Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  My lips part to respond, to tell him he’s dreaming, but the twinkle in his eye stops me. He’d enjoy calling me out if I were to say anything. It’s happened more times than I care to admit. Instead, I deflect.

  “You can’t keep coming in here,” I tell him half-heartedly. “It’s an invasion of my privacy.”

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is. We have this conversation every week.”

  And we’ve had it for so many weeks you could measure it in months. The exact date this began is lost to time, but it seems like it’s always been this way—him working to irritate me, me working to be irritated by him.

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he fights a grin. “You’re just mad that’s all I’m invading.”

  “You wish.” I wish.

  “Not denying that,” he says, a flicker of something I don’t want to name ghosting across his face. “Is that a roundabout offer?”

  “Hardly,” I scoff. Totally.

  His burst of laughter sounds through the room just like his cologne spices the air as he moves.

  “How many women do you talk to? In here alone? Since the beginning of the year, I’m guessing twenty? Thirty? More?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Just talking?”

  “Oh my God …”

  “Fine. While I find it extremely satisfying you estimate my numbers that high, I would have to disagree with your figures. There are repeats.”

  “You do see some of them more than once?” I balk. “That’s surprising.”

  “Why is that surprising?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I just figured you for a one-and-done kind of guy. Maybe that’s because I figured some of those women would be smart enough to not take your shit a second time, but I could be wrong.”

  “For the record, smartass, they’re more than willing to take my shit multiple times,” he winks.

  Scoffing, I turn away.

  The afternoon sun is poised almost directly across from my office, the streaks of light warming my skin as I face it. Lance moves around behind me, the energy exuding off him and tugging at me from different angles.

  Despite my exasperation with his man-whoring, selfish ways, this part of my day is always my favorite. It’s the routine of it all, the mere predictability of his insolence, the sureness of his presence. There’s something steadying about him that I can’t quite put my finger on and don’t try to. Putting my finger on something about Lance, even if it’s in theory, feels like opening a can of worms I can’t afford to unlock.

  “What can I say?” he asks. When I turn back around, he’s shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I’m a hot commodity.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Ah, so you admit you eavesdrop?”

  I stare at him blank-faced as I stand. “It’s not hard when I walk in here and you’re giving aural.”

  His laugh permeates the space between us. The blend of rugged and smooth creates a sensation in the room that I couldn’t ignore if I tried.

  “Giving aural?” he chuckles. “Is that a partial Freudian Slip?”

  “No.” Sighing, I fall back into my chair again. My shoulder bumps my computer and bring the screen to life. “Will you just go?”

  “Let me ask you a question.”

  “No.”

  “When is the last time you went out on a date?”

  “Recently enough,” I reply, not looking up from the computer screen.

  There’s no way I’m telling him my last real date was six weeks ago and that I’ve been in a dry spell for almost six months. Someone like him, someone who doesn’t bother with liking, feeling, or loving doesn’t get hurt. People like me, who get our emotions twisted up in a half a second flat, have to guard ourselves constantly. It complicates everything.

  Half-sitting on my desk, he stills. “Really? With who?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “It’s nothing to me. I’m just curious,” he says, his tone a touch softer than before.

  This is what kills me with this man. This is the final move in his little game of chess, the one that captures the king. Or, in this case, the librarian.

  It’s his ability to switch from smolder to sweet, from crass to charismatic, that, as much as I would never admit it out loud, intrigues me. I hate that I notice and I wish with every book on the shelves in this library I didn’t, but he makes it impossible.

  He’s impossible.

  I face him again. This time, folding my hands in front of me only inches from his thigh, I lean forward. He bites; he’s leaning closer to me like I’m about to tell him a secret.

  “Lance?” I whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  “Take your curiosity out of my office.”

  A low rumble courses from his throat as he twists his lips in amusement. “I’m about to take—”

  We both jump, Lance clamoring to his feet as I shove away from my desk at the sound of a knock. The door is semi-closed, but Tish’s head pokes through the small opening. “Am I interrupting something here?”

  “No,” I say, running a hand through the air. “Mr. Gibson was just leaving.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tisha grins. “Looked like it to me.”

  “I wasn’t, but guess I will now.” Lance sweeps his gaze across the room, stalling briefly on me, before settling on a plastic-covered bin on the corner of my desk. “Have you had one of these, Tish?” He pulls back the plastic and exposes the chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting I made last night. “Damn, they’re good.”

  “Hey! Those aren’t for you,” I tell him, jerking the plastic back over the dessert.

  “Your fault,” he says, grabbing one and pulling back the yellow paper liner. “You left them unattended.”

  “In my office.”

  “Unattended.” He breaks his smile only long enough to insert half the cupcake. “So good.” Crumbs fall from his mouth along with the words, a dollop of icing is left in the corner of his mouth as he swallows.

  “Missed some.” Tish points to his face. “I could lick it off, if ya want.”

  “Why aren’t you this helpful?” Lance asks, looking pointedly at me.

  Tish giggles. “Because I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “And you do?” he asks, his brows pulled together.

  “You were leaving. Remember?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of me.

  “I think you missed the part where I said I don’t have a boyfriend,” Tish interjects. “That was the focal point of the sentence. Me. Unattended, if you will.”

  Lance laughs, licking his lips. “You’d break me in half.”

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Tish purrs.

  He starts to leave but turns back and grabs another cupcake.

  “Are you serious right now?” I ask, jerking the dish toward me. “Get out of here.”

  “I’m going. I’m going,” he chuckles, heading for the door. “Goodbye, ladies.”

  “I have Prep sixth period,” Tish calls after him. “I’m happy to chat. I’ll bring brownies tomorrow.”

  Knowing there’s no chance Tish isn’t watching him, I don’t bother pretending I’m not.

  As he reaches for the door, his back muscles shift beneath his shirt and I’m taken back to the day in the spring when I stayed late to shelve books. The doors were locked so I had to exit through the gymnasium. The sound of squeaking tennis shoes and shouts from the basketball team met me in the hallway, so I was prepared for that. What I wasn’t prepared for, not in the least, was to see Lance shirtless, sweaty, and mid-layup. That V-cut of his groin is imprinted, permanently, I fear, in my brain.

  “Is it wrong that I requested my classroom be moved across the hall from his?” Tish asks. “Principal Kelly just laughed, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence he’s positioned in the middle of a bunch of male teachers.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “She wants him for herself! Obviously,” she groans.
<
br />   “She’s married,” I laugh. “And so are you.”

  “And what point is that supposed to make?” she sighs. “I’m fifty percent sure my husband is screwing his secretary, which is fine by me but I wish he’d just leave me for her. Damn. Let her do his laundry.”

  “Tish!”

  “What? My God-fearing soul can’t file for divorce.”

  “But you can have an affair?”

  “What is this? Morality hour?” she laughs, taking a cupcake from the tray. “Besides, I don’t know how any woman could have restraint around him.” Watching me expectantly, she waits for my reaction as she peels the wrapper from the dessert.

  I look down, cheeks hot. Again.

  “Do you?” she asks.

  “Do I what?”

  “Come on, Mariah. Don’t you find that boy attractive?”

  Gulping, I pucker my lips together. “I find him … frustrating.”

  “All the good-looking ones are, honey,” she says, biting into a cupcake. “These are good.”

  “Thanks. You have some icing on the corner of your mouth,” I laugh.

  She grabs a tissue and dots her lips. “Every day I come in here and every day he’s in here. That wouldn’t be true if all you found him was frustrating.”

  “Look,” I say, gathering my pride, “he’s cute. For sure. But I’ve had cute. Eric was cute. He was smart on paper. He could be funny. And the only good screwing I got out of him was out of the sheets.”

  Ignoring my shiver, Tish pushes on. “You need to forget about him. It’s been, what? Two years?”

  “Ish,” I sigh. “And I have forgotten about him. I just remembered him to make a point.”

  Her laugh fills the room as she brushes her hands off over the trashcan. “What about the guy you’ve been seeing? How’s that going?”

  “I haven’t been seeing anyone,” I mutter.

  Picking up a paper, I try to be interested in the numbers. Truth is, I have no idea what I’m even looking at. Saying Eric’s name out loud, something I never do, ushered in a tenderness in my heart I can’t just brush off. It hurts. It stings. I wonder if it always will.

  The bell rings, breaking me out of my reverie.

  “I gotta get back to my classroom,” Tish says. “The freshmen are in there and they’re the worst class I’ve had in the twenty years I’ve been teaching.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say.

  “See ya tomorrow.”

  She disappears into the library. I turn towards my computer when I spy the cupcake container. The plastic is dropping into the icing, the pieces missing from Tish and Lance.

  As I fix the covering, a warmth washes over me like a warm summer rain. I settle back in my chair and try to get back to work. Yet, as my fingers hover over the keyboard, they don’t move. Instead, I glance at the cupcakes again.

  Memories sweep through my mind of baking with my grandmother. She taught me the peanut butter icing recipe that Lance loves so much. Gran taught me how to bake, crochet, and even let me read the romance novels I craved though my mom said they were trash.

  Everything was trash to her unless she could garner a social benefit. Me included.

  One day, I tell myself, swiping up a dab of icing on my finger. One day I’ll have a family of my own and won’t rely on acceptance from co-workers to prove my mettle.

  Three

  Lance

  The bell blares its final warning for students to be seated.

  Hopping onto the edge of my desk, I face a room full of animated juniors. It never ceases to amaze me that the human population doesn’t die off at age seventeen. At that point in our lives, we think with our genitals, smell like shit from either perspiration or too much cheap cologne, and have virtually no idea what we’re doing. Yet, we make it. Somehow.

  With no regard for his classmates or my classroom, the captain of the football team elbows a girl a third of his size out of his way and takes her seat.

  He may be the one who doesn’t make it.

  “Brandon!” I shout over the ruckus in the room. “To the office.”

  The students quiet, settling into their desks. They look from me to Brandon.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, scrambling to his feet. “What’s up your ass?”

  My foot if you don’t get out of here.

  “Class,” I say, my eyes still pinned to Brandon. “What’s the first rule of history?”

  “It repeats itself,” they respond in unison.

  “It repeats itself. That’s right.” I mosey toward the door and yank it open. “Last week, you accidentally bumped Mr. Greyson and knocked him into the wall. Do you remember that?”

  His jaw sets.

  “There was plenty of room for you to walk around but you found it acceptable to plow through him instead. I removed you.”

  His eyes narrow.

  “You just took Ms. Cambria’s books off her desk and kicked her out of her spot. The first rule of history applies: you will be leaving us once again. Only this time, the second rule of history applies too.”

  “The second rule?” Stacy asks from the front row.

  “You never get the war you want.” Flipping my gaze back to Brandon, I nod toward the hallway. “Get out.”

  “But—”

  “You want to flex your muscles? Do it in the principal’s office.”

  “But—”

  “What?” I ask, lifting a brow. “That’s not the fight you’re after? Suddenly it’s not fair for someone with more power to exert control?”

  “Fuck this,” he snaps, storming by me.

  “I refuse to believe you’re the dumb jock you try so hard to make us all believe.”

  This catches his attention. He stills, his fingers re-gripping the edge of his books, as he stops on the second landing leading to the office. I step into the hallway and partially shut the door behind me.

  “Pushing people around and using language any idiot can use isn’t doing you any favors, Brandon,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He doesn’t look back, but doesn’t move forward either. I take this as a win.

  “You might get away with that at home and in your other classes, but you won’t in mine. I expect you to work to your ability and behave the same. Is that clear?”

  There’s no answer, and I don’t expect one. He heads down the steps with a little less flare than before.

  I head back inside my classroom. “Cause and effect, boys and girls,” I say, hopping back onto my desk. “Act like a fool, get treated like one.”

  “You sound like my dad,” Kyler laughs.

  “Your dad must be a genius. But is he as good looking as me?”

  “That would be a no,” Stacy giggles.

  The entire room bursts into laughter and I kick myself for walking right into that one. “Okay. Settle down. I want you to write a paper …” Standing and walking around my desk to the dry erase board as their moans ring out behind me, I write out the topic in black marker. “Write a minimum of one thousand words about a historical event of your choice and what caused it and its effects on the world.”

  “Can I write about Kim—”

  “No.” Looking at Stacy over my shoulder, I shake my head.

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “But she—”

  “All events must have taken place before you were born.” I look at the fairly young faces of my students. “That should eliminate a lot of popular topics,” I say pointedly at Stacy.

  “Fine,” she grumbles.

  They busy themselves writing down the assignment, whispering amongst each other about potential subjects. Everyone, that is, but Ollie.

  Ollie’s head is down on his desk, his arms stretched out and dangling over the edge. The mop of hair that used to be kept cut short is a wild array that somewhat resembles a broom.

  Last spring, he was one of my best students. Bright as fuck. Engaging. A charisma that reminded me of my cousin Peck. As the ye
ar went on, his clothes became wrinkled. His face more blemished. The edges of his papers more frayed.

  “We have a game tonight, Mr. Gibson,” Lottie says from her chair. “Can we work on this today in class? Please?”

  “How are your extracurricular activities any fault of mine?” I scoff playfully, snapping the cap back on the marker. Glancing down at the stack of papers needing grading, I decide to give in ... eventually. After all, I can’t let them think I’m easy. They aren’t the right demographic for that.

  “I’ll dedicate my first goal to you tonight,” Lottie offers, smiling a mega-watt grin.

  Sighing for effect, I slip into my chair and kick my feet up onto my desk. “You need to do better than that.”

  “We won’t try to negotiate a lower word count,” Kyler offers.

  I pretend to consider this.

  “I won’t tell Ms. Malarkey you stole a cupcake from her office.” Stacy raises a brow, her lips pursed together. “I saw it on your desk.”

  “She gave that to me, thank you very much.” My voice is smug, as is the look on my face. “She gave me two, actually.”

  “You two have a thing going on? She’s single, you know. And freaking pretty,” Stacy shrugs. “Just saying.”

  I begin to object, to point out Mariah just told me she wasn’t single. Before the words can escape my lips, I stop.

  “I’m just saying,” I say, pulling my feet to the floor, confusion wracking my brain, “which staff members are single is none of your business.”

  “Since you’re too old for me, at least for another couple of years, you should consider—”

  “Enough,” I say over top of her.

  The room breaks out into a fit of giggles and I give up.

  “Fine. You win.” My hands thrown up in the air in defeat. “Work on your papers now. But if any of you start talking, I’ll lecture. I can talk all day about the Revolutionary War, kids.”

  Much to my surprise, they pull out their notepads. I refrain from pacing around the room and making sure they’re writing what they’re supposed to because I’m certain they aren’t and I don’t have it in me to argue with them today. I’m just happy they didn’t press their luck because my brain is stuck solidly on Mariah’s dating life and not a war that took place in the seventeen hundreds.