Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  “C’mon, Rem. I need it.” I feel his hard-on pressing into my ass, and I wiggle away.

  “You’re drunk. Get out of my bed.”

  “Make me,” he slurs as he flips me onto my back and pins me with his weight. “Have you been giving this sweet little body to your teacher, Rem? Is that why you don’t want me anymore? That pretty boy can’t make you feel like I can. Let me show you.” He starts tugging at my sleep shorts, and that’s what has me snapping out of my sleepy haze.

  “Get off me!” I thrash beneath him and manage to heave his drunk ass off me, and he lands on the floor with a resounding thud.

  “Fuck, Rem!” he yells, still laid out on the tiny space between the wall and my bed. I know he could easily overpower me and take what he wants, but he doesn’t. He won’t. I know deep down, Ryan would never hurt me like that. He pounds his fist into my wall three times before standing up and storming out. I don’t even say a word. I stare at the ceiling, wondering how we got to this point. My stepbrother, best friend, and childhood hero has turned into someone I don’t even recognize. Every pivotal moment in our lives plays out in my head, and I dissect them all—wondering what we could’ve done differently—until the sun comes up. When it does, I’ve come to two conclusions. And it’s nothing I didn’t already know.

  Ryan needs help, and I need to get the fuck out of here.

  Ryan was gone all weekend, and my dad called to let me know that he was picking up another route, so I was home alone. Extreme boredom had me calling Christian, and he came to my rescue. I spent two full days drinking poolside in a house more gorgeous and luxurious than I ever knew existed. His parents weren’t home, so we had access to their endless supply of alcohol. Christian seemed to need the distraction about as much as I did, but we had an unspoken agreement. Don’t ask; don’t tell. I decided to save my interrogation for Monday, which is today.

  I expect to have to drag Ryan out of bed to take me to school after I get ready, but to my surprise, he’s pacing the hall outside my door, fisting his greasy hair with both hands.

  “I’m sorry, Rem. I’m sorry I’m fucked up.” He pulls me in for a hug, and I revel in the familiarity. No matter how unstable he becomes, I think his arms will always feel like safety to me. It doesn’t make sense, and it’s certainly not healthy, but it’s us. I run my hand up and down his back in a soothing manner, and he keeps talking.

  “I’ve got the weight of the world on my back. I don’t know how to fix things. The things I’ve done…” he trails off. He’s rambling, not making any sense. I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his eyes look crazed.

  “What do you mean? What did you do?” Ice fills my veins. As if he suddenly realizes what he said, he stands up straight and disconnects from me.

  “Come on. You’re gonna be late for school,” he says, effectively changing the subject. I nod slowly, not knowing what to say or do for him, and grab my backpack off the counter. I stuff a banana and a water bottle into my bag and head outside.

  “Have you slept at all?” I scan him, worry tugging an invisible string in my heart. He looks like complete shit. His eyes are red, and his skin looks clammy.

  “I’m fine. Mind your business.”

  Ryan is fidgety on the way to school, tapping his handlebars at every stoplight and jiggling his knee. Even when he pulls into the West Point parking lot, he can’t seem to get me off his bike fast enough, and he takes off before I can even mutter a ‘thank you’. He seems nervous. Paranoid, almost, with the way his eyes dart around, constantly surveying his surroundings.

  After first period, I can’t find Christian anywhere, so I head to second period early. When I see that Mr. James is the only one there, I rethink my decision. I stop short in the doorway and hesitate a minute being turning around to leave.

  “Come in, Miss Stringer. Have a seat,” he says casually, not giving any indication if Friday made things weird for him or not.

  “I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here already,” I say lamely.

  He gives me a brisk nod before returning his attention to his laptop.

  I make my way to my desk and notice that our papers from last class are graded and waiting. I spot the B minus on mine and roll my eyes. That was an A paper, no doubt. I flip to the second page and notice a sticky note attached that reads:

  Remington,

  If you ever find yourself in trouble.

  702-639-0628

  Holy. Shit. My teacher just gave me his number. Part of me wants to do a happy dance in my desk, but my giddiness dies when I realize that it’s for all the wrong reasons. Or, I guess, the right reasons. He feels sorry for me.

  “What the hell is this?” I ask, waving the note attached to my finger.

  “It’s exactly what it says it is. You don’t seem to have a parent around. Your source of transportation is your unreliable, unstable stepbrother. And you live in the roughest part of Vegas.”

  “And? That’s your business, how?” My wounded pride has me acting like a snot, but I can’t help it.

  “It’s not. I just…” He sighs and scrubs a hand across his jaw. “I’ve seen firsthand what can happen to girls in your shoes,” he says cryptically while he gets a far-away look in his eyes. It’s an unexpectedly candid moment free of any sarcasm, and some of my irritation melts away. I don’t know what to make of it.

  “You know many poor girls with absent but well-meaning fathers and borderline obsessive stepbrothers from the hood, do you?” I push my lower lip out and nod. His usual aloof mask falls back into place at my teasing, and the bell rings.

  “Save the damn number, Miss Stringer.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say sardonically. When he looks up at me again, I swear I see a hint of a smirk, but he wipes it away the second students start to pour into the classroom, and the moment is gone.

  During class, I sneak my phone under my desk and program his number. In a moment of bravery, or maybe temporary insanity, I scrawl out my number on the back of the Post-it. He’s standing in front of his desk when we’re dismissed, and I take my time packing up so I’m the last one out. As soon as the last person stands, I follow and slip the Post-it into his palm. His warm hand squeezes mine, and he rubs his thumb over my wrist before jerking his hand away, pocketing my number with a quickness. His eyes dart around to make sure no one else saw, then he looks at me expectantly.

  “In case you ever need me,” I explain, unable to hide my grin. His eyebrow cocks in amusement, and I walk away, my hand still burning from his touch.

  “Somebody got laid,” Christian jokes upon seeing the stupid grin still firmly fixed on my face. He hooks an arm through mine.

  “I wish.”

  “I can help with that,” Benton Herring—the kid from second period that likes to harass me—says as he takes my books out of my hands.

  “No thanks,” I snap, reaching to snatch my books back.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m just trying to be a gentleman here.” Benton laughs as he holds my books over my head.

  “Dude, come on,” I whine. “I have first lunch today, and it’s pizza day. Pizza,” I stress. “I’ll never forgive you if they run out before I get a piece. Or seven.”

  “Agree to go out with me tomorrow, and I will.”

  “Ew,” I say, crinkling up my nose, because it is the only appropriate response to that.

  “Tick-tock, baby girl. Pizza goes pretty quickly.”

  Before I can even roll my eyes at his little game, Christian steps in front of me and shoves Benton. Hard. His back hits the lockers, and he looks almost as confused as I am.

  Well, that escalated quickly.

  “Quit being a dick and give her the fucking books,” Christian demands through clenched teeth. Benton throws my books down and pushes Christian back.

  “What the fuck’s your problem? If I didn’t know you were gayer than a bag of dicks, I might think you’re jealous.” Benton looks smug, but it doesn’t last long because Mr. James is now walking toward us looking his
tall, imposing, sexy as fuck self.

  “Break it up, ladies,” Mr. James says, sounding bored as he looks between Dumb and Dumber. Neither one says a word.

  I don’t even know what the fuck just happened. Up until now, Benton was a harmless douche. A cocky little fucker who’s annoying but never malicious. But even more shocking is Christian’s behavior. I don’t even know what triggered that reaction.

  When Mr. James is tired of their silent act, he orders everyone to get moving.

  I bend over to grab my scattered books and head to lunch.

  “Hey, Remi, right?” I turn toward the voice, and a little raven-haired Hispanic girl is hurrying in my direction.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” I ask as I adjust my knee sock in the hall. School is out, but I still have detention. Awesome.

  “I’m Samantha LaFirst. Or just Sam. We have second period together?” she states it as a question.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I think we have English together, too.”

  “Yep.” She nods. “You need a poncho for the first row in that class.” She laughs.

  “So I’ve noticed,” I grumble.

  “Anyway, I’m an office aide for my third period, and Christian told me to tell you not to wait up. He went home.”

  “I figured as much.” Something’s up with him today. “Thanks for letting me know, though.”

  “For sure. See you tomorrow.”

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and I see a text from my dad.

  Hey, Hurricane. Just stopping for lunch and thought I’d check in. Staying out of trouble?

  Dad calls me Hurricane Remi. Says I’m a force to be reckoned with, like my mom, and always causing trouble. If he only knew the kind of trouble I was looking for. I decide to respond later because I need to get to detention. Just as I turn the corner by Mr. James’ class, Mikaela comes into view.

  “What are you looking at?” she snaps.

  “I’m not really into snap judgments, but if I had to guess, I’d say I’m looking at an entitled, narcissistic little girl who is threatened by anyone other than herself getting attention and wears her mean girl mask to hide her insecurities. But, like I said, I’m not into snap judgments.”

  Mikaela’s mouth drops open, but I don’t give her a chance to respond. I walk directly to my seat in Mr. James’ class. Mikaela steps in behind me, all but pouting.

  “Ladies,” Mr. James greets from behind his desk. “Read. Do your homework. Contemplate the meaning of life. I don’t care. No phones and no talking.”

  I give him a mock salute and pull out a notebook. His mouth twitches. Mikaela sighs dramatically and studies her nails. It’s going to be a long week.

  I don’t know what I was expecting to accomplish or achieve with detention, but whatever it was—it didn’t happen. Maybe it was Mikaela’s presence in the room—it had to be, I convince myself—because Pierce James has never been so cold and disinterested in me in our entire short relationship.

  It’s been five torturous days of detention. Five days of being in the same room as Mr. James and having to act unaffected. Five days of ignoring death stares from Mikaela. Five days of watching her shamelessly attempt to flirt her way out of detention and resisting the urge to strangle her. It’s been five days of hell, so why don’t I feel happy that it’s over?

  “All right, Miss Stringer, Miss Stephens. Detention is officially over. Let’s try not to waste any more of each other’s time in the future.” Mikaela is out the door before he even finishes his sentence. I take a slower approach, contemplating my next move.

  “Everything okay, Miss Stringer?” Mr. James asks as I study the doodles in my notebook.

  “Everything is fine,” I mutter, tapping my finger against my full lips. The truth of the matter is, detention is not all that bad. I get to stare at him, which probably isn’t healthy, but it’s nice, and when you’re in my position, you take every little good thing that comes your way. I get to do my homework. Ryan is always late to pick me up anyway, so it’s not like I’d be getting more free time if I didn’t have detention. Oh, and let’s not forget—it’s not like I’m in a hurry to get home.

  “Well, time to pack a bag,” Mr. James says, leaning forward, his palms flat against his desk. “And. Leave.”

  Reluctantly, I gather my things. I see his eyes scanning me. I see him contemplating, too. He wants to ask me if I have a ride. I do. But I would ditch Ryan somehow if he’d ask. Only Mr. James doesn’t ask. He turns around and leaves.

  I stand corrected.

  I don’t have a ride—not for another forty minutes. Ryan texted me saying that he worked at the auto shop ’til late and is just now on his way, so I have time to burn.

  At first, I loiter by the fountain at the entrance, but then I spot Mr. James walking to the nearest convenience store by foot. Since I’m an idiot with no self-control, I do the only thing I absolutely shouldn’t be doing—take the camera out of my backpack and follow him.

  It’s not such a big operation to pull off, when you think about it. West Point is bang in the middle of a vast, broad, tree-lined street that looks like it’s been copied and pasted from a movie—the complete opposite of where I live. Suburbia-galore and packed with preppy, middle-aged women in obnoxiously big sunglasses, shopping with their daughters. In other words, I manage to follow him without being noticed. I stand behind a tree and ogle him as he enters the store. Through the glass, I see him plucking out a can of Cherry Coke and walking to the register.

  Click, click, click.

  He points at two things behind the guy who rings him up, and the latter throws a pack of cigarettes and condoms into his bag.

  Click, click.

  Slowly, I lower my camera and squint. My heart is galloping, slamming into my ribcage, and now it’s not just because I am borderline stalking the man who teaches me. Condoms? I mean, logically, I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s gorgeous. What exactly am I expecting him to do? Turn down women his own age for his student? Nonetheless, it feels like betrayal.

  He shouldn’t be with anyone else.

  Hell, I know I’m talking crazy—thinking crazy, to be exact—but he just shouldn’t.

  It’s a dangerous game, but apparently, I’m still playing it, because when he leaves the store with his bag of sex and the cigarette after, I follow him still. He doesn’t walk back to the school grounds. He goes in the other direction, toward a small café. Seeing him like this, in broad daylight, outside of school, gives me a new perspective on Pierce James. I see how people look at him—how women look at him—and realize that whatever draws me to him captures other women, too. He is so tall, so commanding—you can’t not look. And I really should stop looking. He’s made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me, and even if he did, what the heck am I saying? I need to focus on getting out of here, not on screwing my way into another problem.

  Click. Click, click.

  My camera captures him shaking a guy’s hand. I don’t recognize the other man, but why would I? A crazy thought hits me. Maybe Pierce is gay. Maybe he bought the condoms so he can go to town with this dude. Unlikely. He wouldn’t look at me the way he does if that were true. They meet by the café, and the man hands him a manila envelope, which Pierce takes. I’m dying to know what’s in there, but I settle for taking a few more pictures. They talk some more, then five minutes later, he is walking back toward West Point. I wait a few minutes before I follow back to sit at the stairs and wait for Ryan.

  And spend the rest of my waiting time going over the new images I have of Mr. James.

  I’m in trouble.

  Deep trouble.

  Only difference is this time, I didn’t get dragged into other people’s woes.

  I created it. All. By. Myself.

  Ducky Woods is the best private investigator in town. You better believe it, because he’s helped take down some of the biggest gambling gangsters in Las Vegas. His services aren’t cheap. I usually don’t like to dip into the trust fund from my grandparents.
With the exception of my house, I live a pretty modest lifestyle. I bought it because when Gwen died, I wanted a place further away from the city so I could effectively hide from the world. Paying my own way, even on a teacher’s salary, is a pride thing for me, but I don’t give a shit. He is worth every penny, and he is going to help me come up with a bulletproof case against Ryan Anderson. Something that will throw him in prison for life without parole, preferably.

  Ducky has already started coming up with evidence.

  Auto shop, my ass. Ryan has been dealing everything from prescription meds to heroin for the last five years of his life. It’s a full-time job, but he’s recently found the time to expand and start dealing weapons, too. Nothing too big. Dirty Harry-style unregistered guns. I’m not sure where he is getting them, but I sure hope that he is not keeping them at his house. Remington deserves better. A lot better.

  That place is not safe.

  Which brings me to why I decided to go for it in full force. For a second there, I had a little guilt trip over the fact that I was going to take away the only person in her life who actually cared. Only to realize that in the grand scheme of things, if the only person who loves you is being physically and mentally abusive to you and sells drugs and guns for a living, then you’re better off without them.

  Because this asshole is not going to do her any good. For one thing, he’s already responsible for one death. He wouldn’t be so lucky to get away with killing two of them. Not under my watch, anyway.

  Tonight, I dragged some random I met at a bar to my bed and fucked her senseless. It was a calculated move on my end, and I very rarely feel the urge to have sex with strangers. Sometimes you have so many things to take care of in your life that sex is just not worth the trouble and you’d rather rub one off instead of making the effort. But ever since the school year started and Remington Stringer bulldozed into my life with her pouty lips, wide, green eyes, and long, brown hair, I need an outlet. Today was the worst, because when her detention was over, she didn’t want to leave. And neither did I.