My dad was right.
“Baron!” I hurried, lightly jogging from the crosswalk into Liberty Park. He was not going to hurt the kid. Not on my shift.
Vicious didn’t even have the courtesy to turn around and check to see who called him. “Take all suspects to the gazebo behind the parking lot for interrogation.” His voice was clipped and low.
That gazebo was isolated, a deserted, scary place where no one set foot at night. Bastard had a touch. No surprises there.
“Baron Spencer!” I raised my voice, only a few feet away from him now. Some of the students cleared out of the way for me, but the majority just snickered as I raced toward the teenager from hell. They were more scared of him than they were of me. I couldn’t blame them. “Stop this immediately! Let these boys go!”
When I reached him, he finally turned around, his face painted with boredom and pity.
When I didn’t back down, his expression darkened. Vicious might not be as beautiful as Jaime, Trent, and Dean, but he somehow had the most memorable face. He looked like a guy whose shit list you didn’t want to be on. I swallowed hard, hating myself for feeling intimidated by him.
“I’m sorry, remind me who the fuck you are?”
Of course he knew who I was. I taught him Lit every day, which is what made everyone around us laugh, pointing their beer bottles and Solo cups at me. Even his fucking captives chuckled.
I’m doing this for you, assholes.
Heat spread up my neck, and my hand tightened around my anchor necklace, as it did every time anger washed over me. I did everything in my power not to look at Jaime, because I was afraid to see what was written on his face. Was he laughing at me like all the rest?
“Do it now, or I’m calling the police,” my voice barely shook.
Vicious took a step forward, his face so close to mine I saw the crazy dancing in his irises. His eyes, black like an abyss, threatened to pull me to the dark side. I dug my heels deeper into the grass and balled my hands into fists. My body hummed with adrenaline. This was happening. I was standing up to him.
“I fucking dare you, sweetheart. Go ahead, test me. Actually, I’d love for you to do that. It’ll get you kicked out of your job, and I won’t have to see your sour-ass face every day.”
That was it. I was so pissed that I wasn’t above punching his smug face. I stepped back, fishing out my cell phone from my bag. So what if they fired me? They weren’t going to renew my contract anyway.
A warm, familiar hand stopped me before my fingers dialed 911. “Apologize,” Jaime’s voice commanded.
But the order wasn’t aimed at me.
Vicious tipped his head back and snorted, his straight teeth on full display. “Tanked again, Followhill? Jesus. It’s not even midnight yet.”
“You better do it,” Jaime sing-songed, ignoring the jab, stepping into his BFF’s face. Nose to nose now, their gazes dripped defiance. “Unless you want out of the HotHoles.”
I was baffled, to say the least. Two bullets in less than a month this guy had taken for me. Vicious and Jaime were locked in a stare-down. Vicious glowered under his devilish brows, begging Jaime to let it go—every muscle in his face quivering in anger—but Jaime wouldn’t back down. Finally, after a whole minute at least, it came. Sweet and orgasm-worthy.
“My bad, Greene.” Vicious’s words were sharp and insincere as his shoulder brushed past Jaime’s. He looked like it physically pained him to say them.
As much as his indifferent act sprinkled fear-dust on everyone’s heads at school, he was still mortal. Capable of feeling the loss of his best friend. And Vicious knew the truth. People didn’t like him, not really. They loved Jaime, Dean and Trent. The handsome, funny, wholesome jocks he hung out with.
He needed them.
But something told me that they needed him, too.
“Apology accepted. Now, break this thing up immediately.” I smoothed my blouse, arching one eyebrow and slanting my head to his captives.
“No,” Jaime said firmly, turning around to face me.
I allowed myself to drown in his face, even if for only a second. We were back to acting like a teacher and a student, playing our roles, but I knew those lips which he now rolled inward, probably to suppress words he should never say to his educator. Knew how they tasted and what they were capable of doing under my thin, worn blanket.
“Sorry, Ms. Greene, but you’ll have to sit this one out. This is a team matter. I give you my word, it won’t rub off on you. Someone screwed Trent over.” He shook his head, his lips pinching in annoyance. “We need answers.”
“Mr. Followhill—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off. “You lose.” The last sentence came out soft, and what came after was even softer. “Next time I catch you stalking me from across the road,” he whispered into my ear, close enough for it to look suspicious but not enough for people to talk about it afterwards, “you better come say hi. Better yet, you better show me how much you miss me with your lips, instead of stripping me with your eyes.”
There wasn’t anything I could do about Vicious and his dangerous tricks, and I knew it. The HotHoles always took care of their own. Trent was injured again, and someone had to pay. I had very little power over the students of All Saints, but I very much doubted anyone else, including Principal Followhill herself, would be able to stop them from seeking retaliation.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact with him, I backed down, until I finally turned around and walked back to my parents, who were still waiting on the other side of the road.
“Well?” My mother elbowed me, her eyes shimmering the same healthy curiosity she had about almost every subject matter in the world.
“I took care of it.” I avoided her gaze, pretending to look for something in my bag. Maybe it was my dignity I was looking for. Either way, Vicious had won.
And Jaime helped him.
But not at my expense. And that was something.
That was a lot.
I SPENT THE WEEKEND WONDERING what happened to the poor bastards the Four HotHoles had interrogated at Liberty Park and whether my face-off with Jaime and Vicious would change the pact between me and my fuck-buddy. My fingers tingled to text him and ask all those things, but I knew it was risky.
Was I angry at him? Was the incident a wake-up call, reminding me that we were so different? That he was still a teenager, taking tentative steps toward becoming a man? These were exactly the kind of questions I didn’t want to deal with. No. I was biding my days, clinging to the weekend in the hope distance and time would wash away the fog of lust between us, making room for logic and rationality.
Monday was the best day of my entire career. Everything ran smoothly, and when I reached the last class with Jaime and his friends, they all behaved.
Everyone…other than Jaime.
He was messing with his phone, as usual. Since he wasn’t looking at me, I let it slide. I wanted to teach this class without feeling my nipples puckering under his scorching gaze.
My phone on my desk flashed. I resisted the urge to check it, focusing on Millie, who was standing up, reading a poem she’d written. She was good. A creative spirit, with an artistic flare that poured through every cell in her body. Did she want to write? Maybe paint? Her textbooks and hands were always decorated with doodles, her nose always buried in a book. With the right guidance and nurturing, she could do great things.
I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I wasn’t the person to bring them out of her. I lacked motivation, compassion, and authority, the three qualities that made a great teacher.
As I stared at her, I realized that even Vicious was quiet when she spoke. She had the kind of quirky charm a girl couldn’t fake. Everyone’s eyes were on her, which allowed me to sneak a peek at my phone. In the words of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman: Big mistake. Big. Huge.
Jaime:
I missed you this weekend. Thought your ungrateful ass would text me a thank you for saving you from the wrath of Vicious
. Alas, I was wrong.
Wow. Did he have any idea how much trouble he could get us into if someone saw this text? Students and teachers had each other’s numbers for professional purposes only. I ignored him and continued nodding at Millie, smiling tightly. Ping, another text came.
Jaime:
It’s cute how you pretend to listen to Millie when I know your just waiting for the clock to hit 3 so I can bend you over that desk and fuck you so hard the windows will rattle.
Of course, I didn’t grace that message with an actual answer. Although, I was itching to correct “your” with “you’re.” The Lit teacher in me hated when people misspelled shit. Apparently, even during sexting.
My cheeks darkened, and I played with my anchor necklace, brushing it against my lower lip. I coughed, clearing my throat, and said, “Louder, Millie.”
She looked around, anxious as I was, and reluctantly raised her voice with the next line. Her poem was pretty fascinating, actually. About life and death and the way the cherry blossom tree symbolizes both. Everybody was quiet and alert. Dean Cole had his elbows on his desk, leaning forward, drinking her words like they were oxygen. And Vicious? He looked at her like she was his.
But there was no point. The only thing my ears were tuned into was what I secretly hoped to hear—the sound of my phone vibrating against the table as another message came through.
Jaime:
Your nipples are so tight I could cut fucking diamonds with them, baby. It’s a turn on when everyone can see what I do to you. In half an hour, I’m going to shove my hand into your pencil skirt and my fingers into that pussy. Digging into Ms. G’s G-spot and hitting it again and again until you pass out from your orgasms.
I circled the table and leaned back against it facing the class, hoping they couldn’t see the blush that was a daily challenge since the start of our affair. Jesus! Affair? That was a bit much. It wasn’t an affair. I was fucking my student, and my future, all at the same time. Nonetheless, I couldn’t stop. I scanned the classroom full of students, and his face was the only one that stood out in the sea of bland teenagers. I barely registered the other faces, lost in the fog of lust.
Another vibration. This time I waited a few seconds before I glanced his way and found him smirking at his phone. Asshole.
Jaime:
Then I’ll take my hand out, let you lick my fingers one by one, suck on them hard, and beg for me to take you. But I won’t. You’ll have to go down on me first, and I’ll make you choke on my cock until you can’t breathe. How would you like that, Mel?
I was sweating. Sucking in short breaths. Millie finished reading her poem. She was still standing, expecting my feedback. All eyes were on me. She’d done a wonderful job from what I could decipher in my lust-induced haze, but the words wouldn’t leave my mouth. I was truly afraid that I’d blurt out something about Jaime and his dick. It really was too fucking beautiful not to be celebrated by our fine nation.
“Millie,” I started, clearing my throat when I realized my voice cracked. I heard Jaime softly chuckle in the back of the room. I was going to kill him when the class was dismissed. Her big, blue Bambi eyes followed my every movement as I spoke. “I thought it was brilliant. Your poem had a rhythm like heartbeats. It was…enchanting,” I managed, my smile almost apologetic.
It wasn’t the right thing to say. I needed to open this up for discussion, but I was having a hard time stringing together a coherent sentence while my panties were this wet. Damn Jaime and his texts.
Straightening my spine, I clapped my hands one time. “Let’s hear your thoughts about Miss LeBlanc’s poem. Anyone?”
Bzzz. Another vibration erupted. A handful of people raised their hands, and I chose Shelly, the girl who I knew wouldn’t shut up, and therefore allowed me time to read my incoming text.
Jaime:
So lost. So confused. So fucking mine. Owning someone has never felt this good.
His words hit me hard.
Was I really his? It didn’t feel like it. Like it was real. Maybe for him, it was. But for me? I was too scared of the consequences of truly having him to even consider it an option.
Lost. Confused. I felt all those things. Not just in that moment, but in general. Where was I going after this? I was a terrible teacher, and my students deserved better. What more, I cared enough about them to acknowledge the fact that I need to make room for someone more passionate. More caring. Someone who would take the Millies of the world and turn them into artists, and not keep them here, in the gray classroom, reading poems they could barely understand.
After Shelly babbled something for the sake of talking, and another student asked Millie a couple of questions, Vicious, who had his long legs crossed over the table, his boots nearly touching someone’s back, held up his hand. My breath hitched. I didn’t want him to shatter Millie’s confidence. Actually, I wanted to talk to her about enrolling in a creative writing class I knew across town. I liked to believe I saw some of me in Emilia. She was delicate, artistic, and unfazed by the privileged environment she wasn’t a part of. I had a weird urge to protect her from Vicious, but no one else was lifting their hands.
I wanted to strangle the sulky bully as I ground out a weak permission for him to speak. “Yes, Baron?”
Vicious’s hooded eyes were on Millie as he played with one of his rusty metal rings—a part of his iconic serial-killer attire. He bared his teeth, expecting her to shrink back into her chair like the rest of them, but Millie was still standing, eyeballing him like he was a punching bag she was about to swing her fist into.
I fucking like this girl.
“I thought it was spectacularly awful,” he said, tugging at his full lower lip.
She raised one lonely eyebrow, a smile on her pretty, round face.
“That’s enough from you, Baron,” I started, but Millie raised her hand.
“Please, Ms. Greene. Let him finish. What was so ‘spectacularly awful’ about my poem?” she asked him, and she sounded genuinely interested.
I cringed. Why was she doing this to herself?
Vicious slumped back in his chair, examining his rings. “Too wordy. Too many analogies. Some of them were corny. Ones we’ve heard a thousand times before. You’ve got talent, I’ll give you that. Still.” He shrugged. “Your writing’s sloppy. Stick to painting.”
“And what would you know about writing?” I snapped. It was my turn to ask. It wasn’t like me to lose my temper during class, but Vicious was literally being vicious. The fact that he’d won on Saturday night at the park didn’t help, either.
I think Jaime knew better than to continue sexting me, because he tucked his phone into his jeans pocket and frowned at Vicious, his expression screaming, Shut the fuck up, man.
“I know quite a fucking bit, actually,” Vicious chirped, his face lighting up. Usually, his voice was like a straight line on a heart monitor, uncaring and flat. “Ass-kissing’s never helped an author or a poet grow and develop. Constructive criticism does. Maybe you’re in the wrong profession, Greene.”
Fuck this shit. I was going to throw him into detention until he was seventy. I didn’t even care that Jaime had just invited me to another sex-fest after school, and that all I could think about was his angry, swollen cock. I didn’t want Vicious talking to me like this and more importantly—to Millie. The girl didn’t deserve it.
“Pack your stuff, Baron. You’re coming with me to see Principal Followhill after class. I hope you don’t have any plans for the upcoming month, because you’re going to spend it with your mediocre educator. In detention. Where you can explain to me all about good poetry and bad life choices. Like talking back to your teacher.” I let loose a sugary smile and cracked open my notebook with the name list, looking for the next poor soul that had to share a poem with class.
Trent groaned from his place on the other side of Vicious. “Good going, cunt. You just had to talk shit, didn’t you? We’ve got team business to handle. Did you forget?”
??
?Language, Rexroth. Or you’re up next.”
I got ballsy. I had a back. It was Jaime. Who, by the way, looked just about ready to explode, staring down Vicious like he had just slaughtered a basket full of kittens. There was fire in his eyes, and it scorched everything it landed on. The bell rang, filling the class with laughter and noise, and people shoved their stuff into their backpacks.
“Mr. Linden, you’ll be reading your poem next time. Class, I want you to read The Rules of Poetry by Michaela Steinberg and know it by heart for next class. There’ll be a quiz,” I barked into the chaos of teenage chatter.
Students poured into the hallway, but Jaime stayed put in his chair. His clenched jaw suggested someone in the room was about to get killed. Vicious was the only one still there other than us, and he took his time, stuffing his bag deliberately slow with a grin so big you’d think I was about to escort him to an exotic vacation on an island populated by strippers and international arms dealers.
I dropped Vicious at Principal Followhill’s office and got back to class. I think she was both impressed and horrified with me calling Vicious on his bullshit. I had no idea how she was going to deal with him, but I didn’t care, either. I’d done my part.
The minute I walked back into my classroom, I heaved a sigh. “What did you do to those kids the other night?”
Jaime sprawled back in his chair. He was wearing navy Dickies, high-top sneakers, and a purple muscle shirt that showed off his corny tattoo of a stupid-ass quote he had inked on his ribs. I’d never bothered reading it, but wouldn’t be surprised if it was something from SpongeBob Squarepants.
Who cares? He was my own personal calorie-free dessert.
At least, that’s what I tried to reduce him to in my mind.
Most of the time it worked.
But the more we spent time together, the more I needed to feed myself this lie.
“Come here.” He crooked his index finger at me.