When I look up from my watch face and out the window, a navy blue Volvo sedan, not new, pulls up in one of the spaces behind the dining hall. When the driver’s side door opens, it’s him. It’s really him. I’ve thought of him often since he left—more since he was here in the spring, giving me a more vivid picture to pin my hopes on. He’s here. Wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt, shoving sunglasses over his forehead. Oh my.
He grabs a backpack, the same one he had as a student, and hefts it over his shoulder before shutting the door. I lose sight of him then and count how long it takes him to make his way inside. Through the basement door in the back, up the well-worn steps with the sandpaper treads, down the carpeted hallway, through the tiled student dining hall and…
He’s here. In the doorway. His blue eyes scan the room and stop ever so briefly when they get to me. I smile and start to lift my hand in a wave, but his face darkens and then his gaze skims over the rest of the room. There’s one word for how I feel in that moment; the second I’ve been looking forward to for months, that I’ve—if I’m being honest—anticipated for years. The moment when there was a possibility of Shep and I being together. I thought it would be exciting, thrilling, but instead the artificially cold air is heavy in my chest. One word.
Devastated.
Shep
I am such an asshole.
A cowardly, gutless douche bag.
I could have come earlier. Days earlier. Weeks, even. I mean, was it nice to make some extra cash working at the club and tying up loose ends before I had to leave? Yes. Could Mordecai have done without me for the past several weeks? Definitely. Summer tends to be slow. People are on vacation, spending time outside, and frankly, leather and latex get damn hot in the sweltering Chicago heat and humidity. I’m not squeamish about bodily fluids and odors—you can’t be and work at a fetish club—but August is a lot for even me to take. Mordecai gave me those hours as a favor.
Most of them were more like therapy than me doing anything useful. Mordecai knows about Erin. He’s the only one who knows about Erin. She’s been a frequent topic of conversation over the past few months. Our most recent, most painful, conversation had taken place a couple of weeks ago while we did a super-thorough cleaning of the restraints that get used in the club. Q-tips and everything.
“Why are you still here, man?”
“I don’t need to be there until the last day of August.”
“Need, sure, but you could be there. You’ve wanted to go back since the day you left. So what’s holding you back?”
I’d lowered my head, concentrating really fucking hard on getting a tiny piece of grime that was wedged under a buckle I’d polished.
“It’s her, isn’t it? Erin? Are you afraid to see her?”
“I’m not afraid,” I’d scoffed. “She’s not rabid or anything.”
No, not rabid or anything bad. She’s tiny. Sweet. She smells like fucking lilies. I’d figured it out. They’re Kaiser’s girlfriend’s favorite and he got her a huge bunch of them when he proposed at graduation. The olfactory impression almost knocked me on my ass, the scent memory of Erin so strong. Lilies.
“Please. You’d rather face down a pack of slavering wolves than talk about this girl you’ve been in love with for years. I’ve seen that sketchbook of yours. She’s the only thing you draw. Don’t deny it.”
I couldn’t. Obnoxious fucker. Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I knew he had the same insufferable smirk on his face he’s had since the day I met him.
“Shut your fucking face, demon spawn.”
He’d snorted, enjoying getting as much of a rise out of me as he ever does. “So, what are you going to do? You clearly don’t have a plan.”
No, I didn’t have a plan. Except to show up and then see what happens. Didn’t work for Napoleon and I doubted it would work for me.
“If she’s still married, I don’t need a plan. I’ll need a shotgun and a shovel. For me, not him,” I’d clarified at Mordecai’s raised brows. “I couldn’t stomach watching them.”
“And if she’s not?”
“If she’s not? Fuck if I know.”
“You want her. Badly. Why don’t you give it a try? Sounds like she’d be game.”
“Not for everything. She might be totally vanilla and then where would I be?”
“Right. That.”
I shot him a glare. Yeah, that.
“You don’t think she’d try it?”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to push her into it. What if she thinks I’m a sick freak? I couldn’t handle that.” It had made my guts churn thinking about it. Hurting her, disappointing her, scaring her? Not an option.
“You’re good. I’ve watched a lot of people come through those doors. You wouldn’t force her into anything, and you’re good with the newbies. They like you. They trust you. You’re not some criminal out to corrupt her and eat her alive. Maybe she’d love it. Maybe she’s into it already. You don’t even know.”
I’d closed my eyes like it would block out the image I got of Will dominating Erin. I hoped not. Will’s a dick. An irresponsible, insensitive, self-absorbed asshole. Unless he had a total personality overhaul, he’d be a terrible Dominant and I wouldn’t wish him on anyone. Especially not Erin. That would make this even worse. “I feel like a predator. Like a fox in the fucking henhouse.”
“A wolf in sheep’s clothing?” One of these days I’m going to punch that smirk right off his face.
“Worse. I’m a wolf in shepherd’s clothing.”
At my confounded outburst, Mordecai had laughed. Asshole.
“Why don’t you clean up? Club’s opening in half an hour. Lydia’s supposed to come in and she’s going to ask for you. Is your head on straight enough to play?”
I threw down the cuff I’d been working on and pushed back from the table. “It will be.”
“Better be.”
“You know I’d tell you if it’s not.” It’s happened twice in the three years I’ve worked for him that I wasn’t in any shape to do my job. Today wasn’t going to make three.
“I know.” When I’d turned around, the jackass started humming “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I’d reached up and slapped the top of the doorframe so hard my hand hurt. The sting in my palm and Mordecai’s mocking tune followed me down the hall to the staff locker room.
Now I’m here. I decided on the long drive from Chicago that I’m going to leave Erin alone. I don’t want to hurt her or scare her. Even if she is interested in me. It wouldn’t be the me of now, it would be the me of three years ago she wants. I don’t look that different—my hair’s longer, I’ve gained some muscle from the hard training I did year-round to keep in shape for lacrosse, but it wouldn’t be so hard to understand why she’d think I was the same. But it would be a lie.
She’d walk into it like a trap, find herself stuck with another monster she wouldn’t know how to handle. No, I’m going to stay the fuck away from Erin Brewster even though in the second she looked up and I saw her empty ring finger I wanted to throw her over my shoulder, drag her into the kitchen and pin her down over one of the cold metal prep tables and have my way with her.
Christ, Shepherd, you are a sick, sick fuck. Fantasizing about something that would scare the living crap out of her. You can at least be man enough to leave the poor little lamb alone.
Erin
Shep sits as far from me as the space will allow and my heart’s made a home in my stomach, soaking in bile. Did I do something wrong? I haven’t talked to him since graduation. It’s been that long. I didn’t get to say a word to him last time he was here; he was like a ghost. He keeps his eyes glued to the front as Uncle Rett starts his welcome-back speech. Though I ought to be paying attention, my gaze keeps wandering to Shep’s arms crossed tight in front of his chest, and the curve of his bare flexed calf dusted with dark hair.
I’m so distracted that the smattering of polite applause when Rett’s through may as well be a thunderclap. God, I’m like a skittish r
escue pet. It’s foolish to have had these expectations and I knew it. Though I’d hoped for it, I didn’t really think Shep and I would run toward each other across the football stadium and fall into each other’s arms in slow motion like some tampon commercial. But I’d thought…I’d thought he’d at least talk to me.
The academic dean is talking, explaining the new schedule for this year. There’s grumbling as there always is when anything around here changes, but there isn’t much difference. We’ll be cutting classes shorter on Wednesdays so the boys have time to get to their games and meets. In the past few years, traffic’s gotten even worse and we’ve been habitually late. Not a good showing.
When the dean’s through, he welcomes the new faculty and staff by name, enforcing the tradition of making them stand up in front of the room and introducing themselves before handing over their classroom and teaching assignments. It’s mild hazing, if you can even call it that, though I’d almost puked when I had to do it despite all the friendly faces.
There’s a new Arabic teacher—that had been a controversial addition but an alumnus who’s a high-ranking officer in the military had endowed the position, so who were we to argue—a new drawing instructor since Mrs. Germaine retired after graduation last year, and a physics teacher we hired away from a rival school, although it may have been more for his tennis coaching prowess than his skills in the classroom. There’s polite applause for each of them, and then it’s time to introduce the fellows.
There’s a young man named Kurt—who reminds me too much of Will with his delicate features and slim hands—who’ll be teaching art history, and a pink-haired and eyebrow-pierced fireplug of a woman named Emeline who’ll be teaching computer science. I met her last week and helped her carry some boxes up to what used to be my apartment in Oliver. Even after she dyes over the pink and takes out her piercing to adhere to the faculty dress code, the boys will get a kick out of her. She’ll be popular. And then there’s Shep.
When he stands, I can see him resist shoving his hands in his pockets. Instead, he takes a quick glance at his running shoe digging into the carpet before he gathers himself and looks up.
“Afternoon, everyone. Dean Allen introduced me as Zach, but if you don’t call me Shep or Mr. Shepherd, I probably won’t turn around.” That gets a chuckle from some of the faculty, knowing the habits of the boys and our own culture of addressing them formally. He twitches a half smile before moving on. “A lot of you might remember me. I graduated from Northwestern with a major in math and a minor in studio art this spring, a year early. I’ll be on the math faculty and the assistant varsity lacrosse coach and thirds coach for soccer and hockey. I’m looking forward to being on the other side of the red pen and the whistle for a change.”
Dean Allen shakes Shep’s hand and gives him the envelope that will tell him he’ll be teaching two sections of Algebra I, statistics, and AB Calculus. In the room next to mine. I’d been excited when Cheryl, our space planner, had told me I’d have a new neighbor but now I’m not so sure. Shep’s blue eyes flash to mine and there’s a spark of longing, want, in his expression, but it clears when there’s another round of applause to welcome him and his fellow rookies.
He takes his seat and I spend the rest of the meeting lost in thought about what the hell I could’ve done wrong.
Shep
It’s the first day of class and I’m waiting for the guys to walk into my classroom. My classroom. I’ve never had a classroom before. It’s spare. I didn’t bother with pictures or the ridiculous motivational posters some of the other teachers have. I’m sorry, but if you’re not motivated, a poster with a tiny kitten dangling from a windowsill telling you to “Hang In There!” isn’t going to help.
I’ve got my books stacked on my desk and I’ve written my name on the board. I broke two sticks of chalk before I finished. How did my teachers make this look so easy? Especially Erin. It must have taken everything she had to stand up in front of us. I’m surprised she managed it that first day. My gut is churning and I’m used to this. It’s not so different from being a team captain, or for that matter, easing someone through a scene at the club.
I build up that leadership headspace, the sliver of distance I enforce between me and them in time for the first guy to walk into my class. I’m glad I’ve got freshmen first thing; they’ll help me warm up for dealing with the seniors later. I didn’t go to school with any of those guys, but only by a few months. It’s weird.
I keep a close eye on the clock and it’s not long before I’ve got a full class of freshmen—most of them looking too young to be wearing regulation blazers and ties—staring at me. I’m about to start when, through the wall behind me, I hear her, sunshine voice dimmed by the old-school plaster walls: “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”
A spiky shim of regret wedges its way under my ribs. Is it wrong that over the years when I’ve thought of her, sometimes I’ve wished I were sitting in the back of her classroom again, not as a student anymore, but watching her and getting to hear her say those words? But when she would, it would be different. Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.
When the kids had left the classroom, I’d get up and pin her against the chalkboard. She’d flush and struggle, scolding me gently, “Shep, you’re going to get chalk all over my sweater.”
She wouldn’t mean it though; the press of her hips against me would be begging for more. I’d kiss her and wind that single strand of pearls around my thumb until it would leave a light impression on the delicate skin of her neck. She’d let out a breathy moan as I slid a hand under her shirt to fondle a breast, tweak a nipple through the lace of her bra. I wouldn’t stop until she was pleading for more.
“You want more, Mrs. Shepherd?”
“Please, please…”
I’d turn her around to face the wall, ruck up the back of her skirt and rip away her panties with my fingers not twined in her necklace. Then I’d kick her feet apart, opening her for me. I’d get to look at her flawlessly round ass while I fumble with my fly one-handed because even in dreams I have to obey laws of physics. Just when I wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer, I’d sink inside her and she'd sigh, a loud, satisfied signature of pleasure. Then I’d wind my arm around her waist and fuck her while I fingered her clit until she’d come around me. The spasms in her tight cunt would knock the control I’d been clutching out from under me, and I’d come in her, hard.
I’d let her pearls go and slide a hand up her arm to cover hers, shaking, splayed against the chalkboard, twining her tiny pinky in mine. I’d kiss her flushed cheek and say soft in her pink shell of an ear, “I love you, Erin.”
That’s always when I’d wake up, a hand shoved down my shorts, wrapped around my dick in the middle of the night or if I was lucky, first thing in the morning when Hurley had an early class. I’d rub one out as soon as I could, thinking of how her heels would rise out of her purple shoes every time I drove my cock into her and how her hair would smell when I had my face buried in it, her small, gasping sex noises driving me on.
I’m ripped away from my sick fuck fantasies by a pubescent voice. “Mr. Shepherd?”
There are titters in the classroom because his voice cracked on the “P.” I want to smack each one of them upside the head. It’ll happen to every single one of you at least once this year, so don’t be douche bags to each other. But it’s a tradition, pretty innocent sport all things considered, so I let it go.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Zach Shepherd. Mr. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”
I get through the day, classes, meals, practice, without getting hard although my blood’s pooling in this funny way like it’s affected by tides, always at the ready to make a break for my dick. When I stumble into my tiny apartment after proct
oring study hall, I barely make it into the shower before I’m gripping my cock, pulling with rough and angry strokes, my other hand spread against the cool institutional tiles while I jerk off. When I come—thick, hot, and heavy against the wall and dripping down my closed fist—I choke out her name and wonder how I’m going to survive the next year. Wanting her, maybe watching her find someone else.
Coming back here was the worst idea I’ve ever had.
Chapter 13
Erin
It’s been a month. A month since he’s been here, a month since he’s been avoiding me. He’s not rude. No, Shep wouldn’t be rude, but god, it hurts. I can’t catch him in his classroom—he leaves as soon as his classes are over—and he’s laser-focused as a coach so I can’t even make eye contact when they’re out on the soccer field. He won’t sit at a table I’m at in the faculty dining hall and if I sit down at a table he’s already at, he’ll make an excuse after a few minutes and leave.
I’m a pariah and I have no idea why. Not that he’s a barrel of monkeys with anyone else—he’s always been serious and earnest and that hasn’t changed. He’s not sunshine and bluebirds when he’s not with me, more like an overcast day, but whenever he sees me, or even when he senses me… I don’t know how he does that, anyway, but his shoulders stiffen and his face darkens without having to set eyes on me. I’m a storm cloud.
Taming His Teacher Page 13
