by Jordan Lynde
Mr. Heywood chuckled. “Did he ask you that too?”
I nodded. “I gave him the same answer. But it’s only me, I’m sure everyone else would want to.”
“You’re so . . .”
“What?” I asked.
“Never mind,” Mr. Heywood responded, shaking his head and grinning. “I guess it’s best if you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“I don’t know.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the subject drop. “Whatever.”
It had been one heck of a night. I stole a sidelong glance at Mr. Heywood, who was now focusing on the road. His messy brown hair was more disheveled than usual, and some of it hung loosely in his face. After a moment I caught myself staring and forced my gaze away from him. He’s my teacher, I told myself. Nothing good could come from liking a teacher. I had to stop whatever feelings I was beginning to have before they came. Sure, he was a caring, handsome, strong, intelligent man, but that was all.
I almost snorted. Who was I kidding? He was like the dream guy—well, besides the ex-gangster part. But that aside, he was still the type of guy all the girls wanted. And here I was, sitting in his car all alone with him, trying to stop myself from having feelings for him. A wry smile graced my lips.
“How do I get to your house?” Mr. Heywood suddenly asked, breaking the silence. “I think I remember it being somewhere around here . . .”
“Just go down this street,” I told him, pointing to the street that was coming up to our right.
He put his blinker on and made a sharp turn, making me fall against the window. He let out a small snicker and I glared at him, turning my head, and looking out the window. To my surprise, he remembered which house was mine. I looked up at the dark house, immediately scolding myself for not even leaving the outside light on.
“Is anyone home?” Mr. Heywood asked, staring up at my house.
“My mom is staying over a friend’s house due to work,” I told him, unbuckling my seat-belt. “She won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”
Mr. Heywood frowned. “Are you going to be alright alone?”
I shrugged. “I guess. I’ve done it before . . . well not the whole night, but close enough.” Opening the door, I hopped out, sticking my head back in for a second. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Sure,” Mr. Heywood responded, looking at me apprehensively. “You sure you’ll be alright?”
“Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
Mr. Heywood looked like he was about to say more, but before he could I shut the car door. He stayed in the driveway, his headlights lighting up the way to my front door for me as I climbed the path, digging in my front pocket for my keys. When I couldn’t locate them I frowned, sticking my hand in my other front pocket. They both came up empty. I checked my back pockets and came up short again. I looked under the mat for the spare key. It wasn’t there. A groan of frustration left my lips and in one last urge of hope I tried the door, hoping I’d forgotten to lock it. It didn’t open.
“You’re kidding me,” I muttered, glaring at the door. Now what?
Mr. Heywood honked his horn and I jumped violently, turning around to face his car, squinting. He honked again and I slowly made my way back down to the bottom of my driveway. Opening the passenger side, I stuck my head in to frown at him. “What?”
“Why aren’t you going inside?” he demanded, leaning over to look at me better.
I wondered if I should tell him the truth or not. “I, er . . . lost my keys.”
“Don’t you have a spare?”
“It must be inside or something.”
“What are you going to do?” he questioned, frowning at me.
“I’ll just call Casey or Lance and ask if I can spend the night there,” I told him, pulling out my cell phone. I pressed the on button a few times before I remembered it was dead. I groaned in frustration, putting it back in my pocket. I didn’t know either of their numbers by heart.
“Guess I’ll be camping,” I muttered, straightening up. “See you.”
“Whoa, wait!” Mr. Heywood cried and I stopped, looking at him curiously. “You’re not going to stay outside all night,” he told me in a firm voice.
I rolled my eyes. “What am I supposed to do then? Break into my own house?
Mr. Heywood smirked.
“No, I’m not doing that. We keep all our windows locked—it’s no use. I won’t break any.”
He laughed. “No, I’m not telling you to break into your house. You’re coming to my house for the night.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Get in,” he ordered.
“Um, I don’t know . . .”
“What? Do you want to stay out in the cold?”
I shook my head. “No, but . . .”
“But what?”
“You’re my teacher,” I murmured, ducking my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Mr. Heywood let out a long sigh. “It’d be worse of me to leave my student out in the cold all night, wouldn’t it? Teachers are supposed to help their pupils. Now get in before I force you in.”
I glared at him. “Please?”
“You don’t need to say please,” he responded with a smug smile. “We both know you want to come over.”
“Now don’t be too modest,” I muttered, dropping into the passenger seat. “I’m only doing this because I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Whatever you say, Holly.”
I stared out the window, refusing to let him get on my nerves. There were butterflies in my stomach as he pulled out of my driveway, heading back down my street.
Contrary to my words, I actually was excited to be going to his house—even if he was only helping me because he felt bad. I just hoped I wouldn’t regret the decision.
*
“This is my apartment,” Mr. Heywood said, opening the white oak door to apartment 215 when we arrived at his apartment complex. “Sorry, it’s kind of messy . . . I’m missing a lady’s hand, you know?”
Raising an eyebrow at him, I stepped into the apartment. It was too dark to see anything so I stood idly by the door, feeling Mr. Heywood brush past me. Seconds later light flooded the room. I surveyed the room while slipping off my shoes. It seemed like Mr. Heywood liked to color-code. A love seat, a recliner, and a couch that surrounded a large plasma television were all made out of the same crimson leather that matched the color of the paint on the walls. White pillows were set up on the furniture, matching the trim of the room. There was a dark brown coffee table with a small bowl of M&Ms. A large shelf of DVDs was set up next to the television. There were a few magazines and newspapers scattered around on the ground, a few dishes on the coffee table, and a few jackets tossed over the backs of furniture, but other than that, it looked rather clean to me. Especially for a single man living alone.
“It’s actually a nice place,” I finally commented, going over to the leather sofa and pushing my hand into it. “And clean enough.”
Mr. Heywood chuckled, picking up some of the dishes from the coffee table. “Thanks. Are you hungry?”
As if on cue, my stomach rumbled. I looked down in embarrassment while Mr. Heywood sniggered. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll order some pizza. Take a seat and make yourself at home. Is pepperoni alright?”
“Yep.”
Mr. Heywood disappeared into the kitchen and I walked up to the TV, picking up a photo off its stand. A younger Mr. Heywood was standing with two people I assumed were his parents. He had a carefree grin, his messy hair falling in his face. His jaw had the same low, square structure as it did in the present. Smiling, I set the frame down and wandered out of the living room into the hallway.
The first door was open, revealing a very clean and white bathroom. For a moment I was tempted to see what kind of shampoo Mr. Heywood used but I forced myself away. What was I, a stalker? The next door was the laundry and stock room—which showed Mr. He
ywood’s true nature. Piles of laundry that nearly reached the ceiling resided there. I pulled the door shut and moved on. The last room was Mr. Heywood’s bedroom.
Pausing by the door I stuck my head in and looked around. It was a pretty average room. The walls were brown, and the floor was made out of oak wood. Another large flat-screen TV was on the wall, and there was a big, brown leather couch across from it. A king-sized bed was placed against the far wall. To my surprise, it was made. The comforter was the same color as the walls, and the pillows and sheets were lighter shades of brown and white. Mr. Heywood was very coordinated.
Just as I returned to the living room and sat down on the leather couch, he came out of the kitchen, holding the phone. He put it back on the receiver by the door and took a seat on the couch next to me, turning on the TV. “Do you want to watch anything in particular?” he inquired.
I shook my head, keeping my hands clasped tightly in my lap. Mr. Heywood flipped the channel to a soccer game, turning up the volume. My palms grew sweaty and I quickly wiped them on my pants. What was there to be so nervous about? Oh yeah. I was alone with my teacher, in his apartment, on his couch, with these feelings I was trying to force away before they became something. This situation wasn’t helping at all—but it wasn’t like I had any other choice. No one liked sleeping outside in the cold. And no one in his or her right mind would choose that over spending the night at the house of someone like Mr. Heywood.
“And that’s why you don’t give the ball to Batista,” Mr. Heywood said suddenly as the crowd on TV booed.
A small laugh escaped my lips and I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. Mr. Heywood turned and raised an eyebrow. “What?
“Nothing. I just never would have guessed you were so . . . normal, you know?” I told him with a shrug. “It’s weird.”
“What do you mean?” he asked slowly, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
Boy did he look cute when he was confused—I shook my head, dispelling the thought. I couldn’t be having those thoughts!
Mr. Heywood tilted his head to the side. “Well?”
I cleared my throat and shrugged. Um, I don’t even know. I just thought you’d like, come home and read about science or something. Or start beating up a punching bag. Or your house would be a mess. Stuff like that.”
Mr. Heywood laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I am a normal person as well.”
“I’m not disappointed,” I responded without thinking.
Mr. Heywood stared at me for a moment before shrugging and turning back to the television. After about twenty minutes, the doorbell rang. Mr. Heywood opened the door to the pizza guy. “Do you need a plate?” he asked, coming back over to the couch, pizza in hand.
I shook my head. “Nope, I’m good.”
“Good, now I won’t have to wash as many dishes,” he responded, setting the pizza box down between us.
He opened it and took a piece out. I copied him, picking up the warm piece of pizza and bringing it to my lips. The cheese slid off, burning my fingers and mouth, so I quickly let go. It landed on my pants, now burning my leg through my pants. “Ow, ow, ow,” I muttered, picking the pizza up and tossing it back into the box.
“Good job,” Mr. Heywood commented, smirking.
I pursed my lips at him before turning to the mess on my pants. “Napkin?”
“Here,” he said, reaching to his side and tossing me a few napkins.
I wiped off the pizza sauce and cheese the best I could, but there was still a large stain left on my pants. Sighing, I put the dirty napkins on the top part of the pizza box, letting the next piece I took cool off before eating it.
By the time the game was over, the pizza was gone and I was half asleep on the couch. Mr. Heywood stood up, picking up the pizza box as he did so. I stood up as well, and followed him to the kitchen drowsily. The clock on the kitchen wall read one in the morning. A yawn escaped my lips, and I rubbed my eyes.
“Follow me,” Mr. Heywood ordered.
I did as he asked and followed him back to his bedroom. He dug around in his dresser for a few moments before tossing me a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I looked at them and looked back up at Mr. Heywood, confused.
“Wear those to sleep in. I don’t want you wearing your dirty pants in my bed.”
I stared at him, my eyes widening. What did he mean in his bed? Was he expecting me to sleep with him? He must have seen my bewildered expression because he chuckled, a smirk gracing his lips again. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take advantage of you. I’ll be sleeping on the couch.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said quickly. “It’s fine.”
“No,” he responded sternly. “You’re the guest, so that means you get the bed. And you’re a girl. Now go to the bathroom and change. However, if you want to change in front of me, I’m not stopping you.”
I blushed and shook my head, heading towards the bathroom. After shutting the door and locking it, I stripped and pulled on the pajama bottoms and T-shirt. Both articles of clothing were way too big for me, so I had to tie the pajama bottoms’ string tightly. The bottom of the T-shirt reached mid-thigh. I used the toilet and washed my face before going back to the bedroom. Mr. Heywood was in the middle of taking off his shirt. He looked over at me with an amused expression.
“Sorry!” I apologized, looking away immediately.
“It’s fine,” Mr. Heywood responded.
I looked back over at him; he was now completely shirtless. He went searching in his dresser again and I took the opportunity to check out his naked chest. Muscular, but not to the point of a body builder’s shape. His abs were there, but not too prominent. Not a surprising build for an ex-gangster.
Mr. Heywood caught me staring and grinned. “Are you checking me out?”
“No!”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say.”
A yawn left my mouth when I opened it to defend myself. Mr. Heywood nodded toward the bed. “Get in,” he ordered.
Immediately I hurried over to the bed, pausing next to it awkwardly for a second before climbing in. The sheets were cold as I quickly pulled them over my body. Mr. Heywood went over to the light switch and turned it off, darkness flooding the room. His silhouette was illuminated by the moonlight as he returned to the couch. He let out a quiet sigh, flopping onto his back. “Night, Holly.”
“Night,” I responded quietly. My heart was beating excitedly at the thought of being in Mr. Heywood’s bed. I took a deep breath and a pleasant scent filled my nose—Mr. Heywood’s scent. A quiet sigh escaped my lips. This was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself from feeling happy. My stormy thoughts kept me awake for a while. The sound of Mr. Heywood’s even breathing also kept me distracted. Sleep crept up on me like a ninja, and before I knew it, I was off in dreamland.
Something hot was covering my back when I woke up. My eyes opened groggily, seeing only the blackness of the room. I attempted to roll over, but whatever was covering my back wasn’t going anywhere. That’s when I noticed the arm under me. My eyes widened in surprise as I next took in the arm over me. Then I noticed who the arms were attached too. My head turned slowly to see Mr. Heywood’s sleeping face right next to mine. I swallowed nervously, trying to move myself out of his grasp without waking him. His naked chest was moving in and out slowly as he breathed.
When did he climb into the bed? Why did he? I struggled to slide out of his arms, but they suddenly tightened up. This wasn’t good. His arms were revealing my true thoughts. I really didn’t want to move away from his arms. What I wanted to do was snuggle closer to him and go back to sleep. But there was no way I could do that.
Whatever happened to my commitment to stop my feelings before they became too much? It didn’t seem like I was doing a very good job. My stomach was tingling from my awareness of his body so close to mine. What was wrong with me? How could I have feelings for this devil of a teacher? I glanced back at his peaceful face and caught my breath. He was really handso
me . . .
Suddenly something entered my field of vision. I froze. But not because of Mr. Heywood. A large, brown spider was crawling on the pillow. In my direction. Immediately I screamed, shoving back violently, knocking Mr. Heywood right out of bed and I went with him. On the floor, I struggled frantically, trying to escape the tangle of sheets we were caught in.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Heywood demanded, sitting up, his hands made into fists.
“Spider!” I gasped, pushing myself over him and finally leaving the tangled mess of the sheets.
He stared at me, as if surprised I was there. Then he shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. “Where?”
“Pillow!”
I watched as reached over to the pillow, scooping up the creepy crawler. He came over to me, smirking, and held it out toward my face. “Stop!” I cried, scrambling back away from him.
“It’s harmless,” he told me, letting it crawl around his hand. “See?”
“Bring it outside,” I begged, giving him the puppy-dog look.
He looked at me with an amused expression. “Don’t you want me to kill it?”
“Why? It didn’t do anything.”
Mr. Heywood stared at me for a moment, his face twisted into an unrecognizable expression. “That’s different,” he finally commented quietly. “Alright, I’ll bring it outside.”
He disappeared out the door and I took the time to collect myself. I picked up the blanket and sheets I had knocked to the floor and tossed them back on the bed. Then I went to the bathroom and quickly washed my face. When I was done I wandered out to the living room just as Mr. Heywood was coming back in. He let out a yawn, the muscles in his arm rippling as he stretched. My eyes ran over his toned stomach involuntarily.
“Boy it was hot last night,” he commented, rubbing his stomach.
“I wonder why,” I responded sharply, glaring at him accusingly.
He held up his hands in defense. “Sorry—I woke up to go to the bathroom. I must have forgot you were here.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you expect me to believe you?”
