Misconduct

by Penelope Douglas

  After pulling into the carport, my driver got out to open our doors, but Christian swung his door open first and bolted out, obviously still angry that he’d lost his phone.

  I hadn’t planned on keeping it, but since he’d chosen to be disrespectful, I might, after all.

  His mother had said that I needed to earn his love, and that may be true – he had no reason to like me, and I knew that – but I wouldn’t coddle him, either. He’d show his elders respect, because it was good manners. If I tried to get his love first, he might never take me seriously.

  Or he might not, either way. I really had no idea what I was doing.

  I watched Christian barrel into the house by the side door, and I waved off Patrick when he tried to open my door. Picking up the papers I’d collected when I’d visited all of Christian’s teachers, I handed them to my brother.

  “His syllabi,” I explained. “Find them online and download them to my phone, and then enter the important dates on my calendar as well as all of the teachers’ contact information,” I told him.

  He nodded once. “Consider it done,” he said, flipping through the papers.

  My brother was my campaign manager, having left his position at my company to handle my political interests full-time last spring. He also tried to do anything that made my life easier.

  “Is this her?” he asked, stopping on one set of papers. “Easton Bradbury?”

  Her? And then I remembered that Christian had mentioned her name about the phone battery.

  Jay slipped the papers into his briefcase and started typing quickly on his phone.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Googling her,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I breathed out a quiet laugh I was sure he didn’t hear. Thank goodness for my brother and his tech savviness. He researched everything and everyone, and I was better for it. But I didn’t require his interference when it came to my son.

  I moved to get out but stopped when he spoke up.

  “Twenty-three years old, summa cum laude from Loyola University —”

  “I don’t care.” I cut him off, stepping out of the car.

  But the truth was, I kind of did care. I liked my memory of her and hadn’t enjoyed a woman nearly as much since our night together, and we’d only talked. Her mystery made the attraction more fun, and I didn’t want that ruined.

  Easton was a woman I’d wanted in my bed, but Ms. Bradbury was off-limits.

  The lines were there, clear as day, and not to be breached. For the sake of my son and my career.

  “How’s my week looking?” I changed the subject as I entered the large kitchen through the side door.

  “You’re booked solid Monday through Wednesday between the office and meetings.” He slammed the door behind him and followed me through the kitchen and down the hallway, past the living room and media room.

  “But Thursday and Friday are calm,” he went on, “and I confirmed your dinner this weekend with Miss McAuliffe. If you’re still up for it,” he added.

  “Of course I am.” I pulled off my tie, entering my den and slipping off my jacket.

  Tessa McAuliffe was uncomplicated and low-maintenance. She was beautiful, discreet, and good in bed, and while my brother had encouraged me to form a steady relationship with her – or anyone – to help my campaign, I simply wouldn’t be pushed into changing my life for a vote.

  Getting into the Senate was important to me, but while I enjoyed Tessa’s company for what it was, I didn’t love her and didn’t have the time to try.

  And surprisingly, she never gave the impression she wasn’t okay with that.

  She was a producer and anchor for a local morning show, and from day one, there were never any misconceptions about what was expected from either of us. On occasion we met for dinner and then ended the evening in a hotel room. That was it.

  Afterward, I’d call on her again when I felt the need. Or she’d call me. It never went beyond that.

  I briefly contemplated seeking a serious relationship when I’d first started campaigning. Most voters wanted to see candidates representing good family values in their own homes – spouse and children – but I had been focused on work, and I refused to force my private life.

  My son, my unmarried status, my thoughts about what it would be like to possibly have more children someday – once I’d proven I could parent the child I already had, of course – were private matters and no one else’s business. Why the hell did it matter when it came to my ability to serve?

  “The kid ate dinner, right?” I asked him, rounding my desk and turning on my computer.

  He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed his briefcase onto one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I had Patrick take him to Lebanon Café before the open house.”

  Patrick was a fan of falafels and Christian seemed to love anything with hummus. It was the second time in the past week they’d eaten dinner together. I reminded myself to make sure I was home for supper tomorrow night, though. With the fucking impromptu meeting with my father earlier, I’d had Patrick drop Christian off at the open house, telling him I had a city planner’s meeting instead of that I was being grilled by my father.

  At thirty-five, I still answered to him, and while as a son I hated it, I could appreciate it as a father. My dad had been a good parent. I only wished the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree.

  “All right, let’s get to work.”

  I poured myself a drink at the small bar against the wall, and Jay and I spent the next two hours condensing a list of meetings to be set up with the who’s who of political influence in the city. Unfortunately, campaigns fed off donations, and I’d insisted early on using my own money, because I hated asking anyone for anything.

  After events and meetings were added to the calendar, I let Jay go home, and I stayed up refining my speech for the Knights of Columbus on Wednesday.

  I rubbed the fine stubble on my jaw, wondering if Christian would like to come with me to one of these events. I couldn’t imagine he’d find it interesting, but it might be a way for him to see what I did and to spend time together.

  I shook my head, standing up and switching off my lamp.

  I wanted too many things.

  That was the problem. Too many goals and not enough time.

  I’d been an arrogant and irresponsible twenty-year-old when Christian was born. I’d wanted what I’d wanted, and I’d blown off consequences, even after he was born. Now I knew the price of my actions, and it was a matter of having to choose. I knew I couldn’t have everything I wanted, but I still didn’t like making choices.

  Leaving the room, I headed upstairs for my bedroom, but stopped, seeing the glow of a lamp coming out of Christian’s cracked door down the hall.

  Walking down to his room, I pushed the door open and saw him passed out on his stomach, fully clothed on top of the covers.

  I went over and gazed down at him, feeling the same tightening in my chest that I’d felt in the car.

  He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in calm, even breaths with his head turned to one side. The two ever-present creases between his eyes were gone, and his black hair had gotten rumpled, now covering his forehead and sitting close to his eyes. I remembered seeing him once as a baby, looking almost exactly the same.

  But back then he’d smiled all the time. Now he was always angry.

  I sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling a spare blanket up over him.

  Staring down, I felt my shoulders relax as I rested my elbows on my knees. “I know this is awkward,” I told him, whispering. “It’s different for both of us, but I want you here.”

  He shifted, twisting his head away toward the wall, still sleeping. I reached out to touch him but stopped short and got up instead, leaving the room.

  I shook my head as I tore off my clothes and made my way to my bedroom.

  Why was it so much easier to be with him when
he didn’t know I was there?

  I headed a multimillion-dollar corporation. I’d traveled in every hemisphere and climbed a volcano when I was eighteen. I had some of the most intimidating people eating out of the palm of my fucking hand, so why was I afraid of my own kid? I stepped into my bedroom, tossing my shirt and tie onto a chair and slipping off the rest of my clothes.

  All of the hardwood surfaces in the room – from the floors to the furniture – shined with the soft glow of the bedside table lamp, and I walked across the ornate area rug, running my hand through my hair and trying to figure out what to do with him.

  His mother, despite her animosity toward me, was a good parent, and Christian got along with her. She was strict and provided routine, and that’s what I needed to do for Christian.

  And that not only included him but me as well. I needed to be home for meals. Or at least more meals. And I needed to be consistent. Checking his homework, attending his sports games, and staying on top of where he was and what he was doing.

  I’d asked for this, after all. I’d fought him and his mother to keep him in the country this year.

  I climbed into the shower, rolling my neck under the hot spray of the dual showerheads and letting it relax the tense muscles in my shoulders and back.

  Easton.

  I should Google her. She was a fucking mystery, and she was teaching my kid.

  I grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over my chest and arms, thinking about how she’d behaved six months ago compared to tonight. Different but very much the same. In control, sexy, but with a distance I couldn’t put my finger on. It was almost as if she were a reflection in a mirror. There but not really real.

  Almost as if she were still wearing that mask.

  I should’ve kissed her that night. I should’ve looked down into those blue eyes and watched her lose control when I shut her up and made her melt like I wanted to.

  What I wouldn’t give to strip off those prim clothes I’d seen tonight, pin her to the bed, and…

  I sucked in a breath, slamming my hand into the marble wall to support myself.

  Shit.

  I swallowed, gasping for breath as I smoothed my wet hand over the top of my head.

  Looking down, I saw the stretched skin of my cock, begging for release as it pulsed and throbbed.

  Slamming the knob to the left, I breathed hard under the sudden rush of cold water, clenching my teeth in frustration.

  Easton Bradbury was off-limits.

  And don’t forget it.

  FOUR

  EASTON

  “

  O

  kay, so…” I started, slowly stalking between the rows of desks and smiling at the printout of a Facebook post in my hand. “The question posed in the Facebook group yesterday that received the most responses was ‘Why did men ever stop wearing tights? I would’ve rocked that,’ ” I read to the class.

  The freshman boys broke out in snorts while the girls giggled, remembering the lengthy conversation some of them had carried on last night.

  Marcus Matthews popped up and jumped onto his chair, holding his hands up in the air and smiling as he soaked in the praise and taking credit for his question last night.

  I shook my head, amused. “Sit down,” I ordered, shooting my pointed finger from him to the chair. “Now.”

  He laughed, but quickly jumped down and took his seat, the rest of the class still voicing their amusement behind him.

  During the three weeks since school had started, we’d moved quickly through the curriculum and had been studying the independence of America, the founding fathers, and the Revolutionary War, hence the men-in-tights question.

  Out of all the activities I’d planned to engage them, the social media requirements were the most successful. The parents had all received a lengthy letter after the first day, explaining the rhyme and reason to social media in the classroom. The students – per school rule – were already required to have laptops, which made it even more convenient to jump online anytime we wanted without the need for a computer lab. And it fit in perfectly with my goal of educating students to live in the digital world.

  Social media was a necessary evil.

  There were certainly dangers, and there had been a lot of apprehension from parents at first, but once I’d called and e-mailed to smooth over any resistance, all was well. They eventually understood my position, and most parents found great enjoyment in seeing the class’s interactions online, given that they weren’t able to see the students’ engagement in the classroom.

  Parents and students were invited to join our private Facebook group, where I posted assignments, discussion questions, and pictures of what happened in class or videos of presentations. Over the days and weeks, participation grew exponentially as parents were able to take a bigger role in their children’s education and see not only their children’s work but others’ as well.

  Not that students should be compared, but I found it a great motivator when parents saw the work of students who held the bar higher.

  We also had Twitter accounts and a Twitter board in the classroom, as well as private Pinterest boards, where students and parents could brainstorm and collectively gather research.

  Only a few parents were still uncooperative – I glanced at Christian Marek, seeing him slouch at his desk – so I did my best to make accommodations.

  But I knew those students still felt left out. I had considered the possibility of abandoning the entire method, because I didn’t want anyone hurt, but once I saw the participation and benefit, I refused. I’d simply have to get through to the parents.

  I allowed myself a small smile, grinning at Marcus’s pride in himself. But the silence off to the back where Christian sat was almost more deafening than the students’ excitement.

  He stared at his laptop screen, looking half angry and half bored. I couldn’t figure him out. I knew he had friends. I’d seen him eating with other kids at lunch and playing on the field, laughing and joking.

  But in the classroom – or my classroom, anyway – it was like he wasn’t even here. He performed well on take-home assignments, but he never participated in discussions and he did poorly on quizzes and tests. Anything that took place in the classroom was unsuccessful.

  I’d tried talking to him, but I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I was going to have to come to terms with the options I was left with to help him.

  Like calling his father, which I should’ve already done but hadn’t found the guts.

  I turned back to the class, refocusing my attention. “Congratulations, Mr. Matthews.” I nodded, teasing Marcus. “While your question was meant to be funny – no doubt – it did spark some interesting comments about the history of attire.”

  I rounded the front of the classroom and leaned back on my desk. “Since fashion is a very popular topic, we also delved into the history of women’s fashion, and that led to a debate on feminism,” I reminded them. “Now, of course, fashion wasn’t a topic I was supposed to teach you this year.” I smiled. “But you were critically thinking and you saw how topics like these are interrelated. You were discussing, comparing, and contrasting…” I sighed, eyeing them with amusement before I continued. “And it certainly wasn’t boring to read your responses, so good job.”

  The class cheered, and Marcus shouted out, “So do we get Song of the Week?” He lifted his eyebrows in expectation.

  “When your team has earned fifty points,” I reiterated the rule. I rewarded them individually, but I also had a team incentive, which allowed their group to pick one song to play in class once they’d reached fifty points, if all work was turned in and they demonstrated good citizenship online and in the classroom.

  I walked to the Smart Board – today’s version of a chalkboard – and picked up a stylus, tapping the board to activate it. The projector fed the image from my computer, and all of the students’ numbers appeared on the board, ready to receive their responses.

  “Don’t forget” �
� I glanced up as I replaced the stylus – “group five is sending current-events tweets before seven p.m. this evening. Once reviewed, I will retweet them for you,” I told them, seeing Christian talking to the girl next to him out of the corner of my eye.

  “You are to pick one, read and reflect, and turn in your one-page, typed assignment – twelve-point font, Times New Roman, not Courier New,” I specified, knowing their trick of using a bigger font, “and have that to me by Friday. Any questions?”

  Mumbles in the negative sounded from around the room, and I nodded. “Okay, grab your responders. Pop quiz.”

  “I have a question.” I heard someone speak up. “When are we going to use the textbooks?”

  I looked up, seeing Christian’s eyes on me as the other students switched on their remotelike devices, which I used to record their multiple-choice answers instead of paper and pencil.

  I stood up straight, inquiring, “Would you prefer to use the textbooks?”

  But Marcus blurted out a response instead. “No,” he answered, turning his head to Christian. “Dude, shut up.”

  Christian cocked an eyebrow, keeping cool as he ignored his classmate. “The textbooks are provided by the school. They have the curriculum we’re supposed to learn, right?” he asked almost as an accusation.

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “So why aren’t we using them?” he pressed.

  I inhaled a long, slow breath, careful to keep my expression even.

  Kids will challenge us, test boundaries, and throw us curveballs, I was told. Keep your cool, treat every kid like they’re your own, and never let them see you falter. Christian certainly challenged me on all those levels.

  Not only was he not performing up to his potential in class, but he also challenged me on occasion. Whether it be tardiness, flippant behavior, or distracting other students, he seemed to have a penchant for disobedience.

  And as much as he tried to hinder me from doing my job, the person I was outside of the classroom couldn’t help but admire him a little.

  I knew from experience that misbehavior came from a need for control when you lacked it in other venues. And while I sympathized with him – and whatever he wasn’t getting at home or elsewhere – he clearly thought he could get away with it here.