Chemistry: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by J. P. Nicholas

  He exhales a harsh breath before he speaks, breaking the deafening silence. “I stopped dating around two years ago. I just—I just couldn’t trust myself anymore.”

  I want so badly to interject my thoughts and pry for more information, but I fight that urge. It’s best that I just give him the time he needs to gather his thoughts and speak his truths. But that doesn’t mean I’m still not dying inside, waiting on the edge of my freaking seat.

  “I’ve had three serious relationships in my life. I’m not a short-term kinda guy. I guess you can say I fall fast and hard. But you’ve probably already noticed that.”

  I can tell that recalling his past is hard for him. I can physically see the tension knotting away at his neck and shoulders. Wanting to bring him some comfort, I place my hand on his thigh under the table and give it a little squeeze.

  His voice is as tight as his expression, both showcasing his raw emotions. His hurt. His pain. And I wish like hell that I hadn’t dredged up his heartaches by asking my dumb, curious question.

  “My sister thinks that I have a bad habit of dating broken women and trying to fix them. She claims that I have this innate need to help them with their problems since I couldn’t help our mother,” he croaks out, losing his battle against the tears. They begin streaking down his cheeks, shining in their wake.

  Am I broken? Is that why he’s attracted to me? The thought hits me like a freight train. It feels like accidentally pinching your breast with your bra clasp. Excruciatingly painful.

  The sound of his pain tears at my heart, his ache my own. I swipe my own tears away, but new ones quickly take their place.

  “My mother died from a drug overdose when I was nineteen, leaving me to raise my younger sister for the next few years after that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, hoping like hell that my voice didn’t waver, and if it did, he didn’t hear it. I need to be strong for him right now. I want to be his rock, his shoulder to cry on. The way he can’t get a grip on his emotions lets me know that he’s kept all this bottled up inside for a very long time.

  “So, my sister thinks that the guilt I feel for not being able to help my mother break her addiction is why I’m determined to fix every broken woman I find.”

  “And do you see things that way?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No, I don’t. I certainly see why Emma has drawn that conclusion. But that’s not what I think is happening.”

  I gently stroke my thumb against his thigh. “So, what do you think then?”

  Lucas clears his throat and swallows harshly. He swipes at his tears for a minute or two until he collects himself, and no more are falling. He pauses for another moment to suck in a breath and release it. “I don’t think I seek out broken women. Nor do I think I try to fix them. I’m a nice guy. When I see a woman who needs help, I’m going to help her. No questions asked. And because I wear my heart on my sleeve, it’s opened me up to heartache in the past. Whenever their issues were fixed, they would leave me. It made me feel used. And I didn’t want ever to feel that again, so I stopped dating…that is, until I heard an audiobook blaring in the auto repair shop.”

  “I won’t ever make you feel used,” I say, unwarranted. “I’m starting to think that was the best mistake I ever made.”

  His eyes twinkle at my confession.

  I don’t interrupt him anymore; I just let him get it all out in the open—off his chest. The more he speaks, the lighter and livelier he seems. Like spewing his toxic past is making way for a much cleaner future.

  “And because I know you’re probably wondering…no, I don’t think you’re broken. You’re resilient. Beautiful. Courageous. Determined. Passionate. Intelligent. A fighter. There’s nothing broken about you. And if there was, I have no doubt in my mind that you could fix it yourself. You don’t need me. But I’d love it if you’d want me. Cuz I want you so damn much it hurts.”

  Once again, Lucas leaves me speechless with his words. He somehow knows exactly what’s bothering me and can ease all those worries and doubts away.

  After a few more minutes pass and he doesn’t speak, I think he’s done. I can see him slipping back into his normal, cheerful self again. It’s a very welcome sight to see.

  “Now, can I ask you something?” he queries, his voice slightly hoarse as his eyes analyze me, calculating my reaction.

  I nod, tensing up a bit. “Absolutely. What do you want to know?”

  I don’t know what he’s going to ask me, but based on our last conversation's weight, I’m very nervous to find out.

  “Relax. I’m not going to ask about Kyle’s father or your past relationships.” You mean, like I did.

  “So, what is it that Lucas Ashford is dying to know?” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood. When he chuckles, I think I succeeded.

  “I’ve got to admit. My intentions for tonight were very pure. I never planned on us having sex. Instead, I just wanted to cook dinner for you. This wasn’t a date, although it sure is feeling like one now,” he admits, a nervous smile twitching his lips. “I really just wanted to show you that I’m not clueless in a kitchen and ask you this question.”

  “Which is?” I drag out, waiting on bated breath for an answer.

  Lucas gazes at me, his whiskey eyes shining with hope and possibly adoration. “Chloe, are you a carbon sample, cuz I want to date you?”

  Him and those damn science puns. It’s almost adorable how committed he is to them.

  I open my mouth to speak, but he interjects quickly before I can get out the words.

  “Sorry, couldn’t resist the pun. But please hear me out before you start overthinking this. Let me ease one of your worries now,” he presses, catching me by surprise. Falling to his knees, he grabs my hand and presses his lips against the back of it. That momentary touch sends a spark through me. His smoldering gaze flicks up to mine. “I talked to Kyle, and he’s given me his blessing.”

  He did what now? When? How? What did he say? What did Kyle say? My mind is spinning out of control, drowning in questions.

  I raise a questioning brow. “You asked my son permission to ask me out?”

  Reaching under his frames, he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. I just thought—”

  I cup his face and steal a kiss, sliding my lips against his. When his lips part, our tongues twine and tangle. The way his slides against mine makes my heart race. Like whenever I hop on an elliptical, except different, and so much better. Because the sole cause of this one is him, only he can make me feel like this—like I’m the luckiest woman on the planet. Only he makes me feel this desired. This loved. This special.

  I pull back, breaking the kiss to stare him directly in the eyes. “That is the most precious, thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. And I cannot express enough how much it means to me that you did that.”

  “So…that’s a yes then?” he inquires, a puzzled expression etched in his features.

  I lean in for another kiss and mutter against his mouth. “Yes.”

  When we finish dinner, Lucas takes my hand, interlocks our fingers, and guides me back into his bedroom. “I wish you could stay the night, but I know you have Kyle to think about.”

  The mention of his name reminds me that I’m on borrowed time here. I peer at the clock, dreading that time isn’t moving at a glacial pace, and I frown. “I don’t have long before I have to go pick him up.”

  “Let’s make the most of it then,” Lucas smirks. Join me, his eyes say, beckoning me to follow him into the shower. So, I do.

  After he turns on the spray, we crash into each other. We’re all frantic mouths, tongues, hands, and need as we grind into each other and lose all self-control. I can still taste the marsala sauce on his tongue. It’ll forever be a constant reminder of tonight. A reminder that I like being here with him. Like this. That I like it far too much for my own good.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lucas


  It’s been a long yet rewarding day of teaching. I’m in the middle of grading last night’s homework assignments at my desk when Mrs. McAdams knocks on my door. With my red pen still in my hand, I gesture for her to come in.

  She takes her sweet time swinging open the door. As she takes her first step, I can already tell that something is wrong. It’s written in the way she walks. Normally, she sashays herself across the floor, her footsteps almost catlike. Light and feathery. But today, it’s different. It’s heavy and full of purpose. This can’t be good.

  Nervous, I rake my teeth across my bottom lip, my eyes fixated on her face. Mrs. McAdams is damn good at her job. She’s the epitome of the phrase saving face. With her plum-colored lips always holding a smile and her eyes always matching them, you’d never expect that something is wrong. But I’ve known her far too long.

  For starters, she never makes visits to any of her employee’s classrooms. She always calls you to her office or sends you an email to meet her somewhere around the school. Never my classroom. Never Room 2-11.

  I stand up to greet her, but she just waves a flippant hand.

  “Please sit back down. You make me feel so old when you give me special treatment.” Her enunciation is perfect; her words crystal clear and crisp. You’d never know that she’s about to deliver some terrible news. Granted, there’s a slight chance that I’m reading too much into her being here—that nothing bad is going to happen. But I can’t shake this ominous feeling.

  A cold chill runs down my spine when she takes a seat and fluffs her white hair on the sides. When she’s done, she flashes me a smile and clears her throat. Her blue eyes lock onto mine. They’re usually warm and inviting, but today, they are noticeably less so. I can make out speckles of concern sprinkled throughout her irises. Here we go.

  Clasping her hands together, she places them in her lap. “Lucas. Lucas, Lucas, Lucas. We’ve known each other for a very, very long time. I was even your teacher once upon a time. I’d like to think that I inspired you to pursue this,” she pauses to flail her hand about in the air as if she’s showing a prize on a game show, “marvelous career.”

  Her eyes search mine like she’s waiting for my affirmation.

  “You certainly opened my eyes to it,” I remark, a sort of half-truth. She’s not the reason, but she certainly helped guide me along this path. As she said, she was my teacher once. And I’d like to think every teacher I’ve ever had inspired me in one way or another. That they took this spark inside me and fanned it into the raging wildfire it is today. Teachers are incredible. And nobody gives them the respect they rightfully deserve. People usually just take them for granted.

  She averts her gaze to the ceiling. “That’s going to make this so much harder to do.”

  “Can you please just tell me what’s going on?” I plead, which is very out of character for me. I usually let her take her sweet time, but the trepidation of the unknown is killing me.

  She ganders my way once more.

  “We’ve received some complaints.” She shakes her head and points to herself. “Let me rephrase that. I personally haven’t received any complaints. But the District has.”

  My heart sinks into my stomach. My breath catches in my throat. Nothing good ever comes from the District.

  “About what?” I croak out, trying hard to speak through the gravel in my throat.

  “About Stud Muffin Sundays.” She reaches out and places her hand on my forearm. “Lucas, they’re forcing me to let you go. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this at all.”

  Tears well in her eyes, but she quickly swipes them away with her other hand. I’ve never seen her get emotional like this before. Or at all, really. It’s comforting to know that this isn’t her decision. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less shitty.

  At this moment, I don’t think about me. Instead, I think about Georgina. What other teacher will know that her attention to detail sometimes holds her back from grasping the concept? That she needs everything to be explained before she can move on to the next topic? Or Edgar, who is still learning to cope with his severe dyslexia. Is his new teacher going to continue my trend of personally recording myself reading the week’s chapter in the textbook so that he can stay up-to-par with his classmates and not fall behind? And what about Lincoln? Brenda? Callie? Jameson? Luke? Penelope? William? Jackson? Henry?

  I have to force myself to stop. Thinking about them is what’s going to do me in—going to make me cry. I can’t do that. Not now. Not in front of my employer—ex-employer, I correct. I have to wait until I’m home. Then I can let it all out and not give a shit about formalities or professionalism.

  The pain I feel in my gut right now is excruciating. The emotional equivalent of getting your dick caught in your zipper—fucking painful! So, this is it? This is the end of my life’s work. My passion. All over because I wore an apron with no shirt underneath in a handful of videos? Are you fucking kidding me? I wear a lot less at the beach, and that’s never seemed to be a problem before. I never had concerned parents calling for my termination because they spotted me jogging around the plaza shirtless in the summer. None of this makes any sense. But I guess it doesn’t have to. I’m still getting fired regardless.

  I have to keep telling myself that to let it sink in. The word makes me internally cringe and causes my stomach to churn whenever it pops into my brain. Fired. Fired. Fired.

  As easy as it would be to blame Chloe…I just can’t. I’m a grown-ass man who made his own decision. That’s what led me here. Not her. None of this is her fault.

  I need a stiff drink.

  When I’m finally alone in my house, I make a beeline for the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen island—the one Chloe brought over. I grab a glass from the cabinet and place it on the island. The glass neck of the bottle clinks against the glass. It’s such a rewarding sound. I fill it almost to the rim and sigh into the still amber liquid as I bring it to my lips and take a much-needed sip. The liquid courses down my throat, staking its claim as it burns on the way down.

  I should cry. Scream in frustration. I should do anything but drink my despair away, numbing the pain and replacing it with the sting of alcohol. I take another sip, letting it warm me from the inside. There’s only one thing I want to do right now.

  I want to reach out to Chloe and call her. Ask her to come over. To touch her. Kiss her. Make her go wild under my tongue. To get lost with her and lost in her. For her to make me feel so fucking good that I temporarily forget how crappy I feel. I want her on top of me, riding me, my cock stretching her to the point we both come so hard that we see stars. But most of all, I just want to hold her in my arms, her hand lazily running through my hair as she whispers that everything will be alright. And I’d probably believe it. Because whenever I’m with her, everything does feel better.

  But that won’t solve anything. So, I take another sip of whiskey and flick off the universe. I drain the rest of my whiskey because analyzing this is hard.

  “She giveth and she taketh,” I grumble to nobody but myself. “That’s the way the fucking world goes ‘round.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chloe

  Business is booming, and I could not be more excited about it. Since Lucas agreed to do the Stud Muffin Sunday videos with me, my little, small-town bakery is on the map of places to visit. My Lemon Tart video was even retweeted by the Queen of Twitter herself, Chrissy Teigen.

  Due to the increase in traffic, I was even able to bring on another employee. I’m proud to say Garrett is adjusting rather nicely. He’s a great addition to our little cookie club. Plus, having more employees means that I get to spend more quality time with Kyle. Following Lucas’s suggestion, I’m having Kyle reinforce what he learned in school by trying to teach it to me. Nine times out of ten, I don’t understand anything he’s saying. But as long as he gets it, nothing else matters.

  I’m in the middle of helping a customer when Kyle comes home from school. He bursts through the door
and mad dashes up the stairs. The heavy clank of his rushed footsteps radiates through the room, causing a few prying eyes to shoot in that direction. I turn my head and shoot Layla a look that says, please take over; Mom duty awaits. She reads it perfectly and steps in to cover for me.

  I ascend the staircase much quieter, doing my best not to alarm my customers. When I arrive at Kyle’s room, he’s lying on his bed, head smashed directly into the pillow. I sit down on the edge of his bed and run my fingers through his hair. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  He doesn’t speak. Instead, he just points to the piece of paper on his desk. I reach over, pick it up, and skim it. When I see a few key words, my chest tightens, so I decide to go back and reread it in its entirety.

  Dear Parent/Legal Guardian of Kyle Hayden,

  We regret to inform you that your child’s Chemistry teacher, Mr. Ashford, has chosen to take a leave of absence for personal reasons. We are thrilled to inform you that Gwynn Nelson will now instruct the class. Gwynn interned with Mr. Ashford last school year and has just recently graduated with a master’s in education. She has graciously accepted this new role for the remainder of the school year. Please join us in welcoming Ms. Nelson to our Sunnyville Middle Family!

  Well Wishes,

  Mandy McAdams

  Principal, Sunnyville Middle School

  A lone tear slips down my cheek as my heart lurches. A personal leave of absence? I hope everything’s okay. I want to drive over to see Lucas and find out what exactly is going on, but first and foremost, my son needs me.

  Seeing him so distraught pains me. I start lightly massaging his shoulder. Kyle turns his head, and tears stain his cheeks. “He was my favorite teacher.”

  “I know, Honey. I know,” I reply softly, hoping my tone will help soothe him.