Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  LaFirst talks. She makes sense. The class starts the discussion.

  “I would not date an old dude.” A girl from class, Tiffany, snorts, widening her eyes. “I mean, what would be his motivation? Is he just a creep after fresh meat? Or does he want someone he can manipulate because I’m not as experienced as he is?”

  “I would totally date an older guy!” another girl, Faith Matthews, exclaims. “In the end, it’s all about the connection and the chemistry between two individuals. Right, Mr. James?” She held herself back from winking at me. Just. I lift a brow.

  “There are many issues you still haven’t touched. I want you to dig deeper into this subject: laws, expectations, stigmas, interest, and goals,” I answer dryly, my eyes scanning the class. I see Herring—the idiot—slipping another note into Remington’s palm. I haven’t even seen her open any of them, so I can’t pick on her. Not that I should want to, but it’s making me irrationally angry.

  “Mr. Herring, anything to contribute to this conversation?”

  He raises his head and grins slyly. This kid is a tool, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Mommy and Daddy are loaded, he wouldn’t have a single friend here.

  “What? How I feel about dating a MILF? I think I would. I mean, why not? Though for now, I’m sticking to high school girls. I even have my eye on one in particular.” He winks and pretends to elbow Remington, though they are too far apart. Remington’s expression is bored and apathetic. It placates me a bit, even though it shouldn’t.

  “Yeah, like your girlfriend?” Mikaela Stephens snaps, and Herring doesn’t even look a little sorry.

  “My bad, babe. I forgot you were here.” He laughs, and his friends follow suit. Dumbasses.

  “Miss Stringer?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Not that it looks suspicious. She regularly partakes in these discussions, and everyone is expected to participate. It’s because I am too fascinated with this girl, and it unnerves me.

  “I wouldn’t care about the stigma,” she says, her eyes still stuck on the board behind me.

  “And the expectations?” Herring asks. The class laughs, and I find I’m actually curious to know her answer.

  “I’m fine with the expectations, too.” She doesn’t even blink.

  “Well, you look like a ride or die chick.” Schwartz laughs.

  “You look like a biker chick,” Miss Matthews mumbles.

  “No need to sugarcoat it. The term you’re looking for is ‘white trash’.” Mikaela Stephens snorts. My head snaps up.

  “Stephens, come again, please,” I say, as indifferent as I possibly can be. She lifts her head from the doodles on the notebook in front of her and opens her mouth, at a loss for words. She didn’t think I’d hear. Mikaela Stephens. The senator’s grandchild. A cheerleader. The poster child for everything empty and superficial herself.

  “Sorry, Mr. James,” she mumbles.

  “That’s not what you said.” I smile easily. “And that’s not what I asked. Repeat your last sentence, Miss Stephens.”

  She looks left and right, clearly uncomfortable. I chance a glance at Remington. It doesn’t look like she cares too much, and that not only puts me at ease, but makes me feel a misdirected sense of pride.

  Mikaela repeats her words, looking down, looking guilty.

  “Miss Stephens, a word after class,” I say. She nods.

  We continue the discussion. The bell rings. Everybody stands up but Stephens. Remington, included. “You, too, Miss Stringer.”

  “Again?” Herring mutters, annoyed, as he flings his backpack over his shoulder and stalks to the door. I need to stop. I need to stop this, but the prospect of revenge is too much to resist. I tell myself it has nothing to do with this invisible pull I feel when it comes to Remington.

  I sit behind my desk.

  “Stephens, come sit next to Stringer.”

  She does without hesitation. For a split second, I think she might challenge me, but then I remember that Remington Stringer is the only girl at West Point who ever would. And the only one crazy enough to get off on it.

  “Apologize to Miss Stringer.”

  “I’m sorry,” she tells Remington, who doesn’t even acknowledge her. She continues picking at her chipped black nail polish. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Yes, she did.

  “Miss Stephens,” I pull out the detention slip, “two days.”

  “Oh my God! Are you serious?” She flings her arms in the air, exasperated.

  “A week,” I say easily. “Starting Monday.”

  She cups her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide, shaking it back and forth. She knows what’s going to happen if another word slips between her lips. I scribble on the detention slip, tear it off the pad, and hand it to her with a smile. “In my world, your actions today in class classify as bullying. I will not tolerate bullying, in any shape or form. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She stands up and walks out of the classroom, slamming the door behind her. Remington is still in her seat.

  “You can go now, Stringer,” I say. What I fail to add is I don’t want her to. What the hell is wrong with me?

  She lifts her face from her hands finally and smiles.

  “I’ve been thinking about you this week.”

  Oh, fuck no. I get up and gather my things. Laptop, notebook, wallet, and keys.

  “You’re excused, Miss Stringer. Don’t test my patience. Not again.”

  “Do you like my shoes?” she asks, parting her legs open a few inches. Not a lot. Enough to make me want to peek and see what’s between them—the way her stepbrother did the other day—and that thought makes me feel like a scumbag.

  I don’t know why she’s still wearing her old shoes, and she’s obviously baiting me, but I don’t give anything away.

  “Not particularly,” I say shortly. “If you don’t evacuate my room in ten seconds, I will take it as a sign you would like to join your good friend, Stephens, in detention.”

  “I don’t mind.” She shrugs. “It’s not like I have a ride home today. My stepbrother is out of town.”

  I swallow.

  “Stringer,” I warn.

  “Pierce,” she retorts.

  Reluctantly, I move my eyes to look at her. My desk is clean, and it’s time for me to move my feet and go. Her legs are wide open, and all I have to do is scroll down and see her panties. She smiles. She knows what she is doing to me, and it makes me want to break all the rules and show her that she’s not the only one who can be brazen. Fuck, I invented brazen, sweetheart.

  “Close your legs.” I blink away, fast. “If you pull this kind of shit on me one more time, I’m telling Headmaster Charles. You claim to want out of your situation, but you know what I think? I think you’re scared.” On the surface, she appears unfazed, cocking a sardonic brow. But I know my words are getting to her if the pursing of her lips is any indication. Her lower lip trembles just a tad. I show no mercy. She needs to hear it.

  “You’re scared,” I repeat. “You have a chance here, and now that it’s a real possibility, you have no idea how to handle it. So, here you are, seducing your teacher. Sabotaging your opportunity because this life, in this city, is all you know.”

  “Is that what I’m trying to do?” Her red lips curve into a smile, her walls rising back up, higher than ever before. God, this woman. Yes, woman. Little girls are not my type. Never have been. But Remington Stringer is only technically a teenager. She is so much older than her years.

  “I don’t care what you’re trying to do.” I take a step toward the door, tilting my head, signaling her to join me. “I just want you out of here.”

  “Why can’t I stay? Maybe you’re the one who’s afraid?”

  “I’m locking the door behind you.”

  “Maybe you should lock it with us inside.” She grins.

  Blood rushes to my dick, and I really need to get out of here.

  “You just earned yourself a week of detention.”

  “
Fine.” She pouts her pretty lips in a way that makes me think she just got exactly what she wanted. When she stands, I allow myself a quick fix, checking out her creamy, long legs and hourglass figure. I need to blow off steam tonight. This girl is trouble of the worst variety.

  I hold the door open for her, and she finally leaves, swaying her hips exaggeratedly. Fuck. Me.

  I watch her leave, resisting the urge to offer her a ride once school is out.

  We’re not even going in the same direction.

  Not only geographically, but in life.

  I sit, dangling my feet from the bench at the bus station with my camera on my lap, still stuck on my exchange with Mr. James. Part of me finds his attempt at psychoanalyzing me annoying, but the way he looks at me—like I’m every rule he’s ever wanted to break—gives me a high like no other.

  I check my phone for the time. I don’t even know when the bus hits this part of town, and I’m just hoping I’ll get home in time before it’s too dark to walk the streets. Ryan is not around today—said he was going to check out a toy hauler a few hours away from home—and I really should have thought this one through. Maybe I should get some mace. Or pepper spray. Something to make me feel a tad safer. Even though, I argue inwardly, most of the people I should stay away from are the ones that usually hang out on my front lawn.

  At least I have that going for me.

  I didn’t care too much about Mikaela’s jab. Surprised Mr. James did. Then again, maybe it was just another way for him to embarrass me. And it seems like every time he does, I try to one-up him and beat him at his own game. Pushing back has always been something that I liked doing. It’s a daily struggle to stay neutral.

  You’re playing it smart, Remi.

  Listening to Queens of the Stone Age and mouthing the words to “No One Knows,” I still when I hear a familiar voice.

  “Get in.”

  I look up and see Mr. James. I’m more than a little shocked to see him here. Though he doesn’t look happy about seeing me at all. I see the indecision warring on his face.

  I stub a finger to my chest. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. It’s just a ride. I happen to know you don’t live in the best neighborhood, and it is my duty as an educator to keep you safe.”

  Again with this bullshit. Is he trying to convince himself or me? I smile and hop from the bench. “You give me detention and then a ride home? Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  I grab my bag and head toward his SUV.

  “Sweet minivan,” I joke as I slide into the smooth leather seats that burn the backs of my thighs. This heat is no joke. He only looks mildly irritated at my jab.

  “It’s an Audi Q7,” he explains as he pulls away from the curb, like I’m supposed to know what that means. I raise my eyebrows questioningly, causing him to sigh, exasperated. “Never mind.”

  “So, am I just supposed to ignore the fact that you know where I live?” I can’t assume that he sought me out. Not when he’s vehemently shut down my advances. But, I can’t seem to come up with another explanation either.

  “Buckle up,” he deadpans, giving me a sideways glance, avoiding my question. Interesting. Maybe he did look me up. I do as he says and buckle my seatbelt, stealing a glance at him, and literally feel my stomach flip. From his black Wayfarers and his perfectly disheveled hair to the way his forearm flexes when he grips the gearshift, he’s fucking flawless. I wish I could reach into my backpack and pull out my camera to capture him in this moment. And I decide to do just that.

  Mr. James doesn’t even notice at first, but the sound of the shutter has his head snapping in my direction, his brows furrowed.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, suspicion lacing his voice.

  “Calm down, Teach. It’s just a picture.” I take a few more. His hand on the gear, my feet up on his dash, the new mural on the freeway.

  I put my camera away, and my eyes trail their way back up to his. I can’t tell for sure through the sunglasses, but I’m pretty damn sure he’s zeroed in on my thighs, and his throat bobs with a hard swallow. My hands fist the edge of my skirt nervously, and I adjust my legs that are sticking to the hot leather seat. His head jerks up, and he clears his throat and focuses back on the road. I’m flushed and on fire, but it’s not from the Vegas sun.

  I bite my lip to keep from saying something stupid and rest my forehead against the window. Flirting comes as naturally as breathing to me, but it’s one thing to bait him at school. This little game feels all too real off school grounds and in the intimate space of his car.

  As we get closer to my house, my stomach is flipping for a very different reason. I don’t want him to see where I live. He says he knows, but knowing my address and seeing where I live are two completely different things. I hate that I’m ashamed of something I have no control over, and at that I feel a twinge of guilt. My dad works hard to keep a roof over our heads, and there’s no shame in that. I half expect Mr. James to ask for directions, but sure enough, he knows exactly where he’s going.

  I don’t notice him at first, because our street is lined with shitty cars parked every which way, blocking my view of the driveway, but when I see Ryan and his friend Reed in the yard, my whole body fills with dread. And when I notice the beer in his hand, that dread turns into panic. What the hell is he doing home? And why wasn’t he there to pick me up if he was in town? I whip my head around, my wide eyes pleading with his to understand. Mr. James’ jaw flexes, and he shakes his head imperceptibly. He’s not going to make this easy on me.

  “Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow?”

  He unbuckles his seatbelt, and I turn to see if Ryan has noticed our arrival. Oh, he has, all right, and he’s marching straight toward us.

  “Don’t,” I implore before Ryan is in earshot. “I don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight.”

  “Deal with what, exactly, Remington? I thought you said you weren’t in any kind of danger?” I roll my eyes and hop out, coming face-to-face with Stepbrother Dearest. He’s in a muscle tank and grease-stained jeans, his massive ink-covered arms crossed over his chest.

  “You play chauffeur to all your students?” Ryan flicks his chin in Mr. James’ direction. I don’t dare look at him, but I feel him come stand behind me and I sigh, knowing this isn’t going to end well.

  “Just making sure she gets home safe since no one else cared to,” he says as he presses his palm to my lower back. It’s meant to be a polite gesture, I’m sure, but I know Ryan, and he’s not going to see it that way. I can’t even pretend that the weight of his large, warm palm on the small of my back doesn’t affect me. His pinky finger rests on the small space of skin above my skirt, where my shirt has ridden up, and if we were anywhere else, I’d be tempted to ask him to show me how good his hands can make me feel on other parts of my body. But Ryan notices the placement of his hand, and I know I have about two seconds to act before shit hits the fan.

  Annnd here we go.

  Ryan grips my bicep and pulls me out of the way. My foot catches on a rock in the yard, causing me to stumble into him.

  “Get in the house, Rem,” Ryan says as he chugs the rest of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He tosses the empty bottle into the graveyard of bottles in our yard.

  “Ry, he’s my teacher. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Remi. House. Now.”

  “She’s not a dog, man.” At that, Ryan lunges at Mr. James, but I manage to jump in between them before he makes contact. My hands are on his chest, and I know he could flick me away like an insect, but he doesn’t. His breaths are coming out short and fast through his nose, and I know I need to diffuse the situation before he loses control. Once again.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “Ry, take me inside.” My voice is steady and calm, belying the anxiety swirling in my gut. He doesn’t answer me. Ryan seems to be shooting daggers out of his eyes while Mr. James appears almost bored.

  “Yo. Let’s go.” Ryan’s arm wraps
around my hip possessively, and I know I’ve gotten through.

  “Don’t touch my fucking girl again. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look at her unless she’s in class. I won’t tell you again.”

  I lead Ryan toward the house, and this time, he lets me. Reed tags along behind us. After we’re inside, he goes straight for the fridge and grabs another beer. I set my backpack on the kitchen counter and look out the window, only to lock eyes with Mr. James. He’s leaning against his car, arms crossed over his chest, and a scowl on his face. I bite my lip and look back at Ryan who is already firmly planted on the couch next to Reed, downing another beer, oblivious to our little staring contest.

  “Thank you,” I mouth silently. Mr. James nods once and heads back to the driver’s side. Despite the drama, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. He feels something. He has to.

  “What the fuck are you so happy about? I mean it, Rem. Stay the fuck away from him. He’s bad news.” At that, I have to laugh.

  “He’s bad news? You’re the one who bailed on me, leaving me to find my way home, and for what? To get drunk with this asshole in the middle of the day?” I fling my arm in Reed’s direction. “No offense, Reed.”

  He burps and wiggles his eyebrows. “None taken.”

  “It was just a ride. And stop telling people I’m yours. It’s creepy.”

  “It’s the fucking truth,” he seethes. “And I had a change of plans. Shit happens, Rem, and believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you.” I wish that were true.

  “Dick,” I mumble and turn back to the kitchen.

  I make myself a turkey sandwich, grab a water bottle, and head to my room for the night. I’m not making dinner for those fuckers. I have a feeling they’re drinking their dinner tonight, anyway.

  I wake up to rough hands pawing at my chest through my tank top and the scent of beer invading my nostrils. “Ryan, stop,” I croak out—my voice still groggy from sleep—as I throw an elbow into his gut. These middle-of-the-night meetings are becoming more frequent, and it’s equal parts irritating and alarming.