See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  With every second that goes by when I’m close to this man, I can feel my defenses lower, my intrigue spike, and my desire to drive forward causing me to forget all the reasons why he’s the most unbearable man I’ve ever met.

  “The pranks stop now,” he says. “Do you understand me? They stop. Now.”

  “I, uh, I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I say, avoiding all eye contact with him.

  “What did I say about fucking with me, Greer?”

  “Do it?” I ask, adding a cheeky smile.

  He doesn’t flinch.

  Doesn’t even consider laughing.

  But instead, his jaw clenches tighter as he lowers his mouth to my ear, the scrape of his scruff barely grazing over my cheek as his lips hover right by my ear. My entire body breaks out into a wave of goosebumps as he speaks.

  “This is your one and only warning. Fuck with me again and you won’t like what happens.”

  My breath catches in my throat and I wait for him to lift up, to turn away and join his sister for lunch, but he doesn’t move. Instead, I feel our breaths sync, an unusual desire I wasn’t expecting swirling between us.

  I pull back just enough to catch his eyes. They study me. Intense. Deep, with a hint of vulnerability. The type of vulnerability that isn’t offered over a cup of coffee, but the kind that’s spoken about once trust has been established.

  There is no trust between us.

  But inexplicably, a small piece of me wants to establish that layer of trust so I can dive deep into the vulnerability that lies just beneath his tough exterior.

  “Are you planning retaliation?” I ask.

  His eyes drop to my lips before focusing back on my eyes. “Retaliation? No.” He licks his lips. “Punishment . . . always.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I suck in a sharp breath as he pushes off the desk and stares down at me. Unmoving, put in my place, I’m unsure if I want to slap the man for invading my space, give him a piece of my mind and tell him exactly where he can put his punishment, or tear at his cardigan and shirt and dig my fingernails deep into his toned muscles.

  Either way, I don’t have time to decide because he turns away and heads out of my classroom, leaving me breathless, annoyed, and unfortunately . . . horny. What the fuck was that?

  When the door closes behind him, I scramble to my phone, pick it up, and read the text messages from Gunner and Romeo.

  Gunner: Alert. Alert. Romeo cracked. Arlo is coming your way.

  Great. I press my hand to my forehead. And here I thought I could trust these two.

  Romeo: In my defense, he twisted my nipple. I had to go to the bathroom and try to eliminate the pucker of my shirt he made right over my nipple with some water and the hand dryer. It was not pleasant. I got my penance.

  Romeo is such an idiot.

  I can’t even think about him and Stella, because if he ever did make a move, I’m not sure he’d be able to handle her. She’s a firecracker, and apparently he cracks under the pressure of a nipple twist.

  I guess if something does ever happen between them, I have some vital information for Stella so she knows how to get her way. A good nipple tweak and whatever she wants is hers.

  I type them back.

  Greer: He just left my classroom.

  They must have been waiting for me to type back because they immediately respond.

  Gunner: Oh shit, was he angry?

  Romeo: Did he try to give you a nipple twist?

  Greer: Was he angry? What kind of question is that? He’s always angry. And no, he didn’t try to twist my nipple. I think he knows better than to attempt to do something like that.

  Then again, would he?

  The way he said punishment . . . full of promise, full of dark, twisted thoughts, I wonder if he really would be into something like that. Just from his overall demeanor, I could easily see Arlo being the domineering asshole in bed you read about in books, the damaged one, the one with secrets that make you fall head over heels for him.

  Not this girl.

  Nope.

  No way.

  Never going to happen.

  He may be handsome, but I’m not that easy.

  Gunner: True, you’re feisty. I think he might be afraid of you.

  Romeo: Was he afraid of you?

  Greer: Uh . . . not necessarily. More confident in his intimidation tactics than anything. Brought his A-game.

  Gunner: Oh shit.

  Romeo: What did he say?

  Greer: Let’s just leave it at there won’t be any more pranks. He’s made his intention clear.

  Gunner: Although I haven’t laughed as hard in a long time as I have in the last few weeks, I think that’s smart. Arlo might be quiet, but he’s vengeful, and we’ve both seen it firsthand.

  Romeo: Best to keep your distance.

  Greer: Sure, that’s easy, with him being my classroom neighbor and the head of my department.

  Gunner: Just steer clear and when we start practicing for teacher league, we can make sure we keep you two separated.

  Greer: Uh . . . he’s on the teachers’ league?

  Romeo: Did we fail to mention that?

  Greer: Yep. Also, I’m not doing that league. You cracked. You didn’t hold up your end of the bargain, so I’m not going.

  Gunner: Wait a second, we did everything we could to keep your name out of his mouth. If it wasn’t for Keiko, he never would have even sniffed around your classroom.

  Romeo: Truth. Keeks was the leak. I just happened to almost lose a nipple because of it.

  Gunner: You will be required to show up.

  Greer: Really think I’m getting the short end of the bargain.

  Romeo: Not our fault your bargaining partner failed to work out the fine print.

  Greer: Which reminds me, word on the street is you have something for Stella. That true?

  Romeo: Word on the street is you have a thing for Arlo. That true?

  Greer: Well . . . guess I’ll be on my way.

  Romeo: Smart.

  Gunner: I’ll send you the details about Sunday.

  Greer: Sunday?

  Gunner: You’re killing me. The teachers’ league. Come on, Gibson.

  Greer: Okay, yeah, sure. I’ll be there.

  * * *

  “Coach Gibson, can I talk to you?” Blair, my setter, asks.

  Practice is over, I’m tired after running sprints with my athletes, and I want to go home and soak in the tiny tub that I can barely fit my tall body in.

  I sprint with the girls, because there’s no reason they shouldn’t be able to beat me. If I do beat them, they have to complete two more full-court pyramids before they go home. I’ve beat them once, and shockingly, it’s never happened again.

  “Sure, Blair, what’s up?”

  Blair Venezuela has been on varsity ever since her freshman year. She’s played club volleyball since middle school and has developed into a key player, essential to our team. She’s small, quick, and has no fear when it comes to diving for the ball. Her sets are always perfect, and she can dig just about any spike from the opposing team. This summer she signed a full-ride scholarship to UCLA, my alma mater, and she couldn’t be more excited. I spoke with my coach back at UCLA and she gave me some things to work on with Blair to prep her for the college level. Like the hard worker she is, Blair has taken everything in her stride and proven to me how she’s become the athlete she is. She’s hardworking and never gives up. And yes, I can see the similarities between us. I was just as driven at her age, and it served me well.

  She takes a seat on one of the bleachers while I pack up the rest of my things. “So, I’m having a bit of trouble in one of my classes, and since you teach English, I thought maybe you’d be able to help me.”

  “What class?” I ask, my brow furrowed. Blair doesn’t have a hard time in class. Stella and I looked through all of the athletes’ grades to make sure they weren’t just talented on the volleyball court, bu
t also had a handle on their academics, and if they didn’t, they were required to sign up with a tutor. As I found out pretty quickly, as a female in sport, yes, you can get your college paid for, but unless you’re Venus and Serena Williams, you’re not going to be compensated well for your athletic prowess. The grades have to be there. The degree, the education—they matter. Grades are just as important, especially given the chances women have at moving their sport along past college.

  “AP English.”

  My heart flips.

  Shit.

  “Uh, who’s your teacher?” I ask, even though I know exactly who it is.

  “Mr. Turner.” She sighs and reaches into her backpack. She pulls out a paper encased in a clear binder, typed and professionally put together. Red ink is splashed all over the white paper, and at the top is a giant letter F circled at the top.

  Oh hell.

  “We turned in papers this week. He worked on mine last night. Today during class, he called me to the side and handed me my paper, saying that he was disappointed in my work, and reminded me of his class policy where he gives each student one chance to change one of the grades on his papers by rewriting it and taking his notes into consideration.”

  What an arrogant ass.

  I quickly flip through the paper, skimming over The Great Gatsby, and already rolling my eyes. What is it with that man and that book? It’s not that great.

  I know, I know. I’m an English teacher. I should appreciate the written word. I mean, sure, it’s an okay book, but I don’t understand how the schooling system decides what books we have to teach. What qualifies a book as a classic? What makes that book soooo special?

  I understand I should care about this. But I don’t. I care about my students having a passion for books and leaving here not just with an understanding of how to construct a proper paper, but to be a master at it.

  “What if I fail another paper? I really thought I did a good job on this.”

  “Did anyone else fail?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head and chews on the inside of her cheek. “I, uh . . . I worked on my paper with Sonia, my best friend, and we didn’t copy each other, but we went through all the symbolism, talked about it, and considered how Mr. Turner would want us to interpret it when writing our papers.”

  “What was her grade?”

  Looking ashamed, she says, “She got a B.”

  Lips flattened together, I slowly nod my head. “Does he know you’re on the volleyball team?”

  She nods. “Yeah, I always change into my practice clothes before class so I can go straight from class to the court.”

  “And he told you he graded this last night?”

  She nods. “Did I . . . did I do something wrong?”

  I shake my head. “Not at all.” Demeaning my skills as a teacher is one thing, but jeopardizing a student’s future to discipline me? That’s completely unfounded and unethical. And, if I’m honest, I’m surprised he’d even consider doing that. It makes me furious, though. None of my pranks threatened a student’s future. Trying not to show my anger, I say, “Do you mind if I keep this paper and look it over this weekend? See where the mistakes were made. We can go over it Monday. How does that sound?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, Blair. That’s what I’m here for, okay?”

  She nods and stands, zipping up her backpack. “Thank you, Coach Gibson. I really appreciate it.”

  “Sure.” I nod and once she walks away, Stella comes up to me.

  “What was that about?”

  Staring off at our retreating player, I say, “Turner is going to die.”

  “Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good.”

  I curl the plastic-covered paper into a tube. “It’s not. He should fear for his life.”

  “Should I sound off the metaphorical sirens?”

  I shake my head. “No.” He deserves to be taken to task about this, but I’ll read Blair’s essay first and hopefully find that he didn’t really mark her down intentionally. I have to take the higher road. But . . . “This will be a sneak attack. Exactly what he deserves.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday, at teachers’ league,” I answer.

  “Oh boy . . . things are about to get interesting.”

  Indeed they are.

  Chapter Eight

  ARLO

  “It’s fun watching you run around, trying to make sure everything is perfect,” Coraline says, sitting on the kitchen island, cross-legged, picking at the fruit platter I put together earlier today.

  “I’m not trying to make everything perfect.”

  “Uh . . . you balled a melon.” She picks up a piece of cantaloupe and plops it in her mouth. “I didn’t even know people balled melons anymore. I thought the proper procedure for serving melon was just cutting it up. And you even put it in a separate bowl.”

  “People don’t like the melon juice touching other fruit,” I say, straightening the bowls that she keeps messing up.

  “When did you become the hostess with the mostest?” She looks around. “Fresh flowers, make-your-own-mac-and-cheese bar, balled melon—who the hell are you?”

  “These are my colleagues. Presentation needs to be proper.”

  She chuckles. “When the hell did you go to finishing school? From what I can remember, we both were put into private school, which was more of a detriment than anything. The need to break rules was heavy in our blood.”

  “Your blood, not mine.” I shake my head.

  “Uh, pretty sure you dated Tiffany McCrae because she was sporting that whole Avril Lavigne punk vibe and you wanted to horrify Nana and Pops when you brought her home. I can still remember the look of abhorrence on Nana’s face when she asked why Tiffany was wearing a man’s tie loose around her neck and Tiffany replied, ‘Why aren’t you?’” Coraline laughs and I pause, chuckling slightly.

  “Pops begged me to break up with her to appease his wife.”

  “Wasn’t she your first blow job?”

  I raise a brow in her direction. “Why is that something you know?”

  “Think I heard you talking about it with one of your friends. Or . . .” Coraline taps her chin. “Did Tiffany tell me? Hmm, I can’t remember. Either way, she was your first. Daring man, given she had braces.”

  “Yeah, well, we all make bad decisions. It was shortly after that we broke up.”

  “Metal mouth eat up your dick?” Coraline smiles widely.

  “No, she was eating up other guys’ dicks at the same time.”

  “What? Really? She was cheating on you?”

  “She labeled it as experimenting. I didn’t see it that way. We broke up.” I set out the napkins and the silverware along with my plates.

  “And then that’s when you started dating Gemma and lost your virginity, right?”

  “Why are you detailing the timeline of my sexual experiences?”

  She rocks on her butt, looking like she’s having far too much fun. “Bored. Nothing better to do. Now, were you short on the trigger?”

  Turning my back to her, I say, “What do you think?”

  “Given I’ve taken two virginities in my lifetime, I’d say yes.”

  “You’ve taken two virginities?” I ask, knowing my sister is pretty much the only one I would have this conversation with. She’s the only person I feel comfortable around. I don’t have to wear a shield of armor around her because she knows everything about my life. We don’t share the same father. We don’t have a stable mother. And we were both raised by our grandparents, thankfully, who tried to keep even heads on our shoulders, while our mother ran away and took her shot at acting.

  She was in a few commercials, but never hit her stride. She still lives in Los Angeles, picking up odd jobs here and there, living off one-eighth of our grandparents’ inheritance, while Coraline and I obtained most of it. We say Merry Christmas to each other, but that’s the extent of our communication, and I’m okay with that, because I have Coraline.
>
  She’s my family.

  She’s all I need.

  Even if she’s incessant with her needling conversation about my personal life.

  “I’m pretty sure it was three, but Bobby swore he’d had sex before. To this day, I don’t believe him, he barely got it in before he was coming.”

  “Jesus.” I place my hands on the island and lower my head. “Okay, we’re not talking about this anymore.”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “How did you guess?”

  She smooths her hair behind her ear. “I’m good at reading people.”

  Sighing, I lean against the counter and ask, “So, where did you go off to yesterday? You were gone for quite some time.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She winks and plops another melon ball in her mouth.

  “I would, actually.”

  “Well, that’s my personal business, just like you said whatever is happening between you and Greer is your personal business.”

  That’s exactly what I said to her Thursday night, when she wouldn’t stop badgering me about the encounter with Greer during lunch. Hell, I don’t even know what happened—how would I explain it to Coraline?

  One minute I had Romeo’s nipple pinched between my fingers, and then, the next thing I knew, I was inches from Greer, about to lay her across her classroom desk and pull her nipple between my teeth.

  That goddamn dress.

  Those innocent eyes.

  The lightest of smirks on her face, knowing she’d bested me.

  The combination pushed me over the edge, and I wanted to punish her, maul her . . . fuck her.

  After I retreated from her classroom, a wave of awareness washed over me.

  I don’t do that shit.

  I don’t lose control, let my emotions get the best of me, but there I was, acting rather than thinking.

  And I can still smell her, feel her chest barely reaching up to mine from her heavy breath, hear the quiet, whisper-like sound of her voice.

  She’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past few days and it’s driving me fucking insane.

  What’s driving me insane? The gall she had to prank me.