by E. R. Whyte
Swish goes the paint brush. I smear the paint in wide swathes of scarlet, the red appearing gray in the dark. My message won’t be missed, contrasting as it does against the pale cinder block walls.
Slut.
Her behavior is unacceptable. I’ve tolerated the strip club, because I understood why she did it, and she was careful not to allow anyone to touch her. Not until recently, that is. Women pushed to their limits will resort to desperate behavior. I can save her from that, rescue her from herself. My cock tightens at the thought of her gratitude, and I take a moment to adjust myself.
Whore.
Swish. I’ve been so patient, watching her from a respectful distance, learning all her likes and dislikes, all the little things that make her tick. They might have found my bugs and cameras, but they did their job. I know her taste for those sweet little sleep shorts, that ratty tee shirt that’s half falling apart. When she’s with me, I’ll dress her in silks. I know how she likes to take a long, steamy bath at night, and then rub lotion into her skin afterward.
I know she loves me, even if she hasn’t said it yet. I see it shining in her eyes every time she dances for me.
She hasn’t been there recently, though, and I must correct that. It’s clear that she does not understand who she belongs to, why she is there. Who she’s dancing for. All those nights in the peep box, she was mine. Bought by me. Instructed by me in my desires. She angered me when she failed to tell me she loved me when we were there last.
That can’t happen again.
Student Fucker.
Swish. My lip curls at the offense. I know she’s fucking him. I watched them together the other day, saw his familiarity with her. Her acceptance of his touch, even the subtlest brush of his hand against hers. They think I don’t see, but I do.
As angry as I am, though, I can’t help getting hot at the idea of punishing her for it. Having a reason to punish her. In many ways, she’s been too perfect. This tears the veil away. My pretty little Shiloh isn’t quite so perfect, is she? If I don’t rein her in, she’ll be just like all those other cunts. Worthless sluts.
I can’t wait to see those hazel eyes fill with tears when I tighten a silken rope around her wrists and flog her until she weeps. I already have the perfect spot for it. It’s ready for her, just waiting for me to bring her in and show her everything I’ve been dreaming of for so long. It’s going to be perfect.
She’s going to beg me for it.
Yes, I need to bring her to heel, and be swift about it.
I decide to leave her a taste of what she has to look forward to. Pulling myself from my pants, I position myself against a wall, close my eyes, and cement an image of her in my mind’s eye. She’s on her knees, hands tied, and utterly at my mercy as I drive into her, making her scream and moan and beg every time. I come after a few pumps and jet my cum onto the wall in ropey streams, enhancing the message I’ve left for her. As I zip up, I eye my work in satisfaction.
There’s no way she’ll miss the truth of who she belongs to now. No excuses, no denials. She’s mine; I know it.
Now she’ll know it.
33
Shiloh
Rain is pouring when I get to school the next morning, cold rivulets of it finding their way past the collar of my coat to course down my neck. I shudder as I run inside, heels clacking on the tile in the near-empty halls, canvas bag thumping against my hip. There’s hardly ever anyone around this time of morning, which suits me. I’m not a people person at the best of times. Prior to coffee, I tend to sport a definitive resting bitch face.
Bitch face is going to be particularly rocking today, I have a feeling. The nasty weather, combined with the creepy text I received this morning, are working on me. I’ve almost gotten to the point where I can tuck the texts and other things away, shut them up so I deal with them as I feel ready. Almost.
This one, though. I could never tuck this one away. I’m going to have to show this one to Gunner, and probably the police, as well. It’s going to cause a lot of trouble, and I’m going to have to listen to everyone run their mouths about it and dissect it to death for God knows how long. All the talk and analysis will accomplish exactly nothing.
But I can’t avoid it.
Because it’s not just me this time.
Unknown: This is your one and only warning. Get rid of the boy you’re so fascinated with, or I will.
The threat to Gunner is obvious, and if I judge according to what the stalker has done so far, it’s real. We’d be wise to pay attention, a fact that pisses me off considering the all too obvious end goal—to isolate me.
Remove anyone that could help me. Anyone that could protect me.
Down the hall, I spot Shane leaning against the wall outside my classroom and groan under my breath. Torn between a feeling of vindication and shame at my bitchiness the night before, I am not prepared to deal with him right now. Ducking into the faculty bathroom, I drop my bag on the floor and lean on the sink, studying my reflection in the mirror as I give myself a minute.
My hair, a deeper reddish brown than usual because of the rain, curls around my face and drips water on my coat. I take my time braiding it into a long rope to get it out of the way. Freckles stand out against the winter paleness of my skin, making me look young and vulnerable. I wish I’d spared a few minutes for make-up this morning, not liking that edge of vulnerability. All in all, I’m a mess and not a hot one. With a sigh, I pick up my bag and exit the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. I never seem to look older or more mature, no matter what I do to myself.
Shane is still waiting. Firming my shoulders, I make my way to him. Maybe I can take this as an opportunity to apologize, but ensure he understands that I will not ever be interested in him that way again. His face, though… what an odd expression.
“Good morning, Shane. Everything okay?”
“Not exactly,” he replies. His voice sounds like regret.
I move past him to unlock my door, pausing when I realize it’s unlocked already. “Shane?”
“Hold up a minute, Shiloh.” He’s talking, but it’s too late. His words run together in my ears, a rush of sound that becomes indistinguishable as my eyes settle on the scene before me.
All I see is red. The words slapped across my walls are red. Red like blood, of course—such a cliché. Red like roses. Red like the light strobing against the back of the eyelids I’ve closed to block out the sight, beating out a metaphoric message. Stop. Stop. Stop.
Whore.
Slut.
Student fucker?
Shane’s parting words of last night come back to me. Be sure, Shiloh. Be sure. I feel a tear forming at the corner of my eye and swat at it in rage. Did he do this? Is he capable of that kind of filth and fury? “Did you do this?” He shakes his head. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know,” Shane says. He tries to tug me away with a hand on my elbow. “We will find out, though. Mr. Kline wants to talk with you. He sent me to wait for you.” His voice is gentle, and for some reason it ratchets my anger up another degree. I bet inwardly he’s dancing with glee over this, rejoicing in my shame. I jerk my elbow free.
“I want to know who’s responsible for this, and I want to know, now.” Pushing past Shane, I march for the office.
A short while later, I sit in Mr. Kline’s office and struggle to remain impassive. I am pushing the fear and disgust and rage as far down as possible to keep it from bleeding out in the set of my mouth, every flicker of my eyes, every tell-tale inflection in my voice.
But I am scared. I am ashamed. And I am enraged.
I sit silently as Mr. Kline lashes at me without cessation, a stray word here and there causing me to flinch.
“… appalling lack of professionalism…”
“... scandalous behavior… a strip club!”
“… weakness of character…”
Shane doesn’t leave. He sits beside Mr. Kline, a pseudo-concerned expression on his f
ace as he steeples his fingers beneath his chin and nods at intervals. Maybe he’s interviewing later for an assistant principalship. Maybe it was he who brought the information to Mr. Kline, and he was told he needed to stay. I don’t know, but it feels strange and invasive and I do not like it.
“Excuse me.” I interrupt and the principal pauses. “Where did you come by this information?”
He purses his lips. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“I have a right to face my accuser!”
“You will have your opportunity. We are first conducting an investigation—”
I cut him off with a slash of my hand. “Who am I supposedly involved with?” I’ve been so careful, I think. I’ve told him no, over and over.
Kline appears uncomfortable. “I’ve been informed that you and Gunner Ford are involved.”
“I see. You are aware, correct, that he is one of my younger brother’s best friends? That I’ve known him since I was thirteen years old?”
“Well, no—”
“Am I being fired before these ridiculous claims are even investigated properly?”
“Ms. Brookings, we cannot have an instructor with any shadow of taint around our impressionable students. If the investigation turns up nothing of consequence, you will of course be invited to return. At the moment, though, we must get a long-term substitute in for you…” He shuffles papers on his desk. “It’s quite inconvenient, if I do say…we have three teachers out on maternity leave at the moment.”
I stand. I can’t listen to this any longer without screaming. “Will you be terminating my employment or am I resigning?”
Mr. Kline looks taken aback. “As I said, neither at the moment. We are instigating a leave of absence while the school board investigates.”
“Here are a few pertinent facts for your investigation.” I pause and take a deep breath.
“One. Shane here — whose presence in this office is invasive and unwarranted—has been obsessing over me since high school. He has asked me out repeatedly and has not done well with rejection.
“Two. I have a documented stalker. Documented, as in, on file with the police. Do I find it interesting that Shane asked me out just last night, was turned down, and then we all walk into this today? Why, yes, I certainly do.”
“Now, wait just a minute —” Shane sputters, open-mouthed, and I roll right past it.
“Three. If — and this is purely hypothetical from this point forward, mind you — if I was involved with Gunner Ford, I would like to remind you that he is nineteen years-old and a consenting adult by law.”
“Now, Shiloh, you know it isn’t that simple.”
I ignore the principal’s interjection. Of course, I know it’s not that simple. I’ve been debating myself and Gunner for weeks now. “Four. If — again, purely hypothetical—if I chose to work as a stripper to make enough money to make up for any gaps in my salary as a teacher, maybe… just maybe… this county should consider doing something about the state of teacher salaries so teachers don’t find themselves quite so desperate.” I gather my bag. “Did you get all of that?”
“I think we have everything we need.” Mr. Kline is red-faced and angry.
“You’ll have my resignation on your desk this afternoon.”
Pivoting, I leave while my dignity is still intact. I will not beg; I’ll offer no justifications. Those sanctimonious pricks don’t deserve it. Plus, I’m fairly certain that asshat Shane engineered the entire thing.
When I stalk into my classroom a few minutes later, I’m so angry it takes me a moment to register Gunner sitting behind my desk, sprawled out in my rolling chair. He offers me a small smile. “Rough morning?”
That’s it. That’s all it takes. Stepping out of my heels, I loose a sharp sound of frustration and bend to snatch them up. The red streaks of paint in my peripheral, I fling first one and then the second with all the force I have at the man lounging in my seat. It does nothing to salve my irritation when he deflects the first and catches the second with ease.
“Maybe I should leave?” A voice comes from behind me, and whirling, I find Miles sitting at a desk.
“Damnit!”
Miles’s eyebrows raise and he lifts his hands warily, as if to ward off any further flying objects.
“I’m done throwing things.” Sinking into another desk, I knead my forehead against a brewing headache. “I’m sorry. That was obviously not directed at either of you.” I give myself a moment, and then continue, but my voice still cracks. “I need to get a few things packed up and get out of here. Can you guys give me a little space?”
Standing, I open the nearby cabinet and start randomly pulling items from its shelves. Wonder Woman mug, check. Pack of unopened Sharpie markers, check. Random file folders that belong to the school, check. I chuck those in the trash can, not bothering to check the contents. My eyes are stinging, and I want to leave, like, yesterday.
“Where are your car keys, Shiloh?” Without turning, I wave my hand in the direction of my bag. I hear a rustling and a clink as they exchange hands, Gunner telling Miles, “Go pull it around to B Door for me? It’s our farm truck.”
Miles murmurs agreement and the door clicks behind him as he leaves. Then it’s just me and Gunner and I remain where I am, my head in the cabinet, too chickenshit to turn around and give him my attention, although I continue jerking items out and setting them on desks to be boxed up. He comes alongside me and starts to help, placing each item in a plastic crate he found on a bookshelf.
I feel his presence, solid and comforting, even though I tell myself I want to be alone. It’s not his fault, but I’m angry with him all the same. He’s nothing more than a convenient target at the moment, and because I’m not a complete idiot, I know this. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to yell and cry and punch and… throw my fucking shoes at him.
Because dammit, I knew it. I knew this would happen. There was just no possible way for this to turn out well. I tried to warn him away from me.
And now that house of cards I built has toppled around me and left me unprotected, alone, dead center of a mess.
Gunner’s hand settles on my shoulder and pauses my ceaseless back and forth between the cabinet and desks as I set items out to be packed up.
“Shiloh. Stop a minute. Let’s talk.”
I shake my head. “Can’t do that right now, Gunner.” My words are clipped, and I manage a tight glance at him to see that I’m not the only one barely tethered. If revisiting my humiliating trip to the principal’s office could be my tipping point, sending me spiraling into a bawling heap, it is obvious that it won’t take much more to send Gunner in a very different direction. “We’ll talk later, I promise. Right now, I just want to get out of this building with what’s left of my dignity intact. Can you help me do that?”
Gunner’s eyes fire and he squeezes my shoulders. “You know I can. I just need to know who questioned you this morning.” At my questioning look, he continues. “You need a lawyer. I’m sending ours.”
I turn back to the cabinet. It’s mostly empty, so I continue packing the plastic crate, handing another to Gunner to continue. “We’ll talk about that later.”
Gunner opens his mouth to protest, but Miles chooses that moment to walk back into the classroom and he relents, offering he a single short nod, instead. “Miles, you mind finishing this up? I’m going to get her out of here.”
“Yeah, no problem. Where do I take them?”
“My place.”
“My house.”
We speak at the same time and turn as one to glare at one another.
“I’m not staying at your house, Gunner. It’s not appropriate. In fact, I fully intend to drive myself home. I need some space.”
“Fuck appropriate, Shiloh!” Gunner’s arm sweeps the expanse of my classroom and forces my eyes to the words painted in scarlet on the walls. “This! This is not okay!” There’s an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before
and in spite of myself I want to give into him, to let him take care of me.
It’s not pride holding me back. It’s understanding how foolish it would be to lean on him, or anyone for that matter. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that leaning leads to falling, and falling hurts.
Picking up my bag, I sling it over my shoulder. “Thank you, Miles. Please bring them to my house whenever it’s convenient. Gunner and I will hash out the details later. Gunner…” I turn and look at him, hoping to make him understand. “I’ll see you later.”
Cursing under his breath, Gunner grabs the bag from my shoulder and precedes me down the hallway with long, angry strides. I follow at a slower pace, not wanting to be that girl, running after the boy and tugging on his sleeve when bitter words are exchanged.
No matter how much I might want to.
I have my brother to think about. And I’m well aware that the only person I can depend on is myself. My lips curl in a pained grimace. Looks like I may be headed back to Kendrick’s.
34
Gunner
As I watch Shiloh pull out the school lot, I’m pissed. I get it, I do. I understand her need to take care of her business on her own, to be angry in solitude. Hell, I even understand if she wants to be angry at me for pushing and pushing to be involved. If that’s what she needs, I get it.
But I wish she could get that I need to be there, too. I know it’s fast — for her. I’ve been moving in this direction for the past several years, though, ever since that seven minutes in heaven that no other girl has ever managed to measure up to. She needs time to catch up, but it doesn’t look like time is on her side.
I’m getting impatient, and this shit with her stalker is not helping. I’m pissed that she’s not giving me the right to care for her, comfort her, defend her as everything in me calls out to do. I stalk the parking lot angrily toward my truck, the events of this morning a film playing in the back of my mind.
