by RaeLynn Blue
“I’m still your dad. I care about you. You might not believe that, but I do.”
Nathaniel shifted the truck into park right out front of Tara’s house, if you could call it that. The dilapidated building leaned to one side as if it had limped to this lot and couldn’t move any further. With a yard teeming with weeds, waste, and God knew what else, he couldn’t imagine his son hanging out here or playing here.
Some of the people he had met in prison came from this area. Nathaniel would continue to watch Scott until the front door slammed closed, but he’d since stopped going inside or even into the drive, he and Tara gave polite waves, nothing more. Interacting with Tara had to be from a distance, like wrestling with a snake: you had to keep it as far from your person as possible.
The backdoor unlocked with a cluh.
“You gonna pick me up next weekend?” Scott asked, squeaking a bit on the final word.
There it was again. Fear. His son felt abandoned by him, and Nathaniel understood it would take time to reestablish that trust between them.
Scott collected his backpack, avoiding meeting his father’s probing gaze.
“I wouldn’t miss spending time with you,” Nathaniel said, twisting further around to see Scott’s face. “I’ve lost too much time already.”
“Don’t be late,” he said, soft against the noise spilling in from the opened door.
Through the thick wall Scott had built in the years since Nathaniel left for Texas came a speck of illumination. Nathaniel smiled. Once Scott had shot him back a brief wave before vanishing inside his house, Nathaniel liked how he’d let the report card business go for now. He shifted into drive, and pulled out into the street, made a right onto Pembroke, and grinned.
The boy had reached middle school without his guiding efforts and that didn’t sit well with Nathaniel. Not at all. He had a lot to catch up on and even more to impart to his son.
Now if he could only get that sizzling teacher to do the same—let him in.
Chapter Four
Friday afternoon, Milkweed Spa and Tan
“Do you think guys with long dreadlocks are vain?” Carlita asked, face painted in a caviar and pearl lifting cream mask the color of gray. “They always seem to think they’re the stuff of legends, swinging those damn snakes like an Appalachian preacher.” Her lips remained uncovered and they moved as if on their own accord. Eerie, but then Harper was used to Carlita being a bit strange.
“What?” Harper asked dreamily from a lounge where a heat body wrap sapped away her stress. Slathered in red seaweed and Arizona soil vitamins, the mixture hardened across her naked body, and seemed to drain away the miserable residue the teacher-student conference left on her spirit. The day after the conference, Thursday, dragged by as if she was carrying a corpse—smelly, heavy and disgusting—on her back. Friday found her here at a spa with Carlita. They’d won free passes from a local radio contest weeks ago, but Harper had wanted to save them for an after-conference rejuvenation. Well, Harper had won, and Carlita satisfied the “guest” part of the “you and a guest” on the contest certificate.
It was only when Carlita said, “You could’ve just gone twice” that Harper realized the error of asking Carlita to go along with her. Chained to each other by some cosmic force, Harper and Carlita had indulged in the spa’s many treats. If Harper wanted a Swedish massage, so did Carlita. If Harper wanted to be dipped in chocolate, Carlita did also. The entire what-you-can-do-I-can-do-better routine gyrated on her nerves. Harper had to admit, listening to the other woman prattle and complain had reached its limit. Her mind automatically switched to internal dialogue.
“Yeah, like any of those damn Lenny Kravitz wannabes could be as sexy as he is,” Carlita said indignantly. With cucumbers on her eyes, and reclined in a comfortable recliner, she resembled a queen of some freakish science fiction planet. “It’s gross.”
Harper sniggered. Leave it to Carlita to discuss dreadlocks, something she knew very little about, and to most would sound offensive as all get out. Instead of arguing or bitch-smacking Carlita, Harper simply sighed and closed her eyes, tuning out her friend’s driveling about the homeless.
The wrap smeared across her body failed to stem the throbbing of her clit at the sheer memory of how masculine Nathaniel smelled. Handsome stubble across his chin and jaw line had only cemented the persona of a rugged, all man into her mind. With that tight tee-shirt skimming across that delicious torso, Nathaniel had caused two days of sleepless, lonely, and dildo-filled nights. Yet strangely, her session of self-loving left her feeling even hungrier for male contact and Harper knew which one she wanted.
As so often happened in the last two days, Harper’s overly horny brain supplied the mental candy—Nathaniel Pearson. His tanned limbs flowing from the tight-fitting shirt spoke of constant reps not artificially created. The buzzed blonde hair, sharp cerulean eyes that sparkled in their intensity, and the ripped torso and arms of someone who did physical labor for a living, not for recreation, had wet her vaginal lips almost instantly. Darn it! She wanted to masturbate again!
And all because Scott’s father was hotter than a grill on the Fourth of July.
“You’re quiet.” Carlita’s spiky tone poked through the fantasy Nathaniel with razor-sharp precision. “Construction worker got your tongue?”
“No, uh, I—I’m relaxing. Finding my inner peace and embracing.”
“Thinking about embracing some Nathaniel Pearson?” Carlita inquired greasily. “Damn, he was super fine.”
“Didn’t notice,” Harper replied, not liking the fact Carlita had spied him as handsome too. Not that every single woman in the gym hadn’t taken notice of him when he walked in. People noticed the difference between night and day too. And Nathaniel shone with a coarse gleam, a diamond in the rough. Only those too elderly, blind, or male didn’t take note of the sexy, single father.
What am I getting all huffy for? He doesn’t belong to me. Probably doesn’t even remember my name. The naked truth is I’m emotionally bankrupt. I can’t give anymore to anyone. Let alone have the energy to pursue a single father who doesn’t even know I exist outside of a classroom.
But why had Carlita connected him to her? Really. Out of the millions of things Harper could be thinking about, why did Carlita zero in on Nathaniel?
“Wonder why Scott’s such a menace,” Carlita was saying in the drone of someone still furious.
“Dunno.”
As if the hint finally sank in, Carlita stopped talking to Harper. She sighed noisily and began to hum a tune, something fast and every so often a few Spanish words slipped by the humming.
Harper opened her eyes and watched Carlita for a moment. With her nose twisted up and her lips pressed into a fuchsia line of irritation, Harper figured the woman’s temper would render the mask’s efforts useless. Both single, Harper wondered if Nathaniel had sized up Carlita the other night as a possible candidate. Not that it mattered. If her friend wanted to snare him, she would. Carlita devoured men the way fat people ate hamburgers—with glee, gluttony, and little guilt. Harper shuddered. She didn’t want to see her Nathaniel in Carlita’s clutches, but if the humming and mentions were hints, she knew that Carlita would try to tame his heart, if for no other purpose than to say she had.
Not that teachers became involved romantically with parents all the time. Harper had never heard of a teacher dating a student’s parent, though it surely occurred. People were people and love connected them at the most inopportune times. After all, teaching is a profession, not my entire existence. She rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of her train of thoughts. Sure, Nathaniel was a sculptured god, a romance novel hunk, yes, but his well-muscled torso contained a heart in there as well. To whom did it belong, and why did Harper care?
Men like Nathaniel Pearson didn’t date over-the-age-of-thirty teachers. Not when there were younger, fresh-out-of-college teachers with slim waists and perky breasts teaching right next door to the dumpy ones. Besides, teachers had to c
ontend with the myth that they were teachers all the time—even at home, at Wal-mart and at the swimming pool. She could thank those stupid teacher movies for that widespread belief.
Still, part of her wanted to have that body in all its hard and soft patterns pressed skin to skin against hers. Harper sighed and closed her eyes again. Instantly, Nathaniel stood before her as he did two nights ago in the stuffy gym, his face a smear of concern and a tiny bit of shock.
“He still coming on Monday to the parent meeting?” Carlita asked, her husk of a voice scraping against Harper’s nerves. “Did you do a reminder call today before we left?”
Harper forced her longing to walk out to the adjoining room. Instead she said, “Yes, why would he cancel?”
“Talk to him?”
“No,” Harper said, icier than she intended, but she’d grown damn tired of Carlita’s questions. “Why?”
“I was wondering if you spoke to him and if he’s asked you out yet,” Carlita explained with a casual shrug. “See if that fire you two set off Wednesday had erupted into a blaze.”
Harper’s mouth dropped. Good thing she wasn’t wearing the mask on her face; she’d crack it into fractures. She hastily closed it when she saw Carlita removing the cucumber slices from her eyes. She blinked a few times then peered at Harper.
“What fire?” Harper said, tossing in a snort as if she found the whole thing humorous.
“That man lit a fire inside you, so much so you were fumbling all over yourself,” Carlita teased. “Afterward your ass was glowing like a candle in a blackout. I couldn’t pry that damn smile off your face.”
Harper blushed. Had she really been that transparent? And if she was that easily read by Carlita, what did Nathaniel think? I know what he thinks. He’s thinking I’m a desperate woman who has to recruit possible lovers from school functions. And he wouldn’t be off base about a lot of that.
“So, on Monday, you going to be able to put that flame out?” Carlita asked, her voice falling quiet as the attendant came into remove the mask.
Harper took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The truth of the matter lay in the situation. No way Nathaniel, the naughty hunk, had any interest in a tired, overworked, underpaid, unattached woman. Besides, she taught his son. All kinds of ethical and moral issues swarmed about that one. No, she had to stay clear and far from Mr. Pearson, because of two reasons. One, she didn’t want to make a complete ass of herself again, and two, she didn’t want to be fired.
So, steadying herself and adding courage to the lie she was about to tell, she said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Carlita mumbled through the massaging hands of the attendant.
After removing the mask, the petite girl applied another layer after layer of different creams and chemicals into Carlita’s skin with all the care and attention a person paid to a vagrant. Harper watched in amusement, because with each rough pull, tug and pat, Carlita couldn’t speak. The coarse handling hadn’t gone unnoticed by Carlita either.
“Your time is up. Ready to wash down, Ms. Perry,” said a second attendant who seemed to appear behind her out of nowhere.
Awkwardly, Harper got to her feet and followed the attendant out through a small door and around to the bath area. As she entered the sunken bath the girl gestured to, Harper mused over Carlita’s words. Did she actually think Nathaniel had any interest in her? Fire. That wasn’t a fire; that was the dried wood of her loins cracking in despair.
Harper laughed—a bitter one, which launched from her throat in a hard cough.
She managed to scrub off all of the body wrap, and amazingly she felt lighter and slimmer. Harper entered the dressing room dressed in a robe of thick terrycloth. Readying herself to go home too, Carlita leaned against one of the vanities, applying her lipstick in a careful circle. Fully dressed in her jeans and a pink blouse, she looked younger. Maybe the mask had worked.
Harper shrugged with a small grin and threw her slimmer make-up case onto the neighboring vanity. She held her thoughts to herself, because the last thing she wanted was another discussion about Nathaniel Pearson. If it got out that she had a hankering for a hunk of Nate, the principal would be furious. A parent and a teacher sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Impossible. Those were two rival factions that should never make nice, especially as a couple or unit.
“I heard from Mark today,” Carlita said, not glancing over at Harper, but staring straight ahead into the mirror, the gold tone lipstick tube making its rounds over and over her mouth. “He came by during prep but you were in another meeting. He said something about the mother coming to the meeting Monday.”
Harper’s chest erupted in nervous panic. The mother. Carlita didn’t even have to say who, or what student. The fear racing up her spine meant only one—Tara Pearson.
“Oh,” was all Harper could manage around the pressure on her chest.
Carlita put down the lipstick tube and took out a mascara tube from an enormous suitcase stuffed with makeup. “I know how you feel, but social services said she can’t be barred from coming. And to add to that, she’s bringing an advocate.”
“What?” Harper gasped. Hauling an advocate to a parent teacher meeting was like killing a fly with a tank.
“Mother claims—at least she told the social worker yesterday—that we have failed to meet Scott’s needs, so he should be ‘entitled,’ her word not mine, to be able to make-up all, and I mean, all the missing assignments. Every core class he failed.”
Harper stood rooted to the spot. Too stunned to utter much of anything, let alone think.
Carlita sighed and shrugged. “That hardly matters now.” The mascara brush in her hand drooped. “I mean, we are a team and grades have already gone out and…”
Harper nodded solemnly—as if with great thought. Adrenaline rolled the fear backward. “Yeah, but we need something more to give her than a ‘we tried.’”
“More?” Carlita scoffed, cutting her eyes over to Harper. The entire brush had been discarded, forgotten against the vanity’s glass surface. “I’ve given and given to that child, but all he does is push it away like it’s rotten meat, or a plate of shit.”
At this, Harper shrugged. “I guess I’ll try to prepare for it,” Harper said softly. Maybe if she said it in a kind, gentle manner the threat wouldn’t be so great. Carlita knew how to ruin a good feeling, but she supposed the sooner she knew about it, the better. “I’ll show his portfolio and benchmark score from first quarter, but it is really early to start pointing fingers and touting in an advocate.”
Carlita shot Harper with another one-shoulder shrug. Her thin bones shifted her indifference to the floor where it slithered over to Harper.
“Fine, but I’m bringing my own ammunition,” Carlita snapped. “And that skank-ass mother of his best watch out. I’m not going to do extra work because of her lazy-ass son and piss-poor parenting skills.”
Harper waited as Carlita shoved her lipstick and mascara tubes back into the bag, tossed her head up high and stomped from the spa’s dressing room. Scott didn’t accept help because he didn’t want it. Right. There had to be more to it than that. The boy was hurting and lashing out with regularity. True, the turn the meeting took threw them both off guard, but being angry about it didn’t hold any hope of getting through it without a meltdown.
This isn’t going to go over well. And worst of all, it’ll be Scott who suffers the most.
With that thought locked in the forefront of her mind, Harper picked up her make-up bag, tossed it in her teacher satchel, and headed out the side door. Thankfully, she and Carlita had taken separate cars. Mark had pushed Nathaniel into a parent meeting and now the entire thing was boiling.
And she didn’t want to be burned.
She had enough scars, emotional and physical, to last the rest of her natural life.
Chapter Five
Friday afternoon, Nathaniel Pearson’s apartment
Home at last, Nathaniel dropped
his dust-covered toolbox and sat down his blue lunch cooler. In a huge gritty cloud, he removed his heavy, steel-toed boots just inside the front door, where the tan linoleum stretched out in an arc before the carpet began. He locked the door, released a breath and listened.
Nothing moved, squeaked, or coughed.
“Honey, I’m home,” he yelled out, noting the bit of humor flitting around those words. No honey for him, not for a long time now.
Long since accustomed to the quiet, Nathaniel headed in his socked feet down the short hallway that fed into the living room. Yanking his tee-shirt off, he made a beeline right for the kitchen. With a flick of his finger, the tiny three-sided room appeared in a bath of warm light. There, he stripped off the rest of his work clothes above the little red kitchen rug. The laundry closet remained hidden behind two French doors.
He opened them and lifted the washer’s lid. Dropping in his work clothes, he noted the other clothes piled inside. Each day his ritual commenced once he stepped inside his door. Step one, leave the work items at the door; then add his filthy clothes to the ones from the previous day in the washer, until he had enough to do a load. Being Friday, he had a full workweek’s worth and he started the wash. Adding detergent, softener and water, Nathaniel set the washer to run and closed the lid. Soon his articles of clothing could join their partners in the holding cell.
“Funny that—a cell. As if I ain’t seen enough of those,” he said, walking around in his boxer-briefs and socked feet. “I’ve got to work on my damn humor.”
Like everything else in his life, prison seemed to have soured his humor as well.
He moved further into the kitchen, leaning against the granite-speckled surface of his counter until he stood perpendicular to the sinks. Arms crossed over his torso, he pondered the rocking of the washer. He stared at the gleaming white appliance and suddenly Ms. Perry popped onto its lid. Dressed seductively in a scarlet lace teddy, her coffee toned, full thighs flowing down to tapered ankles in matching stilettos. She uncrossed those delicious thighs, and turned over, getting to her knees on top of the appliance. She hoisted herself to a standing position, and with hands roaming over all those full and voluminous parts of her body, she began to dance, slow, with lots of rotating and gyrating.