by Lynn Cooper
Out of my limited wardrobe, I choose a black dress with pink polka dots. It’s the last outfit my dad bought me, and I need to feel he is close by as I start the final chapter of my high school career.
After all, the first day of a girl’s senior year is pretty significant.
Since Dad passed away, I’ve packed a few more pounds onto my already plus-size figure, causing the silky material to cling a little tighter to my curves. Still, I feel fairly satisfied with my reflection in the mirror. Wanting to look extra special, I decide to add a few final touches—a faux pearl bracelet and matching necklace, sheer-black pantyhose and black heels—then make my way to the kitchen for some milk and a Pop-Tart. Not the healthiest breakfast, I know. But it’s quick, and I need to get out the door.
CLUTCHING MY PHONE IN one hand and my purse in the other, I wince at the loud, echoing clack of my high heels as I run down the hallway of Moon Crescent High. That unforeseen thing I had hoped wouldn’t happen, did. As quietly as possible, I open the door to my first class. I’m so grateful it isn’t locked. Naturally, it squeaks on its hinges, and all eyes turn toward me. Somebody really needs to talk to maintenance and get some WD-40 on the situation.
To my relief, there is no teacher in sight. To my dismay, the only empty desk is located on the front row. I’ve always been a back-row kind of a gal, but beggars can’t be choosers. And I’m just happy as a clam to have snuck in unnoticed. The last thing I need is a tardy. If the school tries to contact my mother, they will realize I am living alone. That is a headache I definitely do not need right now.
Sliding back a bit further in my seat, I cross my legs and take a calming breath. Before I can complete my exhale, a rich, deep, panty-melting and oh-so-familiar voice reverberates through the room.
“You’re late, Violet. See me after class.”
I’m torn between fainting and losing my breakfast. Neither one seems like a good option, so I just sit in my seat dumbfounded, staring at the man I want more than any other. I can tell by the fuck-me-sideways look on his face that he is in shock, too. I can only imagine what’s running through his mind—me. Just like he is running through mine.
Without missing a beat, he pulls up a PowerPoint slideshow on the Promethean Board and begins his lecture on French Impressionist painters like Claude Monet and Gustave Courbet. I’m assuming I missed the Pledge of Allegiance, roll-call and the morning announcements. I had no idea I was so late.
Try as I might, I cannot concentrate on a single thing Rhett is saying. I really should start thinking in terms of calling him Mr. Calder. My mind must have wandered far and wide because the sound of the bell makes me jump so hard, my knee painfully pops the underside of my desk.
As the other students file out into the hallway, I stay glued to my seat. Silently, I watch Rhett—I mean, Mr. Calder—cross the room, close the door and lock it.
When he makes his way to me, he takes me by the arm, pulls me out of my chair, marches me to the front of the room and says, “Hands on my desk. Now.”
My eyes grow wide, but I obey.
“Wh—what are you doing?” I ask, nervously.
“What your parents should have done a long time ago,” he says, lifting the hem of my dress.
My big, rounded ass is covered only by practically-sheer hose. I didn’t want visible panty lines, so I didn’t put on any underwear. I can hear the hitch in his breath when he realizes it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from raising his hand in the air.
My words halt him mid-swing when I say, “I don’t have any parents.”
He drops his arm and the hem of my dress at the exact same time. “What happened to them? Who looks after you?”
I explain everything to him as best I can and finish by saying, “I take care of myself.”
He knifes his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet much like he had been doing when he bumped into me at the rodeo. Then he snarls, “Doesn’t look like you’re doing too good of a job. You couldn’t even get yourself to class on time for the first day of school.”
Angrily jerking my hands off his desk, I straighten my spine and say, “That’s not my fault. I checked the oil and put gas in the car. I can’t help it if the stupid piece of shit died halfway here. I’m not a mechanic.”
“Watch your language, Violet.”
“I’m eighteen damn years old, Rhett. I can cuss all the hell I want to. I can stay up all night if it pleases me. I can even kiss a total stranger under the stars and make his cock hard as a rock while doing it. But you already know that. Don’t you?”
I hear his breath gush from his chest as much as I feel it. Even though I am as mad as I’ve ever been, the sight of his jaw muscles clenching beneath shadowy stubble makes me wet. The heat and electrical current that was zapping like lightning between us last night at the rodeo hasn’t died out one bit.
He sits down heavily on the corner of his desk, and I know he is as exhausted as I feel. I’m betting he didn’t get much sleep either. Rubbing his chin, he softly says, “I’m sorry about last night. It shouldn’t have happened. We have to put it behind us and forget it. I’m your teacher. You’re my student. As far as I’m concerned, we’re just meeting for the first time.”
I place my hands on my hips, give him my best grownup look and say, “I don’t think your dick got the memo. As far as it’s concerned, your hands are still filled with my hair and ass cheek. Your lips are still on mine, and we’re still grinding our genitalia together while you push me against the hard, metal railing of the bullpen.”
He closes his eyes as if in physical pain before opening them again. Then he repetitively runs his fingers through his thick, black-as-ink hair. Gazing at me with a silent plea in his dark pupils, he says, “Don’t do this, Violet. What happened between us can’t happen again. I behaved irresponsibly last night. Trust me; I’m goddamned relieved you aren’t a minor, but my touching you in any way is still inappropriate.”
“Watch your language, Rhett.”
“It’s Mr. Calder from here on out. You need to go before you’re late for another class.”
“And you need to go to hell!” I scream, stomping toward the door.
He lunges off the edge of his desk and grabs me by the waist, hauling my back to his front. His cock is hard against my butt. His breath hot in my ear. “I didn’t sleep at all last night because I ran away without getting your last name, your phone number or your address. I know it’s a small town, but I couldn’t bear even the remotest possibility of never seeing you again. So believe me when I say I know you’re hurt. I am, too. You think the idea of not holding you again, tasting you again isn’t fucking killing me? It is. I’m damn dying here. But this isn’t right. I won’t ruin your reputation or my career before it even takes off.”
I jerk my elbow backward into his ribcage, taking pleasure in the sound of his moan as he releases me. Spinning to face him, I say, “That’s what it all boils down, isn’t it? Your precious career?”
“Not entirely, no. This is merely my second teaching job since graduating college. I’m only twenty-four, Violet. Six years older than you, but this community and the schoolboard won’t see us as two consenting adults. They’ll see me as an older man and you as a teenager. You’re not technically jailbait, but you are off limits,” he says, pausing to blow out a harsh breath. “No, I don’t want to have my career flushed down the toilet. I worked hard to get here. But more importantly, I don’t want your reputation to be tarnished. I want to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From everything and everyone. But mostly from me.”
Chapter Four
Rhett Calder
I’M TOO CLOSE TO losing my shit. Lucky for me my second class is free. Instead of using the time to prep for the next one, I focus on my breath, trying hard not to count my heartbeats. I can feel myself slipping. Violet told me to go to hell. Little does she know I already live in the bowels of Hades with Satan’s searing flames singeing my balls day in and day out. That
’s what obsessive-compulsive disorder does. It tortures and torments my soul, never letting up.
I’ve been dealing with the condition since early childhood. I know the triggers. Stress is a big one. The stress of starting a new job was huge. Last night, when I felt the fidgeting come on me, I knew I had to get out of the house. If I had stayed home, I would have given into the demands of my mind. To the overpowering need to pace exactly ten steps forward then ten back until I had worn a hole in the carpet of my bedroom.
When I pulled out of the driveway, I had no idea I would end up at the rodeo. I nearly crashed the car while counting the fluttering moth wings beneath the stadium lights. When I slammed into Violet, I was focusing on stepping into the exact footprints made by those who walked before me. Only the sight of her beautiful body and the touch of her lips had broken the OCD episode.
In my entire life, nothing or no one has ever been able to break me out of a trance so quickly. If I’m not careful, Violet Driscoll will become my newest obsession. Even knowing she is forbidden to me, I won’t be able to stop myself. I meant what I said. Saving my career isn’t nearly as important as saving her from me.
Sleep wouldn’t come last night because the anxiety I felt over not seeing her again was clawing my insides raw. For the last decade, I’ve been able to control myself without the help of medication. To maintain order inside the chaos and disorder of obsessive compulsion. Pills are a Band-Aid and not a very good one. They dull the mind to quiet it, but they also dull the world and all the beauty in it. Dullness is unacceptable to an artist and teacher.
Around the age of fourteen, I learned to master my mind through painting. With each stroke of the brush, I can calm the misfiring of synapses that causes me to lock-in and fixate on a certain repetitive behavior. But even creating with vibrant colors and stimulating textures can’t stop the obsessiveness.
Depending on how bad an episode is and how far I have let myself fall into its clutches, it might take minutes to set myself right. Or it could take hours. Or days. There have been times when I painted nonstop for weeks and months, barely sleeping or eating. That’s what scares me most about Violet. I can easily see myself wanting and needing her like an addict needs a fix. Craving her curves and the sweet taste of her lips until she is all I can think about. Until I have no choice but to take her, fucking her over and over and over again, crawling deep inside her to tame the beast raging inside my skull.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I’m glad for the distraction. Thoughts of Violet are dangerous.
Answering, I can’t help but smile. It’s my best friend Hawk from the old neighborhood. He skips the salutation and gets right to the questions.
“How’s your first day on the job?”
“Better now that I’m talking to you.”
Hawk laughs. “That bad, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Tell your old buddy all about it.”
Sitting down at my desk, I prop my feet up on the corner and spill my guts. Hawk is a bounty hunter but, in my opinion, he would have made a damn good therapist. When I finish filling him in on all the details from last night and this morning, he says, “Transfer her to another teacher’s room.”
“It’s not that simple. If this were a math, history, science or English class, I could do that. But this is art. I’m the only teacher for this subject.”
Hawk grunts. “If memory serves, art is an elective course, not a required one. Tell the curvy temptress she has to choose another elective, and be done with it.”
I shrug even though my friend can’t see me. “That might be a possibility. I suppose it would depend on whether or not the other elective courses coordinate with her schedule. I’ll speak to the principal, but I can’t demand that Violet’s entire curriculum be rearranged, especially during her senior year. Most of her classes are likely course requirements for graduation.”
I can almost hear Hawk shaking his head. “This is why I hunt down lawbreakers for a living. I’d rather wrangle with a criminal than a teenager any day.”
The bell rings, signaling a change of classes. I stand up, feeling more centered and in control. “I gotta go, Hawk.”
“Hang in there, buddy. I’ll drive down this weekend, and we’ll grab a beer or three.”
“Sounds good,” I say, ending the call.
STEPPING OUT INTO THE hallway, I spot Violet. She’s standing by herself next to her locker. I watch her fiddle with the combination lock, spinning the dial back and forth in an attempt to get the lock to pop open. She gets it on the third try. Knowing it’s a bad idea but not wanting to stop myself, I walk over to her and say, “What kind of car do you drive, and where did you leave it?”
“It’s an old, blue Subaru Outback. I left it against the curb on 5th Street. I was able to coast out of the road when it cut off. But I don’t see how the location of my car has anything to do with you.”
I ignore her snide comment. “Give me the key.”
She reluctantly takes it out of her purse, glances around to see no one is looking and hands it to me. The exchange is smooth and discreet, but there are fucking cameras everywhere. I should have done this in the privacy of my classroom, but she stormed out before I had the chance to think of it.
“What are you going to do with my car?”
“Fix it, if I can. Take the bus home this afternoon. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get your vehicle running and bring it to your house. Then I’ll walk back to get mine. I could use the exercise. I skipped my regular workout to go to the rodeo.”
I shouldn’t have brought that up. Neither of us needs the reminder.
She sighs. “Why can’t you take me with you to 5th Street?”
“I don’t think it would be good for either of us to be seen leaving the school together.”
“Fine. I’ll take the bus but only because I’m wearing heels, and my feet are killing me.”
I glance down at her cute pugs encased in such grownup shoes. My fingers ache to massage away all of her foot pain. But that would be yet another slippery slope to slide down. A one-way trip into the rabbit hole, for sure.
“Good girl. I’ll text you after I’ve had a look under the hood.”
“How did you get my number?”
“The school keeps a list of student cell phone contacts on file. Looks like your mom updated your info last year.”
She nods. “Okay. I’ll text you back with my address if you get the Subaru going again.”
Before heading back to my own room, I give her my authoritative teacher look and say, “Don’t be late for class.”
Chapter Five
Violet Driscoll
I HAVE BEEN HOME less than ten minutes, barely enough time to change clothes when my phone rings. My heart races, and my palms grow sweaty as I stare at the screen. I didn’t realize until right now what a nerve-racking situation this is. Ironically, I am behaving like a silly school girl waiting on a boy to call and ask her for a date. Only Rhett Calder isn’t a boy; he’s a man. And given how he feels about his career, he is never going to ask me out on a date.
To my great relief and grave disappointment, it isn’t him. Accepting the call, I say, “Hey, Hazel. What can I do for you?”
“Lord, child, I’ve blown a bulb in the hallway. Can you come over here and change it for me?”
“Sure thing. Should I use the spare key you gave me?”
“No, the back door’s unlocked. The delivery man was here earlier, so I left it open.”
“Okay,” I say, hanging up.
Laying my phone down on the kitchen table to grab a box of Danish Wedding Cookies from the pantry, I dash out the door. This is Hazel’s favorite dessert. Since I haven’t visited her for a while, I wanted to bring her a special treat.
Stepping into her house is like taking a step back in time. All the way back to the 1970’s. The back door leads into her kitchen, where an orange-tiled floor, a green stove and refrigerator, yellow cupboards and harvest gold wallpaper are proudly displa
yed. Even at the ripe old age of one hundred and three, Hazel keeps her countertops spotless and appliances gleaming. This room, along with the all the others, could easily be featured in some sort of retro magazine.
I find her sitting on a plaid sofa in the living room. On the coffee table is a stack of bodice-ripper romances, some old Playgirl magazines with visibly dog-eared pages and a white Styrofoam cup for spitting her snuff.
She gives me a big grin. Her gums are receding so badly I can clearly see the roots of her incisors. Pointing to the cushion beside her, she says, “You can change the bulb in a minute. Sit down and rest your bones a spell.”
Smiling, I walk around the coffee table and make myself at home amid the aroma of powdery tobacco and the scent of mildew combined with that undefinable, old-people smell.
Patting her leg, I show her the box of cookies and say, “You wouldn’t have a hankering for some of these, would you?”
“You damn straight I do. I made a cup of instant coffee on the off chance you might bring me something sweet. Of course, nothing is sweeter than your company.”
I fight back tears while leaning over to kiss her wrinkled, papery cheek. Our relationship has always been special to me but, now that my mom is off gallivanting around the globe, I cherish this wonderful woman’s affections even more.
“I love you, Hazel.”
“Say it with a handful of those cookies,” she mutters.
When things get too emotional, Hazel always switches gears on me.
“You got it,” I say, opening the box and passing it to her.
She takes a big bite and chews with gusto. With crumbs falling from the corners of her mouth, she asks, “You got yourself a boyfriend?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer her. In my heart, mind and dreams, Rhett holds that title. But in reality, I know he can never be anything more than my teacher.
So, I decide to answer truthfully. “No, ma’am. I don’t.”
“Well, young men will be beating down your door soon enough. And when they do, I want you to remember what I’m telling you. All a man cares about, all he’s interested in, all he ever wants is goosy poosy.”