Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  After Mikaela left, it dawned on me that I could walk over to the door, lock it, amble in her direction, flatten her against her desk, and eat her until she screamed my name. And she would let me. And hell, she would love every single second of it, maybe more than I would. The thought was so real, so vivid, and most dangerously—so possible—I had to act fast. So I did. I slept with someone else.

  Did it help? No.

  Do I still think about her? Hell, yes.

  I should stop.

  This won’t have a happily ever after.

  But I can’t.

  I won’t.

  The next day drags. Speech and Debate is the kind of class that is very hit-and-miss. If you have a few intellectual students in class, it’s the most fulfilling and exhilarating thing that can happen to you as a teacher—which is why I picked this subject over anything else. But if you are working with a bunch of idiots, you’re kind of wondering why the hell you were so hell-bent on becoming a teacher in the first place. My undergraduate degree is in law. I’m very good at what I do. I can make a good living out of it. A living that includes a six-figure salary, sports cars, and friends in high places. Instead, I made a conscious decision to teach others the art of debate. Hopefully, by the time my job is done here, every student of mine will be able to bullshit their way out of a murder case without breaking a sweat.

  I stride in the hallway at the end of the day toward my class, ready to grade some papers. It’s going to be a long evening, but I have my can of Cherry Coke and my cigarettes for my break—shit, I smoke full-time now, since I discovered Ryan was right under my nose—I can’t even complain when Shelly asks me to buy her a pack.

  I open the door to my classroom, lock it for good measure—I hate to be interrupted when I read and grade papers—spin around, and see Remington Stringer sitting in the front row, her designated seat, looking me straight in the eye.

  “School is over,” I growl, perhaps a little too aggressively, but we need some space between us. Fast. This is getting out of control. The last thing I need right now is more Remington time, but I guess that’s the least I can do seeing as I’m about to take the only person who is there for her soon.

  “I know.” She shrugs, popping a fruity gum that sends shivers down my spine. She smells damn good, and that’s another problem with her sitting so close to me. “But I’ve decided to keep my detention time with you. You’re here, anyway, so why do you care?”

  “Because it’s both inappropriate and pointless,” I shoot out, scrubbing my two-day stubble.

  “I would have to disagree with both assessments, Mr. James. There is nothing inappropriate with me doing my homework in your class while you’re grading papers, and it actually does have a point, because as you’re well aware, I have enough distractions at home. It’s hardly a suitable environment to study in.”

  She does well in my class, and I know exactly what she goes home to. I’ll give her that. And I’m too tired to argue, anyway. At least here, I know she’s safe. From him, anyway.

  I walk over to my desk and dump the stack of papers. Her eyes are following me. I arrange my red and black pens, take out my laptop, then check my phone for messages from my parents and Shelly. All throughout, she is still watching me. And I like it. I shouldn’t, but I do.

  “Eyes on your work, Stringer.”

  She licks her bottom lip slowly and blinks once. I do the same, but hell if I meet her gaze. Not going to give her that power over me. She’s just a goddamn kid.

  Only she doesn’t seem like a kid.

  “I’m wet,” she murmurs. My eyes snap up.

  “What the hell did you just say to me?”

  “I bet,” she corrects, her smile casual, “that you’re not as cranky after hours, Mr. James.”

  “You won’t find out either way,” I mumble, dropping into my seat.

  “I already do. You gave me a ride, remember?”

  Of course, I remember. I wanted to walk right into her house and rip Ryan to shreds. To reach right into his chest and stop his heart from beating. But I say nothing. I should kick her out. The protocol would advise me to do so, very strongly. Actually, I’m already crossing boundaries just listening to her dirty little mouth telling me that she is aroused. I should be dragging her by the ear to the headmaster’s office and slapping her with detention for the rest of the year. But I don’t play into her game. She wants me to do just that. Wants more detention. More attention. Honestly, she should and would be expelled for the type of shit she’s pulling if anyone else knew.

  “Miss Stringer, I’d hate for you to kill your only chance of getting into a decent college without having to strip your way through, and for what? A crush? Cut the bullshit.”

  I stripped myself from niceties and hit her with the uncomfortable truth. Because that’s the reality of things. Remington Stringer is going to be stuck here forever if she doesn’t snap out of it, and she does have a crush on me. The fact that the feeling is mutual is beside the point.

  She doesn’t submit under my stare, nor does she seem fazed. Any other student would be in tears by now. I don’t take shit from anyone. And I’ve made more than one student cry when I crushed their little student-teacher fantasy. But this girl is not scared. She is programmed differently. I can see that.

  “You wouldn’t jeopardize my future.” Her big, red smile widens, and she slacks against the back of her seat, drawing lazy circles with her black fingernails over the flash of her cleavage.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “You like me too much.”

  “Miss Stringer, I barely tolerate you. If you think I’ll give you special treatment…”

  “You already do.” She leans forward and props herself on her elbows, pressing her tits together, and fuck, I am hard as stone. This cannot happen. I need to stand up and open the door. But I can’t risk her seeing me tenting like a schoolboy. I’m not Herring or Schwartz. I’m a goddamn teacher. “You already do, Pierce. You gave me a ride. And your phone number. And here you are, letting me stay with you after school. You’re responsible for this thing just as much as I am. Maybe even more. Because I’m just reacting. You were a willing party in all this.” She stops stroking her flesh so she can circle the room with her finger. “And now there’s no stopping it.”

  The days after are much the same.

  Remington Stringer comes back every day for the detention that she doesn’t have. We’re already straddling the line of appropriate student-teacher relationships, and if we keep this up—whatever this is—we’re going to jump so far over it that we can’t even remember what the line looks like. But still, I let her stay. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the way she makes my cock twitch from one look at those pouty lips and everything to do with the fact that I know she’s safer here than at home. But the truth is more complicated than that. Remington Stringer is not safe with me. She’s not even safe from herself. Remington Stringer will not be safe until she goes away. She knows it. I know it. The clock is ticking.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Day after day, she comes to my class, until four thirty, under the pretense of doing her homework. Sometimes she reads. Sometimes she listens to music with her earbuds. Sometimes she bothers me with her incessant questions. But always tempting. Always pushing boundaries. Every single shift of her legs, lick of her lips, and twirl of her hair is so effortlessly seductive, so deeply ingrained in her that I’m not sure she’s aware that she’s doing it.

  She’s a temptress through and through, but the bad girl act, I suspect, is just that. An act. She’s an innocent wrapped in a body made up of every sin I’ve ever wanted to commit. A good girl with bad intentions. Remington isn’t thinking about the consequences of her actions. I’m the adult—it’s my job to do the responsible thing. So, that’s precisely what I do. I provide a safe, calm environment after school, all while ignoring her brazen flirting and fighting the urge to accept what she’s offering. To take her. To use her. To claim her.

&nbs
p; This unspoken arrangement has worked out fine for us, if you don’t count my internal suffering. Until today. Today, when it’s so hot that she’s gathered that long hair into a messy ponytail on top of her head. Today, when the ivory expanse of her neck is exposed and I count the beauty marks sprinkled across it. Today, when her pen is cushioned between her ample lips as she nibbles on the tip. Today, when her long legs bounce to the beat only she can hear. Today, when she stares at me, challenging, under thick lashes. It’s as if she knows my senses seem to be heightened and I’m all too aware of her allure and my resolve could snap at any moment. Fuck today. She needs to leave.

  “It’s Friday, Miss Stringer. Don’t you have anything better to do than hang out with your teacher?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” she taunts. “A guy like you can’t be short on companions. And yet, here you are. With me. Why do you think that is?”

  “Well, clearly, I’m a masochist,” I say dryly. Being around her is painful, but not in the way she must be thinking. She bites her lip and looks down at her desk in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I just offended her. It doesn’t make any sense that this girl, who’s tougher than most grown men I know, has her feelings hurt over a flippant remark.

  Without even making a conscious effort to do so, I’m at her desk in two long strides. I’ve seen Remington Stringer take on many faces. Pissed off. Turned on. But this one is not one I want to be responsible for.

  “Look at me,” I order softly.

  Always the rebel, she keeps her eyes pointed down. I lift her chin with two fingers, and fuck if her sharp intake of breath and the sight of her pulse jumping in her neck don’t do something to me.

  “You’re always welcome here.” And that’s as close to a compliment I can give her, because I certainly can’t tell her what’s really going through my mind. She rolls her eyes in that self-deprecating way of hers, and I squat down, now eye level with the source of my torment.

  “I see you, Remington. Beneath all that bravado is a girl who is wise beyond her years. Someone who is too damn smart and too damn beautiful for her own good.” I didn’t mean to say the last part aloud, and judging by the way her lips part, letting free a small gasp, I don’t think she expected it either. Our eyes lock, both our minds working overtime trying to figure out how to navigate this uncharted territory.

  Her phone rings from her desk, breaking our trance. I clear my throat and walk back toward my stack of papers. She hesitates for only a second before answering.

  “Hello?” A pause. “Jesus Christ, Ryan, I’m coming. I said I’ll be right out,” she snaps, exasperated. She sweeps her belongings into her backpack and heads toward the door. She hesitates in the doorway before looking back at me from over her shoulder. She bites her bottom lip—again—and my eyes follow the movement.

  “Thank you,” she says softly. And then she’s gone.

  I’ve given up on fucking other women to get my mind off Remington. And since I can’t fuck her out of my system, I’m resorting to the lesser of two evils. I’m in bed at ten p.m. on a Friday night fucking my fist to thoughts of my student. Pathetic. This is becoming a nightly ritual, and every night I hate her a little more for it. For making me want her. For making me question my morals, my humanity, my general taste in women. But most of all, I hate myself for liking it. On some level, I like this game we’re playing, even though I’m the one who has everything to lose. She has no skin in the game.

  I’m imagining her straddling my lap as I sit behind my desk at school. I imagine her inching up her skirt before freeing me from my pants. I imagine her sliding her panties to the side and sinking down onto my cock. I’d try to stay still. To not be an active participant—as if that absolves me of my crimes—while she uses me to get off. But I wouldn’t be able to stop my hips from thrusting upward. I wouldn’t be able to stop my hands from smoothing up her thighs to grip her ass and guide her movements. And when I feel her clenching around me, I wouldn’t be able to hold back from—

  A violent buzzing from my nightstand interrupts my depravity right before I blow. I consider ignoring it and finishing what I started, but something tells me to answer. It’s a number I don’t recognize—even more reason for me to ignore it—but curiosity gets the best of me, and I pick it up.

  “Hello?” A sniffle. Muffled music and yelling in the background.

  “Mr. James?” Remington? “I know it’s late. I know I shouldn’t call you, but I need you and—”

  I need you. Those words coming from her mouth affect me more than they should.

  “Tell me where you are,” I say, cutting her off.

  “I’m at my house. Ryan and his stupid friends—”

  “Did anyone touch you? Are you okay?” I practically growl.

  “I’m fine,” she whispers, avoiding the question. “I locked myself in the bathroom.”

  “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

  “Okay.” And the fact that she’s being cooperative, compliant, tells me that she’s not fine at all.

  Knowing what I know about Ryan, I don’t take the time to do anything besides shove my cock back into my gym shorts and throw on some shoes before I’m on the road. In Vegas, there’s always traffic and always construction. But on a Friday night? I’m fucked. It takes me almost forty minutes to get to Remington’s house, and each passing minute feels like hours. A sense of déjà vu overwhelms me, making me feel even more anxious. How many times have I done this very thing? Except, it wasn’t a student who needed rescuing. It was my sister.

  I scroll through my call log—I never saved her number because I was trying to do the right thing—and shoot out a quick text.

  I’m almost there. Don’t move until I come in to get you.

  I toss my phone into the passenger seat, looking for Remington’s street. I know it’s one of these college streets… Yale. I swing a hard right and spot her house immediately. It’s hard to miss. Cars and motorcycles litter the driveway and road. Music blares from inside. I’m forced to park a few houses down. I almost leave the engine running in my haste, but I know we wouldn’t have a way out of here when I got back if I did that.

  I force myself to appear calm, to walk and not run. I walk right past the people sitting in the yard drinking and throw the front door open. No one even notices my entrance. I see a hallway with four doors. I’m not sure which one is the bathroom, but that’s all there is to the house, so I know she’s close.

  I try one door, and it seems to be her bedroom. There’s a man draped over a girl, moving between her thighs, and I throw him off by the back of his shirt.

  “What the fuck!” the guy yells, adjusting his crotch. I look back at the girl on the bed—not Remington, thank fuck—and walk out without an explanation.

  Door number two is locked, so I pound on it. “Remington? It’s me! Let me in!” I yell over the music. The doorknob twists, and I slip in and close the door behind me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as my mind tries to keep up with what my eyes are seeing. She’s on the floor with tear-stained cheeks and bloodstained thighs. Next to her are two towels with splotches of blood on them and little shards of glass are sprinkled around her.

  “I’m fine,” she says again. “I mean, I got nicked up, but I’m okay. What I saw…” she trails off, her lower lip starting to tremble.

  “What?” I ask her. “What did you see?”

  “Can you just get me out of here first? I’ll tell you everything.” I nod and extend a hand to help her to her feet. Her palms look like they have cuts, too, but I resist the urge to question her until we’re back in my car.

  “Ready?” I ask instead. She nods once and tucks her tiny hand inside mine. I open the door and keep her close to my side as we walk out. Just when we’re feet from the front door, Ryan stands from the couch. It’s then that I notice the glass coffee table is shattered. There are beer cans and fast-food cups that have poured out onto the carpet and
dollar bills coated in a white substance.

  “What the fuck are you doing with my girl? In my house?!” Ryan yells, working his jaw back and forth. He’s shirtless and sweating profusely, which on its own doesn’t mean much—because it’s August in Nevada—but the fact that he can’t keep still, bouncing from foot to foot along with the dilated pupils are a dead giveaway. I know the signs better than anyone. He’s definitely using. “You’re not fucking him, right, Rem? Isn’t that what you said? Little lying ass bitch,” he spits.

  “She’s coming with me,” I inform him through clenched teeth. I’m trying to stay calm, but firm, because I know from experience how volatile and irrational this shit can make people.

  “Fuck this!” Ryan roars, crunching over glass and trash to get to us. I tuck Remington behind my back.

  “One more fucking step, and not only will I beat the living shit out of you, but I’ll call the police and let them know about your little extracurricular activities.” My voice is menacingly low. I should have already called the goddamn cops. I won’t—not yet. But he doesn’t need to know that. I will get revenge. I will get justice. Just a little bit longer…

  I see the hesitation in his eyes. He’s wondering if I’m bluffing.

  “Just let me go, Ry. Don’t do this to Dad,” Remington says as she comes to stand between us.

  Ryan throws his hands up in the air and spins toward the small crowd of people watching us, ignoring her altogether.

  “You hear that, guys?” He laughs. “He’s gonna call the fuckin’ pigs!” He turns back to me. “Didn’t you know? I. OWN. THIS. TOWN.”

  Such a bunch of bullshit, but he’s so fucking strung out, he probably believes it.

  Remington tugs on my arm, pulling me toward the door. I keep one eye on Ryan, letting her lead me outside. I open the passenger door to let her in, and when I’m walking to my side, I look up to see Ryan standing in his doorway, arms braced on the frame. “And I own her, too, motherfucker!” he yells and chucks a beer bottle at my car. He misses and that pisses him off even more. He turns to go back inside, throwing some girl off him when she tries to hang on him and ask if he’s okay, then slams the door.