by Kristy Marie
“How early?”
“After the holidays.”
One month from now. He doesn’t have to break it down for me, I already know how long until the holiday break. I, like most teachers, count down to the blessed time off from the beginning of the school year.
“What about Tim?” I ask him.
“I’m not sure. We’re looking for alternative positions for the both of you.”
Alternative positions my ass. I have looked. There aren’t any new positions.
“Tim could help Ms. Peak,” I suggest. “He has a degree in music, and she’s getting close to retirement.”
He nods and says, “I’ll look into it. I’m sorry, Milah. I wish I could do more.”
I wish he could do more too.
I went back to class feeling like a giant pile of loser and ran smack into Martha Man-Eater chatting up Tim!
It was the first time I cried at school.
Tim isn’t mine. I’m going to leave him in a matter of weeks, and even though I wished a yeast infection on Martha, I didn’t interrupt her giggling conversation with the man of my dreams. I watched as she prattled on and on about his stupid arms when he did it. When he sent my calm facade down the toilet.
He fucking smiled at her.
Smiled!
I tried for weeks to get him to smile at me. Weeks! And twat monkey, Martha, compliments his muscled arms and he suddenly flashes her the smile. The smile that would have made my mami fan herself and make the sign of the cross while she dramatically prayed, “Madre Santísima.”
Tim didn’t do it on purpose. He probably had gas. You know how infants smile when they have gas? That had to be it, because no way did he fall for Martha’s bullshit.
But he smiled at her and it broke my damn heart.
And it shouldn’t. I know this. I am truly leaving, and I have no right to get jealous over Martha trying to swoop in on my man. Tim deserves to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.
“Why?” I whine, half talking to my car and half to Tim while banging my palm against the steering wheel. I should have listened to Felipe when he’d suggested getting a bike instead of a car. “Your calves are looking a bit… nonexistent,” he mused with a slightly disgusted look on his face. “Instead of spending your money on this piece-of-shit car, you could invest in calf implants and a Huffy.”
Obviously, I did not go with the Huffy. Even if my calves were in desperate need of some muscle, my four-inch designer heels were not. Some things in life are worth splurging for. In the case of short-girl syndrome, my money is spent on shoes rather than defined calves.
The heap of junk sputters one last time just as I coast off the road. Great. Just great. Now what? Sighing, I turn on the hazard lights and root around in my purse for my phone. The home screen is of me and Felipe dancing or rather flossing after way too many shots of Tequila. I look happy. And skinny. The two things that matter most in a home screen pic. Yesterday, I was debating changing it to this total stalkerish picture of Tim in bed, his face serene as he slept with his enormous muscled arm draped over my stomach as if he were preventing me from leaving, but I didn’t. I’d rather keep that photo all to myself.
Swiping the screen, I bring up Felipe’s contact and press the green phone icon to call him. “You’ve reached a voice mail I will never check. Text me a dick pic and I might call you back.”
Great.
Looks like I’m walking home.
Hope you’re ready, calves, you’re about to be used against protest.
I snatch the keys from the ignition and contemplate just throwing them as far as I can.
I want to be an interpreter when I grow up. Great thinking, Milah. You should be able to retire off that salary for sure. Dumbass.
Deciding not to throw my keys—because, let’s be real, I can’t afford another car—I stash them in my oversized purse and get out, manually locking the door. I get maybe fifty steps up the hill before I’m sweating and thinking I would never have made it up this hill on a bike. Felipe had way too much faith in my endurance. Walking home is so not going to happen. I’d rather risk it and hitchhike. If someone stops and murders me on an abandoned road, then the torture would be less than what it is now.
I start walking and pull out my phone again. My fingers want to dial Tim. He was quiet and standoffish for the remainder of the day, but I didn’t mind because I wasn’t much in the mood to talk either. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I felt like I wouldn’t be of any help.
A car crests over the hill, and I move off the roadway. I’m woman enough to admit I’m a little scared. I talked a bunch of smack earlier about hitchhiking, but I’m not in the mood to be someone’s sex slave any time soon. I still like a tight—
“Milah?”
I release a breath. Cal.
“You okay?”
I hug my purse close to my body. “Yeah,” I lie, a little breathily. It’s not cold for December. Frankly, it’s a bit muggy and I’m out of shape. “My car broke down.”
“You need a ride to the fundraiser?”
“Fundraiser?” I try not to act too confused.
It doesn’t work. Cal’s forehead wrinkles. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you would be meeting Tim at the foundation. He’s helping host the car wash for the music class.” He shakes his head slowly, and I imagine my expression is like one of those cartoons where steam comes out of their ears.
“Is Martha helping too?”
Yeah, you know where my head went.
Cal scratches his chin. “I think so. Her daughter plays the clarinet.”
Hell no. Hell to the fucking no. I flash Cal a grin that, I’m sure, looks crazy. “Then yes. The foundation is exactly where I am heading.”
I will cut a bitch. I know I just whined about Tim needing someone else, but I will be damned if that vulture moves in on him any more today. He’s still mine for four more weeks! I race around the front of Cal’s responsible sedan and flop down.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks when I pull off my sweater, leaving me in only the cami I had underneath. I adjust his air, blowing it directly on my face, and then I move to my sweaty hair where I’m able to sweep it up into a decent bun given the limited mirror space. “I’m fine,” I tell him. Just forking fine. If Martha thinks she can watch my man get all wet and scrub her high-end tires with his killer biceps, then she is in for a rude awakening.
“Okay,” Cal adds softly. “Do you want me to call you a tow?”
I almost blurt out no and that I plan on pushing it in the lake with Martha’s cold corpse inside, but refrain. “That’s okay. Felipe knows a guy.” A free one. “I’ll get him to call when I get to the foundation.” As soon as I make sure Martha’s hands are only on her wallet, donating to the children.
Cal’s nod is curt, and I don’t bother dealing with it. All I can manage is taking a few deep breaths and making sure I don’t look rabid while getting out of the car when we pull into the McCallister-Jameson Foundation.
The first thing I notice when Cal and I get out is the six wash stations roped off with tape. Each station has one of Tim’s brothers leading the wash except for one. That one, I notice, has two—Cade washing the car and Theo lounging in a chair. Coincidentally, their line is the longest, but only by a car or two. It would speed things up if Theo helped, but he looks content with his aviators on and a nice sheen from the droplets of water hitting his chest. “You’re doing great, Jameson,” he teases.
Cade, his shirt still on and clinging to his muscular frame, shakes his head. “You know, Von Bremen, you could actually help.”
“Why can’t we just donate the money? I’ve never understood the purpose behind all the manual labor.”
Cade stops washing this lady’s hood. “You’re supposed to teach children that money is earned through hard work.”
Theo’s face scrunches up like he tasted something nasty. “I worked hard, Jameson. I didn’t get to the Major Leagues by blowing the administration. Don’t lec
ture me. I’m rich because I earned it. And because of that, I don’t have to be out here washing other people’s cars for the sake of saying I broke a sweat.”
I move toward the guys, intending on asking them where Tim is. He better not be cornered by Martha.
“Hey, we’re in line,” one of the ladies barks.
“They’re family,” I lie, pointing toward Theo and Cade. They’re semi-family. At least for another month. The woman, who really doesn’t need to be watching them, doesn’t look like she believes me, and that’s okay because Theo spots me and a huge grin pulls onto his face.
“Well, well. Look, Jameson. This snooze-fest just got a whole lot more interesting.” Theo sprays off the hood Cade just finished while spraying Cade on purpose, sending a collective sigh through the women watching.
“Who’s your friend, darlin’?” Hayes’s gaze is locked on someone past my shoulder. I turn just in time to see Tim rise from where he was crouched, washing a rim. His eyes go to the person behind me too. “Cal,” he grumbles. “Nice of you to come.” Is he strangling the rag clutched in his hand?
Cal clears his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late. Milah’s car broke down, so I picked her up.”
Theo rises from his chair, and Cade stands up to his full height. What are they doing?
“Darlin’, why don’t you go inside with Ms. Peak and the other ladies?” Hayes says, blocking my view to Tim.
“I want to talk to him,” I argue. Actually, I want to fuck him senseless for just getting on my nerves and making me worry when I already had a bad day, but I can’t say that in front of all these kids and parents.
Hayes signs something behind his back, and my blood pressure skyrockets. “What are you saying to him?”
“Milah,” Cal says softly. “Go inside so we can finish up.”
“Fine,” I tell them all, “but tell Mr. Lambros I will be back for our chat.”
No one moves or even looks at me. Tim is blocked by his brothers, and the unsuspecting moms simply hum as the testosterone forms a blanket of mist around us.
Fine. Whatever. My feet hurt.
Inside, the house is bustling with parents and kids. Breck is in the kitchen handing out snacks in the shape of music notes when I enter. “Those are precious,” I tell her.
She flashes me a wholesome smile. “Thank you. I like themes.”
Anniston wipes Aspen’s face with a cloth. “How many more cars do you guess they have left?”
I shrug. “The lines are still up the driveway.”
Anniston looks at Breck. “Do you want to go help?”
Their grins are conspiratorial. “Cade said I better not leave this house in anything other than a hoodie and jeans.”
Anniston waves away her comment. “Please. Cade isn’t going to do anything with so many witnesses around.”
Breck giggles. “I don’t think so. Well,” she adds with a grin before shaking her head and dismissing the thought. “Not today. He’s been next-level crazy since I’ve been pregnant. I’m afraid if I test him, he might not care if there are witnesses.”
I agree. Cade is a big dude. Much like Tim, they both look pretty damn scary when they’re mad.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I add. “They all seem to be in a mood since I arrived.”
Anniston cocks her head to the side thoughtfully. “Oh?”
I nod. “Tim didn’t even tell me about the fundraiser. If Cal hadn’t stopped to pick me up, then I would have never known.”
Breck pulls out a stool beside me and sits. “Oh no. Another man brought you?” Her tone seems worried.
I bet that damn wrinkle Tim always talks about forms when I tell her defensively. “My car broke down. I tried to call Pe, but it went to voice mail. I was about to call Tim when Cal drove by.”
Anniston’s eyes widen. “You might want to stay in here for a while; at least until he calms down.”
A while was three solid hours. I’d managed to track down Marcus who said he would take care of my car. Then I learned how to make peach cobbler with Breck before the car wash lines cleared out.
“Good luck,” Anniston tells me as she and Breck pack Aspen’s diaper bag for an evening out with family.
I roll my eyes, waving away her concern. “Tim will be fine. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”
And it is, until Tim has to act all shitty and alpha male when I finally go outside to confront him once everyone leaves. I eye him from across his car while he washes the hood. He refuses to look at me.
Okay, I see how this is going to be. “You missed a spot,” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work. It only earns me a glare from across the hood.
Fine. He wants to play ugly, then we’ll play ugly.
We wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t ignored me all day—I only ignored him a little—and smiled at Martha. I wouldn’t have had to come with Cal just because I was jealous. Okay, so it was a clusterfuck of things. I was basically given a pink slip, my car broke down, and Martha made me jealous. The whole “not telling me about the fundraiser” thing is just fuel to my already stoked fire.
But I blow on it anyway, lighting up the space between us with ridiculousness.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I bark.
The words come out before I can stop them. I realize I’m not part of the music program, but Tim isn’t either. Not technically. We just take up Ms. Peak’s lunch hour by practicing and using all of her free time. Tim and I aren’t together-together so I shouldn’t expect him to send me a personal invite to help with the fundraiser. He’s allowed to do things without me, even if my heart disagrees.
She (my heart) even had mild palpitations when we drove up and found a line backed down the driveway with waiting supporters (see definition of drooling band moms). The point is, I’m hurt. Tim and I might just be coworkers with benefits, but I would have come and supported him and the school who is firing me next month.
“I should be ashamed?” His voice booms across the Jeep.
Whoa. Slow your roll, sexy. No one needs me getting turned on against this car, but I will if he keeps looking at me with those thick, arched eyebrows; looking at me as if he’s mad or that I’m wrong for my comment, or something ridiculous like that.
I’m not. Trust me when I tell you, I am never wrong in my interpretation of situations.
I pull my hands up and over the hood so he can see me sign the words as I speak. “Yes, you should be ashamed. More than ashamed, actually.”
Those eyebrows rise even farther up his forehead.
Maybe I exaggerated a bit.
Maybe I am a tad salty he didn’t invite me.
Maybe I am slightly—just slightly—jealous that he spent hours out here, shirtless, washing these band mom’s cars while they sat ogling, coming up with all the creative things they would do to his body while their husbands were on work trips. Okay, fine, some are probably single, but that’s not the point. I’m his preceptor. He works for me. Well, not technically. Okay, this is really veering off track, but Tim’s adorable brown eyes are narrowed and his cheek twitches. Interpretation: he’s mad as fuck.
Standing taller, the soles of my feet aching from standing so long, I dig my hole deeper as the jealous bullshit continues to flow out of my mouth with absolutely no filter.
“You should be disciplined. This”—I make a sweeping motion with my hand—“is a school event.”
Oh, God, just stop, Milah.
I nod. “Yeah. A school event. You are working in the capacity of an employee of the school.”
Yes, queen. Now you are making a little bit of sense.
“And when you are working as an employee who is not yet out of the probationary period, you must have your preceptor with you at all times.”
Finishing the signs, I rest my hands on the hood and smile up to meet the eyes of one pissed-off male.
“Are you finished?” he grates out, wiping his hand along his chest as if he isn’t sure he wants to sign his n
ext words.
I tilt my chin, firm and confident in my ridiculous excuse to start an argument with him.
“First off,” he says, clearer than usual, “I was not acting in the capacity of an employee.”
I know that, but I couldn’t very well say I’m just pissed off at you for not inviting me, now could I? I shrug like I don’t agree.
He scoffs, shaking his head and swiping his fingers along his lips. It’s not sexy. Especially when he follows those same lips with his tongue.
Totally not sexy.
Love a man that uses lip balm to moisturize, not one who does it with his tongue.
“Second, even if I was, then my preceptor”—his eyes narrow into an annoyed squint—“showing up in a top that is clearly see-through—” I try to interrupt and argue, but he shushes me by holding up one finger and flashing me an animalistic look that does nothing to dry my panties. “It’s my turn to talk now.”
I make a face.
Fine. Speak, papi. Even though you shouldn’t. Seriously, my body is already flushed, and I feel pretty sure it isn’t from the heat.
“As I was saying, a see-through shirt and a skirt that barely covers the employee’s ass—”
“That is not true! This skirt comes to my fingertips.”
That damn finger goes up again, and he makes a shh sound.
I clench my teeth together to keep from saying anything else until he finishes lying.
“And said preceptor—if she was acting in the capacity of a preceptor—would have known how unprepared she looked showing up to supervise her charge when her five-inch heels kept sinking into the wet grass and when she bent over, getting out of Cal’s car, flashing her ass to her students and all the horny men here.”
Let’s get one thing straight. I did not mean for the sponge to hit his face when my crazy kicked in. Who knew there was a bucket within my reach? Who knew I had such a good arm?
Obviously, I didn’t mean it. I clearly didn’t aim. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have hit that pretty face of his. I would have gone for something a little lower. But, alas, such is my luck.
We both go silent when the sponge lands on the hood in one glorious splat. Wide-eyed, I stare on in horror as the bubbles and water droplets drip delicately through the scruff on his face.
