Misconduct

  He shook my hand, and I remembered how those same hands had held my waist, the back of my neck…

  He squinted, studying me, and I wanted to sink into a hole, away from his scrutiny, because at any moment he’d remember.

  “You seem familiar,” he pushed, not convinced.

  “I’m Ms. Bradbury.” I changed the subject, walking around the desk. “Your son and I have already met. I’ll be teaching him US History first period this year.”

  And with hopefully only one parent-teacher conference, and then you and I will never have to run into each other again.

  It wasn’t that I was embarrassed or scared. I could handle some discomfort.

  But this guy had turned me on.

  I’d looked back on our interaction often over the past few months. On quiet nights when I’d wanted someone’s hands on me and the only person keeping me company was myself, I’d remembered that dance, his mouth close to mine and his eyes looking down at me.

  I’d slept with other people since then, but strangely, he was always where my mind wandered back to when it wanted a fantasy.

  And now with him close…

  He continued to study me, an eyebrow arched, and I was suddenly nervous. He looked formidable. Not at all as playful as he’d looked that night.

  “Christian,” he called to his son. “Come here.”

  His son barely looked up from his phone or the video game he played as he walked past us.

  “I’ve been here,” he said, anger twisting his voice. “I need something to drink.”

  “There’s bottled water by the door,” I instructed, but he just kept walking, leaving the room without another word.

  His father’s jaw hardened, and I could tell he was angry.

  “Excuse my son,” he apologized. “His mother is away for a year, and he’s a little out of sorts.”

  His mother. Not my wife, then.

  The air-conditioning poured down from overhead, caressing my face, and I felt it waft lightly against my blouse, cooling the light layer of sweat.

  Tyler and I were alone in the room, and I inhaled through my nose, smelling his intoxicating scent, which I could almost taste on my tongue.

  I walked around him, toward the papers by the door. “Well, I know you have other classrooms to visit and not much time,” I told him, “so here is a letter explaining my background and plans for the year.” I picked up a single-sided letter off the desk and also a two-page detailed calendar, walking over and handing both to him.

  “And there’s also a syllabus with a rundown of dates when tests occur and when papers and projects are due,” I continued as his eyes left mine to peruse the documents.

  His eyebrows nose-dived as he studied them.

  “All of this information is also on my website,” I told him. “This is just a hard copy in case you prefer it.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to keep my voice light. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  I probably sounded like I was trying to rush him out of here, but the longer he stayed, the greater the chance that he would remember me.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, still flipping through the papers. “I do have a question.”

  I stiffened, trying to remember to breathe.

  “How long have you been a teacher?” he asked.

  “This will be my first year,” I said in all confidence.

  He raised his eyebrows, the edges of his mouth curling. “I hope you’re good.”

  I cocked my head, peering at him. “Excuse me?” I asked, trying not to sound offended at the innuendo.

  “My son can be a handful,” he clarified. “He doesn’t misbehave, but he’s willful. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  I nodded slightly and turned to go back to my desk.

  Doesn’t misbehave?

  From what I’d already seen, he was very much a handful. I just hoped I didn’t need to call his father or deal with him for anything.

  Back behind my desk, I looked up and saw that he was still by the door, looking at me like he was trying to figure something out.

  “Was there something else?” I tried to sound polite.

  He shook his head as if he was still thinking. “I’m just… almost sure I know you.”

  “Easton?” Kristen poked her head inside my door, interrupting. “Some of us are going – oh, I’m sorry.” She stopped, seeing the parent still in the room.

  My eyes fluttered closed, and my stomach flipped.

  Shit.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she chirped. “Stop by my room when you’re done, okay?”

  And then she let the door close, leaving us alone.

  I darted my gaze over to Mr. Marek, and he turned his eyes away from the door and pinned me with a sharp stare.

  And then, like the raging sun over a cube of ice, his hard gaze melted, turning into one of knowing as realization hit, his eyes softened, and his mouth curled with amusement.

  Fuck.

  “Your name is Easton?” He stepped toward me slowly, every step shooting through my veins and making my blood rush.

  “That’s an unusual name for a woman,” he went on, inching closer. “In fact, I’ve met only one other with the name.”

  I let the air drift out of my lungs, and I raised my eyes, meeting his.

  But his eyes fell away from my face and moved down my body as if he was trying to connect who I was now with what he remembered from six months ago.

  He finally met my gaze again and leaned in, looking expectant. “You haven’t asked my name yet,” he toyed.

  The hair on my neck stood on end.

  “Would you like to know?” he pressed, playing with me.

  As the parent of a student, introductions were in order.

  But he was having fun with me right now, and while I wanted a good relationship with my students’ parents, I needed to sever the hand to save the arm.

  I didn’t know what would happen if he saw me as anything other than Christian’s teacher, and that’s the only way he should see me.

  “Mr. Marek.” I spoke calmly but firmly. “If you have no further questions, I’m sure your son is waiting for you. Again,” I added. “Perhaps you should make sure he’s okay.”

  The hint of the smile in his eyes immediately disappeared, and I watched him straighten and his expression harden.

  He was insulted. Good.

  I glanced to the door and back to him. “Have a good evening.”

  THREE

  TYLER

  “

  Y

  ou’re smiling,” my brother, Jay, observed, sitting opposite me in the back of the Range Rover.

  I ignored him as I watched the pedestrians race by, mostly joggers and some students carrying backpacks, as Patrick, my driver, took us home.

  I wasn’t smiling.

  I was insulted, amused, and intrigued, picturing her beautiful and flushed face in my head.

  Her blouse, buttoned up to the neck¸ her tight red skirt and those heels accentuating her shapely calves, and her proper little attitude were so different from what I remembered from last Mardi Gras.

  But they definitely weren’t a disappointment, either.

  She’d been tough and sexy, almost untouchable, last winter, and she’d fascinated the hell out of me. She’d had a mouth on her that had amused me and had gotten me hard, and then she’d stunned me when she’d just up and left, not the slightest bit interested in making it easy for me.

  But unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to find her after the Mardi Gras ball.

  She hadn’t been on the guest list, which meant she’d come with someone, and I hadn’t wanted to go poking around and start people talking, so I’d let it go.

  But now here she was, my kid’s teacher, dangerous and forbidden, which only increased her allure, and she’d been just as hot tonight as she’d been on that balcony all those months ago – the difference being now I couldn’t fucking touch her.

  I loosened my tie, my
neck sweating even though the AC was on full blast, and I looked over at my son, sitting in the seat next to me with his head buried in his phone.

  It was going to be a long fucking year.

  “Well, get ready for a kick in the nuts.” My brother leaned back in his seat, tapping his phone with its stylus. “Mason Blackwell just got a two-million-dollar donation from the Earhart Fellowship. They’re officially backing him for representing their high moral fiber.”

  Mason Blackwell. My only real opponent for the Senate.

  “High moral fiber,” I repeated under my breath. “While I eat babies and bathe in blood, right?”

  Jay chuckled, finally looking up. “They don’t say that,” he assured. “Not exactly anyway. They really don’t say anything. You’re a mystery,” he chirped, his eyes condescending.

  We’d had this conversation, but the issue was never settled for him. He just kept digging, hoping to wear me down, but there was no fucking way I was letting the press into my personal life. It was his responsibility to spin the media and keep the focus on what was important.

  “This is your job,” I reminded him, hardening my eyes so he knew I meant business.

  But he shook his head at me and leaned forward. “Tyler.” He’d lowered his voice to a whisper for my son’s sake. “I can feed the papers whatever you want, but in front of the cameras you’d better start coming up with some answers. It’s the twenty-first century, and people – voters,” he clarified, “want to know everything.”

  “Things that aren’t any of their business,” I shot back in a low voice, hearing Christian’s game noises continue undisturbed.

  I had nothing violent or illegal to hide, but they were starting to prod about my kid – wondering where I’ve been in his life, and they were getting nosy about my past relationships. Shit that wasn’t anyone’s business.

  But Jay wanted me to be an open book.

  He pulled away, crashing back into his seat. “Kim Kardashian Instagrams her ass,” he gritted out. “This is the world we live in, God help us, and I promise you, a little pic of what you had for breakfast would go viral more than any of your speeches or commercials. Get social. Twitter, Facebook —”

  “You’ve got people handling that shi—” I halted, glancing at my son and then back to Jay. “Stuff,” I corrected, not wanting to swear in front of Christian.

  It had been a hard habit to break, and since Christian had always – always – lived with his mother, my language had never been something I worried about in private. Now I just had to remember that being around my son was like being at a public function or in front of the cameras.

  Your true self isn’t always the person people should see.

  I had a team of employees to handle my website and social media, so I wouldn’t have to. It was one of the first things I’d put in place last winter when I’d decided to start preparing to run for the Senate. I hadn’t officially announced my candidacy, and the campaign wouldn’t start for another six months, but we were already laying the groundwork and preparing.

  My brother nodded. “Yeah, we have people handling your social media, but it would be nice if you added some personality here and there. Share fatherhood stories, funny anecdotes, selfies… whatever.” He waved me off. “People are addicted to that stuff. They’ll eat it up.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head into my fingers, rubbing circles on my left temple. It was still more than a year until elections, and if I won, I’d be in for even more invasion into my privacy.

  “I mean, look at him,” my brother snapped, and I opened my eyes to see him gesturing to my kid.

  I turned my head and watched my son, phone turned sideways, held between both hands as his thumbs shot out like bullets, tapping the screen.

  That was practically all he did twenty-four/seven, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen his eyes. Every time I tried to spark up a conversation and ask what he was doing, he acted as if he’d barely heard me.

  Jay was right. He was consumed. They all were.

  “Do you have to be on that thing all the time?” I prodded, unable to hide the aggravation in my voice.

  I knew he heard me, because I saw the minute eye roll he barely tried to hide.

  “Christian,” I snipped, reaching over and grabbing the phone out of his hands in an attempt to get his attention.

  Or maybe just a reaction.

  His jaw clenched, and he let out a sigh, barely tolerating me.

  He’d been ignoring me ever since his mother and stepfather had left the country on their research trip a week ago and he’d moved in with me.

  “Okay,” he challenged, dropping his hands to his lap and looking at me with disdain. “What do you want to talk about?”

  I cocked an eyebrow, taken aback a little. I’d expected him to argue – or maybe ignore me as usual – but had I wanted to talk?

  I’d been trying to talk to him, connect with him, for years, but now I realized that I didn’t know what I was going to say.

  And he knew it. He knew I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  He breathed out a laugh and gave me a condescending look. “Gimme a break,” he grumbled. “We barely resemble estranged brothers, much less father and son. Don’t start something we both know you won’t finish.”

  Then he reached out for his phone, but I hardened my expression and pulled my hand away.

  “I need my phone back,” he shot out, tension crossing his face. “Ms. Bradbury, or whatever her name is, lent me her battery, and I have to bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Too bad,” I barked, stuffing his phone in my pocket and turning my burning eyes to my brother. “You know, that’s really the problem here. Role models like teachers who enable children to continue to disconnect from the world.”

  “Well, you would know,” Christian bit out at my side. “You disconnect all the time, and you don’t need technology to do it.”

  I tipped my chin down, tightening my jaw. Jesus Christ.

  If I weren’t so fucking pissed, I might’ve laughed.

  I remembered getting in my father’s face time and again when I was younger. Christian looked exactly like me, but even if he didn’t, there would be no doubt he was my kid. I’d been just as defiant at that age.

  “Your energies belong elsewhere,” Jay pointed out, trying to reel my focus back in, “and your time is sparse,” he reminded me.

  My energies belong elsewhere. My time is sparse.

  Meaning my brother didn’t think fighting a losing battle with my kid was a good use of my time.

  I looked over at Christian, watching him stare at nothing out his window and finding my chest tightening.

  My shit relationship with my kid was my own fault. It had been no surprise when he’d fought his mother and me about staying here for the year instead of going with her to Africa.

  He needed time. Of course, it was time I didn’t have, but even when I did try, he shut me out.

  I knew I wouldn’t win any fatherhood awards, but I had supported him his entire life and I’d always treated him well. I’d taken care of his wants and needs, and maybe I’d never pushed hard enough and maybe I’d never put him as a top priority, but I’d had no idea it was going to be this hard to bond with him later on. I didn’t exactly get along with my father all the time, either, but I respected him.

  Christian couldn’t respect me any less than he already did.

  And it was getting harder and harder to ignore the voice in my head that said it was too late.

  The car turned up Prytania Street, dipping along one of many of the broken, potholed roads of New Orleans.

  I turned my eyes out the window as well, the conversation in the car having gone silent.

  I took in the evening bustle of the city, with its array of boutiques, shops, and intimate restaurants. Out of every neighborhood in the city – the Quarter, the Marigny, the Central Business District, the Warehouse District, Midtown, Uptown – it was the Garden District tha
t captivated me the most.

  Nestled between St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street, Prytania had some of the best architecture in a neighborhood adorned with vibrant colors, flowers, and foliage, and the best restaurants located in buildings that probably wouldn’t pass any health-code inspections. The wealthy and pristine blended effortlessly with the chipped and aged, and that was called character. You couldn’t buy it, and you couldn’t describe it.

  But it was the same thing that made a house a home.

  The nineteenth-century mansions loomed on both sides, protected behind their wrought-iron gates and massive live oaks lining the street. Gas flames flickered in lanterns hanging outside front doors, and cyclists cruised past with either backpacks strapped to their backs – probably students – or instruments secured to their bodies – street performers.

  Lightning flashed outside, energizing the life on the streets, and then thunder cracked, reminding me that it was hurricane season. We’d be getting a lot of rain in the coming weeks.

  We drove up the long street, entering the quieter and even more picturesque section, and then slowed to turn into my driveway, taking us deeper into the veil of trees, behind which sat my home.

  The old Victorian, surrounded by a generous plot of land, was three stories tall and featured a pool and a guesthouse on the grounds. Even though it had been in desperate need of renovations when I’d bought it ten years ago, I hadn’t doubted my purchase for a moment. The beauty of the home was in the quiet, isolated feel of its position even though I was in the heart of the city.

  Bars, restaurants, and shops sat only a short distance away, but inside the house, you wouldn’t know it.

  The home was surrounded by an acre of land with the lushest grass and foliage I’d ever seen, as well as a few old oaks that created a canopy around the edges, hiding the house and allowing me the privacy I enjoyed.

  And even though my son and I were barely on speaking terms, I knew he loved it here as well.

  His mother and her husband lived in the more sedate Uptown area, not far from here in distance – only a matter of blocks – but worlds apart in terms of liveliness and culture.