by Lexi Hunter
Contents
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT: A Bad Boy Surprise: Father's Billionaire Friend
EXCERPT: Still a Bad Boy: My Alpha Rider
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © Lexi Hunter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
***
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Mr. Bad Boy: Teacher's Pet
CHAPTER 1
Rites of Passage
I WAITED WITH my friends, searching the stands for my parents. I spotted my mother standing in the bleachers, waving like a bee had just flown up her shirt. Dad was next to her, shielding his eyes from the sun with the commencement program.
"Abigail Wilson," Principal Grady's voice called across the football stadium. My parents jumped up and down as I stood, walking up the red carpet path to accept my diploma. It wasn't my real diploma, of course. Just a few days before school had ended, I'd found out that my English grade had plummeted so much at the end of the semester that I'd have to do my senior year of English all over again—in summer school.
I had fought hard when Principal Grady called me into his office.
***
"Abbi," Principal Grady said, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I have bad news. Though after talking with Mr. Montoya, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise."
I'd known then what he was going to say. I pushed a stray strand of dark brown hair behind my ears and crossed my legs, fidgeting. I ran one hand over my curvy hips, wondering, for a moment, if Principal Grady could be induced into giving me extra credit for my voluptuous body and ocean blue eyes.
"I've already called your parents," he continued, skipping over the part where he officially informed me of my failing English grade. I guess he assumed my silence was acknowledgment enough.
"You called my parents?" I squealed. "But I'm eighteen!"
I thought that being an adult now meant my parents didn't get called for every stupid little thing, like failing your senior English class. It was a dumb class anyway. Mr. Montoya hated me.
Don't blame Mr. Montoya. Blame Connor. And that skank Tara.
Fine. It wasn't Mr. Montoya's fault that I'd skipped so many classes, but it wasn't mine either. How could anyone be expected to go to class when their boyfriend—I mean ex-boyfriend—was making out two seats over with your best friend—I mean ex-best friend.
If Principal Grady's ex-wife and her lover—a rumor that had started after Christmas break and been proven true when Principal Grady started coming in to work with a five o'clock shadow and smelling of yesterday's trash—had both worked at the school, would people have expected him to come in to work every day and act as if nothing was wrong?
Perhaps it was my expression of that very sentiment that made him decide to cut me a break.
"Please Principal Grady," I begged, bursting into tears. "I thought you of all people would understand. Isn't it enough that Connor dumped me right before prom? I already missed the biggest social event of my entire life, are you really gonna make me miss graduation too?"
I knew that in the grand scheme of things like life, death, and marriage, high school prom was pretty low down the list. But it was still a critical rite of passage for high school kids. I had only turned eighteen two months ago. I wasn't used to thinking like an adult. And despite my new and improved age, my parents certainly didn't think of me as an adult.
My parents had told me to go to prom with my friends. Stag, my dad had called it. I'd rolled my eyes and questioned whether or not they'd ever been teenagers. Not having a date at prom was like not having a groom at your wedding.
Luckily for me, my break-up with Connor had been so disastrous that word had even gotten back to Principal Grady about it. That tends to happen when you walk in on your boyfriend and best friend having sex in your bed in your house at your eighteenth birthday party. Under such circumstances, word travels fast. Also lucky for me was the fact that my parents decided—after finding me asleep on the living room floor three nights in a row—that turning eighteen was such a big deal that I deserved one additional birthday present—a brand new bed.
It was almost certainly the combination of my often retold and now legendary party/break-up, as well as Principal Grady's own passing acquaintanceship with having been cheated on, that created a sort of kindred bond between us and saved me now.
"Alright, Abbi," he said. "You can walk in the ceremony with your class, but you'll still need to go to summer school."
"Oh thank you thank you thank you!" I cried, before throwing my arms around Principal Grady and swooping him up in a bear hug that made him blush.
***
I took my diploma in my hand and unrolled it.
This certifies that Abigail Wilson has satisfactorily completed the necessary requirements of study as prescribed by school administrators and is thereby presented with this High School Diploma, and is thereby entitled to all rights and privileges pertaining thereto. On this day xxx in the year xxx.
Stuck to it was a Post-It:
Abbi, the date will be filled in after you have completed your summer school class. —Principal Grady
Great. I looked back out over the sea of friends and family and thought about how most of them were going on fancy extended European vacations or had fun summer jobs lined up so they could get a car before going off to college. Me? I was stuck in eight weeks of summer school.
CHAPTER 2
Summer School
"IT WILL GO by fast," my mom said when I was getting ready to leave. Because summer school was only eight weeks, and an entire semester was more like fourteen, I had to be at school all day long. Eight hours a day. It was like going to a job.
The only plus side was that since the high school had decided to freshen up the school's interior during the summer months with some new paint and flooring, they had negotiated a special arrangement with the local community college. Classes were to be held on college campus instead of the cold, sterile rooms at the high school.
I had to admit, getting the opportunity to be on a real college campus—okay, okay, junior college campus—was kind of exciting, even if I was only going for a high school course. I was the only senior who needed the class, which meant that I was getting smooshed in with a bunch of sophomores and juniors who were stuck in their own private English hell.
I didn't think it was fair that I was getting thrown in with the kids. I was eighteen and had the body of a woman. I deserved to be with other adults. Men who could appreciate what I had to offer, unlike Connor.
My voluptuous body was a feast for the senses. Large breasts with the perfect line of cleavage transitioned into smooth, alabaster hips and a curved waist, creating the ideal hourglass figure. My skin was like porcelain and I was gla
d I had enough of it to give men an eyeful. If I'd have been a twig like Tara, I'd have been jealous of women like me.
We would each have a classroom experience tailored to our own grade level, meaning the class was basically one long independent study hall. Honestly, that suited me just fine. The problem had never been that I didn't understand the material, it had been Connor sucking on Tara's face two feet away from me.
Also, since I was going to be there all day and my mom was busy with her new work-from-home business, she decided she didn't need the car every day and I could have it to get to and from class. It would save my parents the trouble, and save me the embarrassment, of dropping me off at school like a third grader.
I parked the car in an empty space and prayed summer school would be more like the cheesy eighties movie my mom loved than the image I had in my head of a tight-lipped schoolmaster brandishing a ruler at his pupils.
"Here goes nothin'," I mumbled as I closed my door and adjusted my sunglasses.
***
By the end of the first week, I realized that all the cheesy eighties movies were right. Summer school was a breeze. Our teacher, who was actually a junior college professor, showed up drunk the first day.
"Hello everyone," he hiccupped, taking a big sip from his blender bottle. His eyes focused better and his hands stopped shaking. "I'm your teacher," hiccup, "Professor Rainnssss. I mean Ray," hiccup.
I leaned over to a junior named Amy that I recognized from choir and whispered, "Too bad his eyes are so red. He could be cute if had one of those sports coats with the patches on the elbows and a pair of tight jeans." Amy giggled and her cheeks flushed.
By the end of the day, we realized the smoothie in Professor Ray's blender bottle was almost certainly laced with high amounts of vodka and Chambord—"tastes like raspberries," he'd noted before refilling it at lunch.
The third day of class I got an A on my first essay, which had something to do with Shakespeare and something else called iambic pentameter. I didn't quite get it, but neither did Professor Ray. Or if he did, he decided not to force the issue on others, which I admired. Everyone got A's that first week, and we all left for the weekend filled with hope and joy for the following weeks.
"No homework," he declared that Friday—yes, we even had summer school on Fridays, can you believe it?—and we all cheered. Professor Ray seemed to like that and offered to pass around his blender bottle for an unofficial toast. The class looked around at each other, wondering if he was serious, before waving him off and returning to our seats.
We still had an hour left, and I figured I might as well use it to finish my next paper. The way Professor Ray graded I could write, print, and submit my paper in the next hour, and still get an A.
One kid, however, Jared, lingered by Professor Ray's desk. We all pretended not to watch when Professor Ray passed him the blender bottle. By the end of the hour, Jared, who was only a sophomore, was walking funny. He didn't seem able to move in a straight line, and a few of us watched with interest as his mom picked him up and he struggled to get the car door open.
He rode off with his mom and we shrugged, figuring he'd sleep it off and we'd see him again Monday.
CHAPTER 3
Fired
SATURDAY MORNING MY dad knocked on my bedroom door. I opened one eye and stared at the light coming in through my blinds. "What?" I shouted. Dad knew better than to wake me before noon on a weekend.
The door cracked open and Dad stuck his head in. "Sorry honey, I know it's early but I need to ask you something." His eyes danced as he sucked in a great breath of air, gagging on the laughter he was trying to stifle. He clearly thought something was very funny. "Did your teacher leave class drunk on Friday?"
My face must have said it all because the twinkle left his eyes and his mouth tightened. "Oh," he said, then closed the door. Just before it clicked shut I saw him hold a phone to his ear. This was bad.
It was an awkward afternoon.
"Honey, you don't need to lie to protect him," Dad said as I sat in a kitchen chair.
"And we won't be mad," my mom added, giving my father a look that said, Tell her you agree.
My father nodded. "Right. Just tell us. Did he give you any alcohol during class?"
"Did he try to take advantage of you... or any of the girls?" my mom asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted, "Or any of the boys?"
"No!" I shouted for the seventh time. "Jeez, you guys, nothing happened!"
My parents looked at each other and my mom gave my dad a practiced nod.
"Okay," he said. "But you still should have told us he was drinking during class."
"That's right," my mother said, her eyes narrowing. I felt their combined attitude shift from concern for my wellbeing, to outrage at my foolishness and lack of responsibility.
"But... but," I shouted, trying to get a word in.
"But what?" my mother demanded. "What could you have possibly been thinking that would make you believe his behavior was acceptable?"
"Yeah." My father's voice rose to a tremble.
My dad's was a voice I knew well—it was all show. He was tired of this conversation but couldn't move on until my mother gave the okay. He thought things would progress faster the angrier he acted, and he was right.
"Especially when he got that poor kid drunk on Friday," he added.
I didn't think referring to Jared as "that poor kid" was completely accurate. Jared was a huge stoner. I lifted my shoulders in a shrug while they waited for some sort of response from me. I squeaked out the only answer I had, "He gave me an A."
My mom looked like she was about to throw a frying pan across the kitchen, and my dad stared at me with his mouth hanging open.
"I didn't say it was a good answer," I mumbled, my eyes sinking to the floor. If stupid Connor had just not hooked up with stupider Tara, or if I hadn't found out about it—
I stopped myself right there. If I hadn't have found out about it, then I'd still be dating a lying, cheating prick, and I'd still have a backstabbing bitch for a best friend. Tears started to fall from my eyes and I covered my face with my hands.
"Oh, Abbi," my mom said. I looked up and saw pity, which made me mad. I didn't need their pity. "It's okay. You probably just didn't know what to do. He was your teacher, after all."
I decided not to tell my mom that I couldn't have cared less about Professor Ray. It was Connor I was crying over, not some drunken English professor.
"Well, come Monday," my dad said, "you'll have a quality professor in there teaching you kids. Remember Maxwell Danvers?"
I looked at him, Connor momentarily forgotten.
"Your best friend?"
My dad nodded. "You haven't seen him, oh... probably since you were twelve. He's been overseas, fighting in Afghanistan. Just got back a few months ago. Anyway, turns out he'd just been hired as an adjunct professor at your college."
I could see where this was going and wasn't sure I liked it. From what I remembered, Maxwell was alright, but he was a little bit of a hardass. Of course, that had been six years ago.
"When I found out what happened," my dad continued, "I called him right up. No need to worry. He's a quality professor."
The second time my dad used those words something pricked at the back of my neck.
Quality? That sounded... hard. Quality sounded like work. My image of the perfect eighties summer school flew from my head, replaced with the image of a bald, overweight man in his fifties brandishing a ruler.
CHAPTER 4
Maxwell
I WAS HALFWAY to school Monday morning before I realized I'd forgotten to print out my new essay. I parked my car next to a Harley, eyeing the bike with a deep longing that made my toes curl. There was just something about the look of chrome on chrome that made my thighs clench and my heart beat fast. I shot it one last look before making a mad dash to the library. I was glad I had my flash drive in my purse. When my paper was done printing, I looked at the clock.
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Early? How was I early?
After my alarm went off this morning it felt like I'd taken forever to get out the door. I shrugged. Guess it was a good thing I didn't check the time before leaving. If I'd have realized I still had time to spare, chances are I would have plopped onto the couch and watched some bad early morning talk show.
I strolled to the classroom, anxious about our new teacher, trying to conjure an image of him in my head. My father's best friend... not since I was twelve.
I tried my best to remember Maxwell Danvers, but all I conjured up was the image of an old man tossing me into the air while I screeched with delight. His face was like a prune and he smelled of moth balls.
My forehead scrunched into a furl of milky skin that pulled too tight against my skull. I wondered if memory was serving me correctly about Maxwell. At the very least, he was Dad's best friend. I should still have it pretty easy, even if the rest of my class didn't.
The door to the classroom was closed but it opened easily when I pulled the knob. I was barely one step into the room when my brain stopped working and I forgot how to walk.
A man with muscles like a boxer stood beside the teacher's desk, pulling a fitted black T-shirt over his head. Before it covered him, I got a good glimpse of his chest. He had bronzed skin with delicate chest hair I wanted to run my fingers through. His muscles could have been part of an ad campaign for the latest downtown gym. A large tattoo ran across his back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. It was some kind of military tattoo.
"Oh," I gasped.
The man turned around and smiled at me with dark pink lips that looked ripe for kissing. Midnight colored hair crowned his head. It was cropped short but I could tell he'd been letting it grow. It had a tousled, windblown look that sent shivers up my spine. It felt like someone had just put an ice cube down the back of my shirt. His hair was damp and when he shook it out I felt my panties growing warm.