by Julia Kent
“He's my trainer,” I lie, trying to friend and pretend, to de-escalate, my heart going into palpitations at the craziness of it all.
“Trainer?” The guy lights up. “I knew it! You're a trained MMA fighter, aren't you? No normal nursery school teacher can do what you did.” He snaps his fingers and looks at the cameraman. “That's right! She's the Ninja Nursery School Teacher. NINJA NURSERY!”
“Get the hell out of here and leave the lady alone like she told you,” Fletch growls, inserting his body between me and the cameraman, who holds steady, but takes a step back. “Respect her no. I can get a cop here in three minutes.”
“That would be great!” Smirking, he holds his hands open, like he's taking on the world. “The more drama, the better. If it's clickable, it sells.”
“Fiona's had enough drama from being attacked by assholes,” Fletch says to the guy as he moves back, his right arm behind him, wedging himself in my door. “She doesn't need you, too. Stay away from her and the other preschool teachers. Leave the families alone. These were little kids. Have some decency, man.”
Click
Fletch shuts the door.
Thump thump thump
Heavy footsteps fill the hallway as Fletch looks through my peephole, grinning.
“You got a permit for that?” I hear.
“Who is that?”
Fletch turns around, smiling. “I lied. I got the cops here in under a minute, because I brought them with me.”
I put my hand on his arm and he moves so I can look through my peephole.
“Officer Minsky,” says a woman I vaguely remember. Minsky. Wasn't she Mallory's jerky babysitter when we were little? The one who caught her on the porn set not quite two years ago, where she met Will again? She's in uniform, standing next to another uniformed cop I don't know.
“That's Michel Saad,” Fletch whispers in my ear. “He's a hardass. I warned them you'd be inundated, so they figured they'd do a drive-by.”
“It's not illegal to pursue a story!” “John” shouts in the hall.
“Did you put your foot in the door to block Ms. Gaskill from closing it?”
“What? No!”
I open the door and poke my head out, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, minus the axe.
“Yes. He did.”
“She's lying!”
“You're trespassing. Ms. Gaskill, did you invite these men in here?”
“No.”
“I know my rights!”
“Good. You can explain them to me at the station. Let's go down there for a little questioning,” Officer Saad says.
I shut the door.
I press my back to it.
I stare at Fletch.
Who is plucking a chocolate ball from the flower arrangement with an amused grin on his face. He holds it up, one eyebrow cocked, asking permission.
“You have a funny way of appearing everywhere in my life.”
“Your life has a funny way of making that necessary.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Candi told me some of the parents have been trying to reach you. They're so grateful, and they’re all worried. Thought I'd stop by.”
“You're out of luck this time. I'm wearing clothes,” I joke.
There's a smile in his eyes but not on his mouth as he just maintains our gaze, the moment sinking deeper into emotional territory that is unfamiliar, dangerous, and disturbingly delicious.
“There's always next time, Feisty.”
That nickname.
That damn nickname.
Invoking it brings all my past irritation with him to the surface. A part of me is grateful, the immature part that has been waiting for a chance to take over. Anger flashes through me, my body an oil fire in a cast iron skillet.
“Don't call me that. And don't you dare tell the press that name!”
“I'm pretty sure you're Ninja Nursery School Teacher now,” he jokes, finally eating the chocolate.
“If you're here to make me feel better, you're failing.”
“I'm here to thank you,” he says around the sweet in his mouth.
“You already did.”
“Maybe you deserve more thanks.”
Ring!
I leap out of nervousness, grabbing the phone to find a number I don't recognize, but for some reason, my intuition tells me to answer.
“Fiona? My GOD! Are you okay? What on earth happened? You beat a man up on live television?”
My mom, I mouth to Fletch, who nods and starts browsing my paperback book collection. I'm pretty sure he's not desperate to borrow my copy of Many Lives, Many Masters or Self Care For Modern Feminist Witches, but if he wants to, no problem.
“I – hi, Mom.” Tears fill my eyes suddenly, the emotion expected but still catching me offguard.
“Your father and I have been worried sick! Tim called the cruise line and somehow, one of the staff members found us and gave us a phone to use. Dale's been frantic, too. Fiona, dear, what happened?”
“Fiona?” Dad says, his voice deep with concern. “I wish we were there.”
“I'm fine, Dad. It's all over. Don't come home. And I'm sorry about Tim and Dale. I swear I'll call them as soon as we're done. But don't come home.”
A rustle, then Mom's voice. “But we should! You'll need a lawyer, and – did you spend time in jail? In the hospital?”
“Yes, I – ”
“Jail?”
“NO, no. The hospital. Not jail.”
At the word jail, Fletch smirks.
Or maybe it's because his eyes are now on the book Grimoires and Your Inner Child.
“HOSPITAL?” Dad thunders. “Beth, we need to go home. Now.”
“I told you, Geoff, we needed to get off at the next port and – ”
“STOP!” I shout into my phone. “Both of you! No one is coming home! I am a twenty-nine-year-old woman who had a non-custodial parent come to my class, pick the lock, threaten me and my staff and children, and I put an end to it. I went to the hospital because Fletch made me.”
“Fletch? Who is Fletch?” Mom gasps into the phone.
“The paramedic?” Dad clarifies. He's the CFO for a security firm and knows all the local paramedics and firefighters.
“The boy you dropkicked when you were in middle school? Chris Fletcher? Was he the attacker?” Mom shouts.
My eyes cut over to Fletch, who seems not to have heard. He's now perched on the arm of my sofa, a paperback in his hands, open as he reads. I can't see the title.
“No, he wasn't,” I say, trying to be vague. “It was his brother-in-law.”
“They ganged up on you?” Mom says in a confused voice.
“Of course not, Beth,” Dad corrects her. “We saw the video. It was only one man Fiona took down. Nice work, by the way,” Dad says to me. “Attagirl.”
“GEOFF!”
“What? All those years of training paid off for Fiona. When the time came, her instincts kicked in. Haha. Get it? Kicked in.”
“I want to know more about this hospital trip. Fiona, are you okay?”
“I'm fine. Just a scratch from the attacker, but the doctor treated it and I'll be fine.”
“That Chris Fletcher is a fine, upstanding young man,” Dad adds. “Was he first on the scene?”
“Yes.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Geoff?”
“He's the kid Fiona's hated all these years.”
I look at Fletch and realize the book he's reading is called Release That Which Does Not Serve You.
“And if he made you get medical attention, it means you got good care,” Dad continues.
“You must be overwhelmed! Tim says the social media coverage of the attack is everywhere. Have you spoken with him yet, honey? I'm sure he'll help calm all this down,” Mom interjects.
“He left some messages. I was just about to start calling everyone. I have to deal with the parents in my class, the kids, the media – it's a lot.”
“
You need us there,” Mom says firmly. “I'm sure this qualifies as an event for trip insurance, Geoff,” she says in a softer voice. “We could call the insurance company and see if we can reschedule this cruise.”
“NO!” I bark into the phone, hating my voice. This is what my parents bring out in me.
All my sharp edges.
“Stay,” I plead. “I have friends here.”
Fletch looks up and catches my eye.
“Plenty of community support. I don't need a lawyer, and the guy who attacked me is in jail.”
“We love you, Fiona. We feel like bad parents if we don't come home,” Mom admits.
“And I'll feel like a failed adult if you do.”
Folding the book shut, Fletch replaces it on the bookcase and moves on.
“Oh, Fiona,” Dad says in a voice that says he doesn't know what to do with me.
“You're – well – there's a logic to that,” Mom says with a nervous laugh.
“Please,” I reply. “Really. Stay on your trip. You two spent all those years saving and scrimping. Has it been fun so far?”
“Yes,” they say in unison, then laugh.
“Your father's a lobster. I don't think I've ever seen him with so much sun!”
“And your mother is taking cha cha lessons on board. Haven't seen her hips move like that since college.”
“We never danced in college, Geoff.”
“Who said anything about dancing? I'm talking in bed.”
“GEOFF!”
But she giggles.
More tears fill my eyes, and for some reason, I look at Fletch and smile.
He smiles back.
“Stay,” I repeat. “If I need you, I'll call.”
“We have free Internet now! The staff told us the cruise line wants us to have it so we can contact you,” Mom says.
“Nice!”
“We can stay in touch daily. Hourly, honey. And I really think Tim or Dale should come back to Mass and be with you.”
“They have their own lives, Mom. I don't need to be rescued.”
“You clearly don't,” Dad says with a chuckle, alluding to what I did to Rico.
“Whatever you need,” Mom says. “I – I guess you're a grown up and you know what you – ”
“That's right. You raised me to be independent, remember? What I need right now is to answer hundreds of calls and emails.”
“Hundreds?” Mom squeaks.
“It's a big deal, Beth,” Dad says. “Our daughter did a big thing.”
“She did the right thing. I'm so stinking proud of you, Fiona!”
Now I'm pretty sure all of us are crying.
Everyone but Fletch.
“So, um, you two need to go have fun, and I need to deal with the... whatever you call all this,” I say, knowing I'm facing thousands of notifications and emails and all I want to do is crawl into a hole.
And I have a very hot, very curious, very present man to deal with.
“I love you so much,” Mom sniffs.
“Me, too,” Dad adds. “But if this is what you want, we'll honor it. We'll toast to you tonight at the champagne and lobster midnight buffet.”
“GEOFF!”
“Ouch! You're getting one hell of a right hook, Beth.”
“Behave better and I won't need to use it!”
I shake my head. Fletch cocks his, questioning.
Parents, I mouth.
He rolls his eyes in solidarity.
More I love yous and I'm off the phone a minute later, shoulders slumped, so much of my energy already sucked out of me by a short call.
How am I going to handle having even more drained? Every parent, every media request, every child in my classroom is attached to an emotion I am tracking.
I feel so helpless.
“You okay?” Fletch asks.
“No.”
“Glad you're being honest.”
“When am I not honest?”
He holds up his palms. “Hey, hey. I never said you weren't. Most people would say they're fine. I like that you're not playing that game now.”
“I don't play games.”
His eyes take in my face, then my body, coming back to my eyes as I smolder from his gaze.
“Neither do I.”
One of the gold chocolate balls on the edible fruit arrangement is begging to be eaten. I snatch it off the plastic stick, unwrap it, and start chewing. Filled with caramel that oozes out one side of my mouth, it's a flavor explosion that gives me a single frequency to focus on.
One thread.
One sensation.
One sense.
Until Fletch reaches over with the pad of his thumb and slowly, sensually wipes a drop of caramel from the corner of my mouth. He closes his lips over his thumb and sucks on the sweet drop, eyes on mine the entire time.
Heat and frequency converge between my legs, too much energy finding a single spot to consolidate, hot eyes on mine, his body so close, so raw, so–
Ring!
“My–my phone!” I gasp, moving around him to grab it.
Amelia Wissen.
“It's the head of the school board. I have to–”
He gives me a thumbs up. “Got it. You're busy. Go. Do what you need to do. My work here is done.”
“Thanks!” I say, hitting Accept, closing my eyes as I start the call with Amelia.
Even after he leaves, the throbbing between my legs continues.
Done?
Hell, no.
I think he's just getting started.
Chapter 5
“I can't believe how many men think sending a dick pic is a great way to break the ice. Some of them even use it to start a marriage proposal,” I say as I take a bite of my turnip, cauliflower, and heirloom rainbow carrot mix, simmered in bone broth and whipped into the perfect texture by the chef at this new paleo restaurant Mallory insisted we try.
Paleo2Clean is about as trendy a name as you can find, but the food tastes wonderfully old-fashioned, like I'm absorbing calmer nutrients from a bygone era before everything came in a vacuum-sealed pouch with a website, “natural flavors,” and a hashtag.
“Pfft. I could have told you that from long experience,” Perky says as she chews on a coconut-covered chicken strip, holding it like it's a cigarette. If it had an ash, she'd tap it.
“Anonymous dudes on the internet sending me dick pics doesn't make sense.”
“I wasn't talking about the anonymous ones. I was talking about Parker.”
“Wait–he proposed to you with a dick pic?” Mallory asks before sipping her beet-kale-ginger-raw honey-jicama drink.
“Were any of them good?” Perky asks, moving on to cucumber sticks dipped in roasted cauliflower hummus, avoiding Mal's question.
“How would I know? Rafaela weeded through everything. I just got a quick highlight reel for fun.”
“Staring at dick pics is not fun!” Mallory protests.
“You're looking at the wrong dick pics, then,” Perky says with a snort.
“Thank you, by the way,” I tell Perky, pointedly ignoring Mal. “Rafaela's been great. It's been two days since that jerkface journalist tried to shove his way into my apartment. Rafaela was there a few hours later and she's been a fabulous shield.”
“How is everything?”
“Define everything.”
“The kids at school. Michelle and Ani. The parents. The media.”
“Every child seems to be fine. Our board president hired a crisis counselor to go to everyone's house, to check in. They recommend I not do the same, that I wait and see them when we’re back to school. Keep life routine and normal for the children.”
“It's killing you, isn't it? To hold back and not see them?” Mal asks. She knows me well.
“Yes.”
“You're dealing with so much.”
I shove my food away and focus on my green drink, shoving my hair over my shoulder. “What felt like a firehose of energy to the face is now all the same energy, ju
st less tangled. Rafaela has someone who is helping me with the money offers.”
“Money?”
“Yeah. Endorsements.” That word is so hard to say. It feels like bragging and tastes like shame.
“Endorsements? For what?”
“Products. I guess,” I say, reluctant to even talk about it but knowing I have to. “The video of me has been turned into an empowerment meme. Loads of kickboxing companies and athletic apparel companies want me to be in Instagram videos. Remember my Insta account? The one with a few hundred followers, most of them the parents of kids I taught?”
“Yeah,” Mal and Perk say in unison.
“I have 74,000 followers now. And I'm adding a few thousand a day.”
“Wow!” They sound like twins.
“Rafaela says we'll have a meeting soon. She's using these offers as leverage to get more out of other companies.”
“You're serious?” Mal gasps. “You're going to take... money for this?”
I shrug, the embarrassment in my bones. “Maybe?”
“Why shouldn't she?” Perky asks. “Fiona's got all this crazy student loan debt. I've tried and tried and tried to get her to take money from me to pay it off.”
“That's your money. Not mine.”
Mallory nods in solidarity.
“My money is unearned! I did nothing to deserve it!”
“That's how this feels, too,” I confess. “Rafaela says I have high-five-figure endorsement offers from kickboxing companies. That would clear out all my loans,” I whisper, reaching for chamomile tea to calm my belly. “And the extra could go to the preschool endowment. Or for other charities I support. Think about all the good I could do for the Boys & Girls Clubs if I had the money.”
“How what feels?” Mallory asks gently, taking me back to my emotions. What a role reversal. Normally I'm the one doing it for her.
“Like it's unearned money. I'm being offered huge sums for a tragedy.”
“You did earn it, Fi,” Perky says somberly. “Honey, you saved those kids. You averted tragedy! You literally used your body to protect them. And you succeeded. Those parents took up a collection for you, Michelle, and Ani for a reason. Because you earned it.”
“But this isn't how I want to earn anything!” I explode, my voice loud enough to make several diners at other tables turn and look. “I'm more worried about the children than about making money!”
