Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Natalie Charles

  “Okay.” I didn’t see any reason to thank him for that. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  I disconnected the call and tossed my cell phone to the side.

  The thing was, James had seemed so right. Maybe Mindy was on to something when she said that I should try to date Mr. Wrong. I mean, the hell with it. I’d tried the physicist. I might as well try the guy who lived in his mother’s basement. Why fight the failure?

  I glanced around my classroom. I was riled up, and Odin would be fine for a while still. There was a project I wanted to work on for the next day, and if I did it then, I wouldn’t have to take anything home. I grabbed a pad of paper—properly signed out from the supply closet—took a seat on the floor, and started sketching. I was lost in thought when I heard a knock on the door and saw Eric Clayman standing there.

  “Hi, Lettie. Working late?” He smiled and the room got brighter, but I wasn’t feeling charming at the moment. I wanted to be alone.

  “A bit.” I brought my gaze down to my work. “You are, too, I see.”

  “Not working. Avoiding work, actually.”

  He stepped into the room. His sleeves were bunched up to his elbows and his tie was gone. He looked like he’d rolled out of bed. Disheveled was a good look for him. “Is that right?” I murmured, and sketched the stem of an apple. “Don’t tell your boss. She’ll make you stand in the corner.”

  He laughed quietly and took the joke as an invitation to approach, which it wasn’t. He was hot and all, but he was my boss, and my ex-fiancé was engaged, and I was feeling like I had a lot of lemons and didn’t know how to make lemonade vodka. He nodded at my drawing. “What are you doing?”

  “Drawing apples.” I turned the paper so he could see it. “We’re going to decorate the classroom tomorrow. I have some glitter pens, and we’ll practice writing the letter A.” I shrugged. “It seems simple, but the kids get excited about glitter pens.”

  “Sometimes it’s the simple things,” he said. “By the way, I stayed up all night reading Happy Birthday, Sweet Pea. I was intrigued by your use of metaphor in the water-balloon scene. It’s a poignant commentary on the dangers of imperialism.”

  I picked up my head to look at him. Sure enough, his face bore no hint of a smile. I grinned and shook my head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

  “Are you suggesting my reading is wrong?” He set a hand over his heart. “I spent a long time thinking about this.”

  “If that’s true, then I’m sorry to hear it.” He was just standing there while I was sitting on the floor, so I gestured to a spot beside me. “You can have a seat if you want. I like to sit on the floor, but you can pull up a chair.”

  He glanced at the floor before looking over at one of the pint-size kindergarten chairs, and I could practically hear him think, Same thing. “I won’t stay long.” But he took a seat on the bookcase behind me, almost exactly where I’d just had my conversation with James.

  I’d finished sketching the apple, so I rose to get a pair of scissors off my desk. Real scissors, not child-safety ones. “Thanks for reading my book,” I said.

  “I thought it was cute. The illustrations are appealing. I can see why it would do well.”

  “That’s nice of you to say. It did all right. It’s probably going to be out of print soon.” I looked up and saw the confusion on his face. “My publisher was just sold. The new one doesn’t publish children’s books, only erotica. So I’m not sure what happens to the backlist.”

  He frowned and nodded. “I’m sorry to hear it. So let me guess: you’re writing erotica now?”

  I dropped the scissors onto the desk. They bounced once and hit the floor. “I’m so clumsy!” I nearly crawled to reach them. “Sorry. Your question caught me off guard.”

  “My fault.” Eric ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just, I was thinking the opposite of children’s books—”

  “No, no, it’s fine, it’s fine.” I forced a laugh and stood again, scissors firmly in hand. “But don’t start rumors. I mean, with everything going on—”

  “It was a bad joke. Inappropriate. I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Between the lollipops and this . . . I swear I’m not a creep.”

  My hands were shaking. “I don’t think that,” I said. But I didn’t know what I thought of him, exactly. Not a creep. Possibly psychic.

  He sat there on the bookcase and I could feel his eyes watching me. “Can I help you cut something out?”

  “I’m sure you have somewhere better to be.”

  “I can spare twenty minutes.”

  I smiled. “Okay. Then welcome back to kindergarten.”

  I showed him how to trace the pattern onto the red and yellow construction paper, and then we sat and cut. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on the task, carefully turning the paper in his hands. I looked up at one point and caught him staring so intently at that apple that I burst out laughing. He looked up. “What?”

  “You. You’d think this was surgery. The kids don’t care if it’s not perfect.”

  He grinned. “I don’t want to flunk out of kindergarten.”

  “You won’t.” I was still laughing as I leaned back against the bookcase. “Thanks for the help. I’ve had kind of a bad night, so this gets me home earlier.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I chewed on my lower lip as I weighed whether to give Eric any insight into my personal problems. But he didn’t seem like my boss right then. We must have been the same age, give or take a year or two, and we were just hanging out, cutting apples from construction paper. I took a breath. “My ex is getting married. We split in June, and he’s already found someone else to marry.”

  Eric’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Ouch.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Somehow, sitting there with a hot guy, it didn’t hurt quite so much. “So if you’re keeping tabs on the faculty, you can add easy to get over to my file.”

  Eric set an apple on the desk and slid it toward me. “I doubt that’s true.”

  Something in his tone— My breath caught in my throat. “Thanks,” I said.

  He picked up another piece of construction paper. “Is his new fiancée a girl you know?”

  “Not quite. He’s a guy.”

  Eric paused. “I’m sensing there’s some backstory here.”

  “Just that I have the wrong parts.”

  “I’ll add that to your file, too.” He continued cutting out the apple, turning the paper carefully in his hands, cutting right on the lines. “My ex moved on pretty quickly, too.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. No hard feelings.” He glanced up at me with a gleam in his eye. “On to better things, right?”

  My heart fluttered and I looked away. “Right.”

  He was so darn handsome, but fortunately I held on to my head. There were lots of ways to get over the news that an ex was marrying someone else and to feel desirable and wanted again. Sleeping with the acting vice principal was not one of them.

  I noticed the clock. “It’s been a while. You may need to face your phone.”

  “Media sharks,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t want them to say that I couldn’t be reached for comment. Or worse, make something up.”

  I gathered the apples and piled them neatly. “It’s something you can put in your autobiography. The day you defended Noah Webster Elementary’s honor.”

  “My autobiography?” He stood and stretched his legs. “Nah. I’m boring.”

  It took a moment for the comment to register because I was marveling at his trim torso. He was built like an athlete—a runner, maybe? Or possibly a swimmer, with those broad shoulders. She didn’t care for the buttons on the front of his shirt. Given the choice, she would have torn them off one by one with her te
eth so she could lay that gorgeous chest bare, unwrapping him like a piece of chocolate.

  I looked back down at the floor. “I’m boring, too. That’s why my autobiography will be completely fictional.” I rose to my feet and pushed in my chair. “Either that, or I have to figure out a way to become interesting in the next ten to fifteen years.”

  “I take it you’re intent on writing an autobiography, then.”

  “I’m intent on making people believe I’m more exciting than I really am.” No, the irony was not lost on me as I stood in my kindergarten classroom, wearing a floral print dress with brown leather boots, tidying my desk, and secretly plotting my next erotic novella. “I may have a double life, for all you know.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Marlene Kitrich did.”

  We walked out of the classroom together, and I closed and locked the door behind me. “Have fun with your phone calls. I’m off to let the dog out and watch television.”

  His eyebrow lifted rakishly. “I thought you were trying to convince people you’re exciting? I’ll imagine you’re off fighting crime.”

  “Whatever works.”

  Fighting crime? Hardly. But as I walked away, I had the sudden urge to skip the television and open my laptop. There was an erotic story that had started to smolder, and it featured none other than one handsome and charming vice principal.

  CHAPTER 10

  HE WAS A GIRL’S DREAM, the kind of bad boy who would screw you five ways and then be sweet enough to bring home to Sunday dinner. Starr met him when working at the farm before college, back when rumors had been flying about him. Who he was, where he’d come from, who he’d been with. If the rumors were true, his name was Jase Jackson, he was from some backwoods town in New Hampshire, and he’d been with a lot of girls. She didn’t care about any of it when he brought her into the barn.

  “Lie down,” he’d commanded, pushing her gently onto an old mattress stashed in the hayloft.

  What a mattress was doing there, she hadn’t a clue. It couldn’t be up to any good, legitimate use. Starr was sure it had seen plenty of fucking. Jase unbuckled his belt, a quick click of metal on metal and the thwick sound of leather pulled through denim straps. He didn’t toss it aside but gathered the strap into his fist. “Roll over.”

  Somehow, she knew better than to question him. She rolled onto her stomach, her hands pressed beneath her shoulders, her heart thumping in her chest as she waited for what would follow. She sucked in a breath when she felt his fingers on the back of her bare leg, reaching up beneath her dress. He lifted the thin blue cotton to expose her underwear. White. Boring. Plain Jane undies.

  She waited for him to laugh about them, but he didn’t. He traced his finger beneath the elastic band to find her already hot and wet. Then he chuckled softly and slipped a finger inside her. She moaned against the mattress. Sweet heaven.

  He pulled his finger in and out a few times before slipping in another. Her muscles clenched around him tightly, holding him in place. She closed her eyes and sighed at the pleasure. That’s when she felt the belt against her legs.

  Whack! Fire traced a path across her thighs and then vanished. She shrieked into the soiled cloth of the mattress. He hit her again and she felt the burn mixed with his touch. Over and over, he struck her and caressed her, spiking exquisite pleasure with pain. But she didn’t ask him to stop. She couldn’t. Then when he did relent, she was about to beg him to continue when he pulled aside the flimsy layer of cotton between them and entered her. She gripped the mattress and sighed as a wave of release washed over her. With a series of mad, desperate thrusts, he came a few moments later. There they lay, intertwined and sweating, breathing the pieces of hay that flew about in the air.

  He pulled out of her and stood. The mattress rocked as he stepped off, and she rolled over onto her side to watch him. Without a word, he dressed and rethreaded his belt, then brushed the front of his shirt clean. “Count to one hundred before you leave,” he said.

  She sat up and pulled down her dress, wondering if she should feel ashamed. “Is that it?”

  “Until the next time.” His eyes were cold. He didn’t smile.

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, Eric pulled two suits out of his closet and tossed them side by side on the bed. Gray versus lighter gray. His brother, Andrew, teased him about it all the time, called him Old Reliable. What color sweater will you be wearing to the party, Eric? Gray, navy, or black? No one would ever accuse him of being exciting and edgy. It was part of the reason he’d risen so quickly through the administration. He toed the line; he enforced the rules. He wore conservative, sensible clothes, tailored to fit.

  It had never bothered him before. That morning, it did. Why had he opted for clothing that made him blend in, when all he wanted was for one person in particular to notice him? He could’ve at least invested in a red power tie at some point. The brightest shade he owned was closer to maroon.

  Eric showered and shaved. He didn’t skip the aftershave. He dressed in the darker gray suit and chose a white shirt with a blue tie. He spent too long on his hair, combing it with his fingers, trying to make it look a little messy but neat enough. God help him if he looked like he’d tried too hard, because then Gretchen might make a comment. Something like, Hot date at lunchtime? knowing full well that he was having lunch with her.

  Gretchen’s flirtation hadn’t escaped him, but he wasn’t about to go there. No thanks, not interested . . . for lots of reasons. He didn’t think she would make an actual pass at him, not with all of that talk about the board shutting down the school. But then again, he couldn’t predict what Gretchen was going to do at any given moment. She could tell the teachers to keep their noses clean one minute, and then go get drunk on bourbon in her office the next. From what he could tell, her greatest strength was her ability to keep people around her guessing. He didn’t like it. He’d grown up with a bully, and he didn’t respect them.

  The faculty and staff parking lot was almost empty when he pulled in, but media vans and reporters were waiting. All it took was the sound of the door of his black (of course) CR-V closing, and they literally came running.

  “Mr. Clayman! A few words, if we may?”

  He recognized the woman from the morning news, but he’d forgotten her name. She was pretty and very thin, with two blotches of pink blush on her cheeks.

  “Not now,” he said, clutching his briefcase to his chest to brush past them. “I’m just getting in.”

  “Just a few words. I promise it will be brief.” She stepped in front of him and planted her legs firmly to block his path. Then she smiled and tossed her dark hair. “You’re better-looking than your photo.”

  He was startled by the come-on, but he kept his head down. “Guess it’s time to get a new picture,” he mumbled. “Give me ten minutes. I promise you’ll get your statement.”

  He waited for her to move. She was standing directly in front of the door, looking up at him through her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. Then she licked her lips. “Pinkie promise?” She lifted her pinkie finger coyly into the air and waved it at him.

  His lips thinned. If she was trying to charm him, he wasn’t interested. “I don’t do that. You can take me at my word.”

  “Hmmm.” She made a sound like a moan and batted her eyes. “I can see why they put you in charge.”

  She arched her back, subtly displaying her small breasts. At that unfortunate moment he remembered that her name was Carla Frederickson, and that she’d only recently been the weather girl. She must have moved up to investigative journalist. Lucky him.

  After working as a bartender for so many years, Eric was accustomed to women hitting on him. He’d never get used to it, though. He glanced over her head at the glass door behind her. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Of course.”

  Carla stepped out of the way at last, and Eric passed. As the door closed behind him, he overh
eard her say to her cameraman, “He’ll be right back. He promised me an interview.”

  He unlocked his office and set his briefcase down, then went through the usual routine. Power up the computer. Open the blinds. Check his phone messages. He couldn’t get his shoulders to relax. Officially, the administration had no idea about Marlene Kitrich’s criminal activities. Unofficially, he’d found a few items tucked into the back of the filing cabinet last night that gave him pause: receipts for meals, conferences, and hotel rooms that she’d clearly forged and submitted for reimbursement—possibly to get cash to pay for the hit on her husband. School-budget cash. Taxpayer cash.

  If that was indeed what had happened, the police would be digging deeper, and so would the lawyers. There would be depositions and subpoenas to testify in court, and all the while the media would wonder how it was that Noah Webster Elementary could hand over so much money without asking any questions. Nightmare.

  But that morning, the situation was under control. For all he knew, those reimbursement checks had never been issued, and no one on staff had anything to hide. His own conscience was clear as he straightened his tie and walked back outside, where Carla Frederickson was adjusting her skirt in the reflection of the window. She looked up as he approached and fired a million-watt smile that he didn’t trust for one second. “Here he is,” she announced to no one in particular.

  “We’ll have to make this quick,” Eric said, and adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves. “I have about a hundred phone messages to return.”

  She snapped her fingers at the cameraman and made a waving gesture with one hand to indicate he should begin filming. Then she leaned closer to Eric and brushed a fleck of imaginary lint off his lapel. “I can get you off quickly,” she whispered, and gave a wink.

  He had barely registered the remark when she lifted the microphone. “We’re here at Noah Webster Elementary, which is feeling the heat this morning. Tell me, Mr. Clayman, what does the administration say in response to the allegations that the vice principal hired someone to murder her husband?”