouldn’t embarrass me like he did before.

  He would sweep the room, connecting eyes with other students, but somehow he'd miss my eyes entirely. It was depressing. So much so that on the weekends I would sit in my room watching movies all day, on my laptop and futzing around in my pajamas.

  I found out mint chocolate chip ice cream was so damn good! And that toe socks were like bliss whenever you were struck with a case of the blues. Of course, Sonja would check on me from time to time, try and drag me out of the room, shake me out of my funk by getting some sun.

  It didn’t work, though. Even Bobbi couldn't get me to budge far beyond my bed; no matter how hard she tried, I wouldn’t leave. I'd take a shower, of course, so I wasn’t that bad. I'd eat. I'd study. I’d go to sleep. That was it. That was my routine, and I stuck with it.

  It was Saturday night and I was dozing off when the door flew open, practically scaring me half to death. Bobbi stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, and Sonja was peeking over her shoulder from behind. I should’ve known she would try me again at some point, but what I didn’t know to expect was a break-in.

  I was paralyzed in my bed just staring at them both. Wondering what in the hell were they doing and what they had in mind, but whatever it was I planned to turn it down before it was offered.

  “No!” I was firm, my arms folded at my chest.

  Bobbi made a disapproving sound with her tongue. “Now c’mon, girlfriend.” She glided over and yanked me by my arm. “It’s Saturday night, it’s almost graduation and you are getting up. We’re going to get you out of here and we’re gonna partaaay!”

  The two of them grabbed my arms and not so gently yanked me out of bed. I kicked and I fought, even screamed a little bit, but eventually had to give in after I realized I was wasting my energy. The girls were as strong as men. They got me out of bed. They poked me and they prodded, stripped me down to my undies, threw me in the shower and dressed me up like a mannequin in a fancy department store window.

  They knew what they were doing—they’d done it to me before—and I was as pliable as an old, wet noodle. My resistance was too low to struggle.

  Within an hour, they were done. I finally faced the mirror and had to admit I looked pretty hot. They shaved my legs, plucked my eyebrows and loosely curled my hair. It was perfect. I hardly recognized my face, though; there was so much makeup, but I looked much more awake than before, so I guess I couldn’t complain.

  “That’s what we’re doing tonight? Going to a club?” I pulled at the black mini pencil skirt from Bobbi and tinkered with the jewelry from Sonja.

  “Sure indeed, Miss Molly.” Bobbi threw her hands in the air. “Get ready to raise the roof.” She paused. “Okay, that’s old, but you know what I’m saying.”

  “Like, nobody says that anymore.”

  “Zip it, smartass and let’s get out of here. You’re starting to kill my vibe.”

  I was wearing a black fitted vest over a yellow tank top to complete the rest of the ensemble. I was ready for wherever they had planned for me now. I was ready to get back to my life. They whisked me out of my dorm room and into a cab that met us at the corner. That usually meant a night of heavy drinking. I didn’t know how I felt about that. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about alcohol after the experience I’d had with Dane.

  When we arrived at the club, I was feeling surprisingly optimistic, despite the fact that it was raining cats and dogs. We got in easily. No waiting in line. No douchebags talking our ears off. Because our names were on the list, we got in for free, and being three girls looking hot didn’t hurt.

  Bobbi knew the bodyguards, who knew her boyfriend Jay. She asked him to call in a favor, and as usual, Jay came through; the perks of being a popular football player, I guess—must be nice. Once we walked in the music hit my ears, bass pounding, heavy synth sounds and people on the dance floor going berserk. Flailing their arms and jumping around; it looked more like a workout than dancing.

  A wall of body heat hit me square in the face. The air was thick and I quickly started sweating. There were multicolored lights playing off the many walls, high up on the ceiling, dancing off people’s clothes. Everyone seemed to be generally having a blast.

  We took a spot by the bar—not to my liking, however, because it was so packed we had to shoulder our way through the crowd. Bobbi ordered us drinks—apple martinis, green and neon looking. I refused the drink at first, so Sonja accepted them both. She downed the two martinis, one after the other.

  “You better slow down, sugar,” Bobbi said. “You’re too tall for us to have to try and carry you out of here. So slow your roll. You have all night to get drunk.”

  “This is nothing.” Sonja tapped the bar for another. “In Serbia you can drink by the time you’re eighteen, but in reality you would start when you’re much younger. People put alcohol in their coffee, drink alcohol with their dinner. When we were kids we took sips from our parents’ glasses whenever they were distracted talking to company. This stuff to me is like apple juice. It’s Lynn you have to worry about, if she ever decides to drink. It’ll be her you’ll be carrying out. I know how to handle my liquor.”

  I scoffed at Sonja’s assumption, but before I cou
ld respond to her, Bobbi tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out a guy across the room on the edge of the dance floor. He was tall with light brown hair, shortly cropped, and a drink in his hand. When he noticed I was looking, he nodded and tipped the drink.

  Upon further inspection and taking a few steps closer, he was actually kind of hot, very chill, with a laid-back swagger, dressed all in black, and he looked sure of himself. He had a light surfer’s tan, a slim build and he was looking right at me. I couldn’t help but shy my face away as warmth started crawling in my cheeks.

  “Well,” Bobbi said, pushing me forward on the shoulder. “Go talk to him before some skank walks up and beats you to it.”

  “I don’t know, Bobbi.” I turned to her. “I’m not good at this aggression stuff or talking to strange men. Why don’t you send Sonja over there?”

  “Because he’s not looking at me,” Sonja interjected, “he’s looking at you. It’s obvious.” Sonja held a drink in front of my face. A red-looking cranberry thing in a martini glass adorned with a blood orange slice. I considered it for a second, grabbed it, put it to my lips, sipped and then swallowed the whole damn thing in one gulp.

  I walked closer to the guy, apprehensive at first, and hoped that he would spark a conversation.

  “Hi.” The guy met me in the middle of the room. “I didn’t mean to stare and I hope you don’t think I’m a creep or anything, but I think you’re really pretty, definitely the best-looking girl in the room.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Pete. Actually, it’s Peter St. Jean, but you can call me Pete. I prefer it.”

  Pete had sexy corn-blue eyes and a big, pretty smile that looked like Skittles in his mouth from all the multicolored lights. I didn’t know what to say; my head started spinning as thoughts flew in and emotions started stirring up my nerves. I shouldn’t have downed that drink so fast. The best thing I could do at the moment was keep my balance and make sure I didn’t say anything stupid.