by Abby Gale
I nod and whistle when I step in. "This house is bigger than where I grew up," I say with a chuckle. The house's designed modernly with leather and steel. The color is monochrome from white to black. The television is almost covering the whole wall, the game console in front of it is like a dream.
I shake my head. It's ridiculous. This much wealth. And the sad thing is, there's no life in the place, no sign of existence like no one's ever been here, no one's ever played on that console or sat on the couch.
"I've never been here, so I don't really know where things are," she says, proving I'm right. "There must be a bell close to the door," she muses, looking around to find the said bell. "Ah, here. If you need anything, just hit it, and they'll bring it from the house. Or you can just come and help yourself. Try to feel at home," she says.
If even you can’t feel at home in here how will I? I think to myself but don’t say a word. I’ve already hurt her enough for someone she’s just met.
Instead, I just say, "Thank you."
“Okay, I’ll leave you alone. See you at dinner?” she asks hesitantly.
“When is dinner?”
She shrugs. “Whenever we want.”
“Okay. I’ll stop by after I take a shower,” I say and watch her as she walks back to the big house.
My first plan was to stay away from Evangeline Faye back in school, but the moment we were alone in my old truck, the moment her scent hits me like a fresh breath of air, the thought of staying away from her went out of the window. My body hungered for her. But in that short drive from school to here, and after seeing her in her own house with her shoulders slouched and seeing glimmer in her eyes dull even more, I know that’s impossible. Her pain fascinates me. I feel like I can write page after page just looking at her. A muse. I think that’s what she is for me. And damn if it doesn’t make my dick harder.
9
Eva
I told him I wouldn't pull him into my drama, but I kept telling him the truth about my pathetic life. Maybe I should just shut up, so I don't scare him away. Shaking my head, I get in the shower. And just like the snake that changes its skin, I set free the pretense I surround myself with as the water cascades over me. Getting out of the shower, I put on my PJs. I pretend too much when I'm out of this house, the make-up and "provocative" clothes are some kind of mask I put on. And when I'm home, I try to be as plain as I can, so I don't forget who I really am deep down. So I don't turn into the person everyone thinks of me.
After putting my hair into a messy bun, I pad the corridors and run when I hear the bell ring.
“I'm opening the door,” I yell in the house.
I'm panting when I open the door. Elijah stands in front of me, his eyebrows move up when he sees me.
“Hi,” I breathe out. “I ran to open the door,” I add, laughing softly.
But my laugh dies in my throat when I see him checking me out. His gaze is like a touch, I feel it as his eyes move from my legs to my chest. My chest heaves faster with the intensity of his gaze. My stomach flutters when he licks his lips. Pressing my thighs together, I try to subdue the arousal he causes in my body without even touching me. I wonder what it would feel like if he really touches me if he puts his hands or maybe even his lips on me. I gasp with the delicious image that appears in my mind. That gets his attention. He pulls his eyes away from my body to my eyes. I see the same fire in his eyes as he looks at me. It's hungry, intense, and like everything about him, arousing.
Clearing his throat, he smiles. “Will you let me inside?”
Why does this sound too dirty?
God.
“Sure. Sorry,” I breathe out, trying to get my grip.
When he steps inside, I get a whiff of his scent. Freshly showered and delicious. I can't help but take my time to check him out while closing the door. He's not wearing jeans. He seems so much more casual just like I am, and I don’t know why, but that makes him even hotter. He has a faded t-shirt that reveals more of the tattoos on his arms. The grey sweatpants he's wearing is hanging low on his hips, giving me wicked ideas. The converses on his feet make me smile. He could be mistaken as a senior year with that look.
“How old are you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes do that sweep on my figure before he answers, “I better not answer that.”
I frown. “Why?”
His eyes fall to my chest, and he swallows. Is he as attracted to me as I am to him? Can that be true?
He shrugs. “Where is the kitchen?” he asks, changing the topic.
Suppressing the hope in my heart and the smile on my face, I walk ahead of him to show him the dining room.
“We eat here, but we can take our plates to the living room if that's what you prefer,” I murmur. I've never really had any guest in the house. As pathetic as it sounds, Elijah is the closest thing to sleepover I had in the house. I giggle with the thought.
What would he do if I bring nail polishes, I think, and it causes me to laugh harder.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I try to stop my laughter. "Nothing. I haven't really had many guests in the house, so I'm just weird."
He smiles with understanding and that tiny gesture transforms his face from hard and cold to young and carefree. His smile makes my insides warm.
And that just makes everything a little more complicated.
10
Elijah
I've never thought I'd see her like that. In an outfit that's similar to mine. At the bar last night, she looked like a woman I wanted to fuck and worship at the same time. At school, she looked like a dirty schoolgirl fantasy jumped right out of porn, but now she just looks like a teenager who can't wait to cuddle with her favorite book.
The dining room we're in should get my attention with the biggest table I’ve ever seen and lots of shiny decor around. But guessing the chairs weren’t full as often as they should’ve been, makes everything lose their value and fascination.
Everything, but her.
As the wealth around me tries to make me blind and hurt my eyes, my focus moves more and more to the girl who shines softly. She's like the moon in her graceful brightness; quiet, melancholic, and mysterious.
"So are you from Washington?" she asks when we busy ourselves with our dinner served by the maids. I don't know if this is something I can get used to.
“No. I'm from Montana. Moved to Seattle for college years ago.”
“And stayed in Washington ever since?”
“Yes.”
She smiles. “And how did you end up in a high school in this town?”
“I had to find a job to keep my belly full until I finish my book and find a publishing house to pay me enough. This school was the first opportunity I got.”
“And here you are,” she finishes for me, lifting her water glass like a toast.
With a chuckle, I click our glasses and repeat, “And here I am.”
“Is your book a fiction?” she asks. Her eagerness for the information about me dangerously strokes my ego. The male in me likes it too much to stop the conversation.
I nod. “I hope coming here will help with my writing, too. The change of scenery for inspiration.”
She leans closer to me with interest. “I’m hoping one day I’ll be writing my own book, too,” she says, but my focus has shifted.
Her loose t-shirt falls from one shoulder, revealing some cleavage I can't look away. Without thinking, I reach to touch her ivory skin. The moment my fingers graze her skin we both freeze and suck in a breath. I know I should've taken my hand away, but instead, I slowly caress her collarbone, enjoying how her skin erupts with goosebumps just from a simple touch. My fingers follow a path from her collarbone to her neck and back. Her tits heave with her quickened breath, and I slowly move my fingers to her cleavage, to caress the swell of her delicious breasts. She lets out a soft moan, causing blood to rush to my dick, and I lean closer to her with only
one thought in my mind, tasting her skin.
We're both panting as my lips hover over her neck, but we stand up quickly when someone enters the room.
“Miss Faye, the packages are ready. Would you like to go, or would you prefer Jake to handle them?”
Evangeline looks at me.
"I better go," I murmur. "Thanks for dinner."
"It's been a pleasure," she says, and I think of all the ways I can give her pleasure. But before I blurt out something crude, like it would be such a pleasure to have her legs wrapped around my head while I taste the dessert right from its source, she starts walking to the maid who waits for her order. And they both exit the room after a quick exchange I couldn't catch, leaving me alone.
It's dark outside. Where is she going at this time of the night?
I want to wait and ask her exactly that, but after what just happened I should be more careful not to cross the line with her. And questioning her like that sounds very out of the line.
She's eighteen after all.
I groan.
Fuck me if that doesn't make me think things I shouldn't.
Dammit.
She is my student.
And no matter how much I want to ignore that fact, I can’t fuck up this job. It’s the only income I have for now.
I know I'm not permanent here, but temporary or not, taking her to bed is wrong.
But fuck me if I can stop the thoughts running through my mind.
I know very well the moment I step inside the guest house, I'll jerk myself off to the thoughts of her. Imagining those curves under me, her legs around my waist, her lips chanting my name, those eyes silently begging me to fuck her...
Jesus.
I have to stay away from her.
But the problem is… I don’t fucking want to.
11
Eva
After the first day, Elijah and I don't see each other except in English classes. I ask the maids about his whereabouts only to find out he wakes up early and by the time I wake up, he's already had his breakfast. It's like he's doing everything in his power not to come across me at home. In class, he hardly spares me a glance. He gives us assignments every day, and I'm not even sure if he reads them. I want to ask him why he’s distant, but I don't want to seem more pathetic than I already am over a guy I don't even know well enough. After the class, when it's time to go home, he always gives me the same excuse, he has things to do so I shouldn't wait up for him.
A week has passed, but my life's been pretty much same even though I now have someone living with me in the house. And I can’t shake the disappointment.
Of course, he wouldn't share another drive with me. Why would he when I have a driver of my own?
I know it’s stupid to think he’ll hang out with me. He's young, attractive, in a new town with lots of possibilities, and many pussies to chase, why would he want to accompany me just because we live in the same borders?
I sigh.
Today, school dragged even more. People were talking about how the new teacher is staying at my place. They were giggling and placing bets on how long it would take for him to realize what a crazy bitch I was. Some were betting on me making a fool of myself by trying to seduce him because that's what expected from the school's slut, right?
And the worst thing is, they may be right this time. Because all week I couldn’t stop thinking about our dinner and his touch. I want to see him look at me with that same hunger. I want him to touch me, kiss me… and damn, I want to feel him inside me while his body is flush against my naked form. I crave the connection I feel when I’m around him.
My life is a circle. Like that riddle about the chicken and the egg. I don't know what's the starting point when my life takes the wrong turns that lead me in this belly deep tar. With every passing day, I'm swallowed more and more into the mess that's my life.
I’ve been given a name I didn’t ask for, just hoping maybe my parents would see me, remember they have a daughter. But as I look for attention, I become more and more the girl I don’t want to be. The girl everyone wants me to be. And the girl who isn’t worthy of her parents’ time. So we rewind and replay the same scenario.
I want this curse to be broken, but all I’m doing is panicking in the pool of tar, sinking even deeper, faster.
Elijah was the tree branch I saw above that tar, hoping the intense attraction I feel toward him means something since it’s the first time I felt such thing. But turns out, the branch was much further away than I thought. Too far for me to reach.
I’m tired.
I’m lost.
I don’t want to be the pathetic girl who needs someone to be happy, but I just can’t help it.
God… I just want to be happy, even if it’s for a little while.
With a sigh, I put my journal back in my bag and stand up to head for class. This little notebook is full of melancholic thoughts and self-pity. I always try to write something good, uplifting and even if I can manage that for a little while, the next page turns back to my good friend melancholy. It's what is in me, what I'm surrounded with. When I have the freedom only a pen, and a piece of paper can give me, my thoughts are set free and bleed onto the paper before I can stop it.
That’s why I get scared when Elijah, I mean Mr. Richards starts the class with those words. “Writing is self-discovery. We search what’s inside of us and reflect them into our writing. So today, I want you to write me a bedtime story. The kind our parents tell us before bed. A story about something that affected you. Something you feel deeply.”
I bite my lip, looking at the paper he puts in front of all of us like it’s a weapon.
Grabbing my pen, I take a deep breath and force myself to remember the good moments.
I hope this time the pen won’t pull out the truth from me.
12
Elijah
It's been a week since I started to work here, and I noticed the students in my class enjoy my type of teaching. I even caught one of the guys in the basketball team secretly reading a book.
I thought this teaching work will be a pain in the ass, but I’ve started to enjoy it.
And then… there is Eva.
No matter how much I try to put distance between us, mostly for her sake, because I don't trust my willpower around her, Evangeline Faye is suddenly the only constant thing in my life. She's the first thing I think about when I wake up. The fantasies I have about her are like sweet torture before I close my eyes every night, knowing she's just a few feet away from me in that big house, probably feeling lonely.
Oh, how I wish to share her loneliness.
How many different ways I can think of to comfort her and make her forget about every problem she has.
How I want to make, her writhe underneath me. How I want to taste her skin just like I was about to do on my first day here.
I shake my head to clear my mind from the thoughts of her like I do dozens of times every fucking day.
Resting my hip on my table, I look at my students who are writing the story I want them to. I do everything in my power not to stare at Evangeline’s focused face. I don’t know about the other students in this classroom, but I know she’s putting her heart out in that paper. I can see her passion, feel how her thought pour into the paper every time my eyes find her.
She’s quiet in the classes, even though I know she listens carefully. When she lifts her hand, I can’t hide my surprise.
“Yes, Evan- I mean Miss Faye?” I stutter.
“Do I have to hand the stories to you, Mr. Richards?” she asks in that soft voice of her.
I study her face and drag my answer even though I feel other students’ gazes on us.
“I’d love to read the things you write,” I finally say.
She swallows but nods before turning to her work.
She does every small assignment I give her, but I can feel her reluctance as she hands her work to me. I understand her hesitance. The assignments I give have never been just some words
thrown to the paper for her; they were all real. Too real and painful with all the emotions each word carries.
No matter how hard it is to read the pain she paints with every word she chooses, I can’t wait to read more from her. Getting a glimpse in her head and of her life is addicting, and I’m obsessed.
That’s why my eyes keep turning to her, trying to catch every expression on her face while she writes. The other students hand me their papers one by one, and I give them permission to leave early. I don’t question my motives to do such thing as I know letting others go will leave Evangeline and me alone. Maybe that’s what I’m actually trying to do. I don’t know. I don’t recognize myself when I’m around her. Everything about her is messing with my mind, making me act like a virgin boy.
When she's done writing, I catch her wipe her eyes, trying to hide the movement. She would be successful if I weren't watching her like a hawk. Especially, now that we don't have an audience.
She picks up her bag and walks toward me. I try not to stare at her body, but damn that's hard.
“Here,” she hands me her paper.
Our fingers touch briefly, and I can't stop myself from taking her hand and pulling her to me. A whoosh of breath escapes from her plump lips. It's a reaction I want to replay in my mind over and over. Her sweet scent fills my lungs, and I can't help but lean in closer to her. Her eyes widen with surprise, anticipation, and something more. Something more carnal, matching my feelings intensify inside me. She licks her lips, and I groan. Lifting my hand, I trace the line of that mouth with my fingers. A rosy color paints her cheeks, but her body sways closer to mine. Wanting my touch, needing my proximity.
