Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  I don’t return any of them, but make a note to check on Shelly soon. I haven’t been there in a while, and since she probably wouldn’t leave her house even if it were on fire, she’s come to depend on me. But reaching out of this boathouse and facing the real world is inviting reality back into my weekend, and I’m not ready for that yet.

  I grab a notepad hanging on the small, old fridge and scribble Remington a message saying I’m going out to pick up some pizza. There’s nothing to eat here but canned food and chips.

  As I drive the short distance to the pizza parlor, I wonder how the hell I am going to explain to Remington what I’m about to do to her stepbrother. It was a relief to hear the bastard didn’t go as far as getting into her pants, but I know she is still attached to him. Does she love him? Maybe. Hopefully not. One thing is for sure—I need to tell her before shit goes down.

  Because I don’t want her to be there when said shit hits the fan and everyone gets dirty.

  When I get back to the boathouse, she is sitting at the settee in one of my shirts I keep in the small closet there and scrolling through her phone with her thumb. I open the door, and she doesn’t notice me. Her eyes are down, and from that angle, she is your typical teenager.

  The typical teenager that I dry-fucked in the middle of the desert today. Fantastic.

  I dump the pizza box onto the table instead of announcing my arrival, but it’s mainly because I’m mad at myself, not her. Her eyes shoot up, and she blinks.

  “Something wrong?” she asks.

  I don’t answer. I set up the table with whatever silverware we have here and take out two cans of Cherry Coke. She said she doesn’t drink soda, and I laugh. She asks me what’s so funny as we both plop down to our seats at the table.

  “I’m addicted,” I admit.

  “To fizzy drinks?” She smirks.

  “To everything. Pop, cigarettes, alcohol…” I leave the sex part out. I shouldn’t be going this route. That would be encouraging her, and I’m not that type of dick. “You?”

  “I don’t have any addictions,” she admits, and I believe her because Remington Stringer isn’t the type to be controlled—not by drugs, and not by her stepbrother. “I don’t smoke, I drink a beer every once in a while, and I normally opt for water or O.J.”

  “That’s healthy,” I note.

  “I’m a sensible girl.”

  “A sensible girl wouldn’t share a kiss with her teacher,” I say dryly, picking out olives from my pizza instead of looking at her. It’s still difficult to come to terms with what I did.

  “It’s not just a kiss that we shared. There was more there,” she insists, looking into my eyes.

  “More what?”

  “More everything. More us.”

  And that night, when she goes to sleep on the little couch and I can’t bring myself to leave, I make myself comfortable in a sleeping bag underneath her and think, you’re right, Remington. We share a lot.

  Your stepbrother has tainted us both.

  But it ends soon.

  Sunday morning, we take the boat to a secluded cove on Lake Mead. When he takes off his T-shirt, exposing that long, sculpted torso and cut as shit V, I can’t help but break his no pictures rule. I dig my camera out from the bottom of his waterproof bag, which earns me a disapproving look…one that I ignore. I bite my lip, then saunter over to him, pouty lip and puppy dog eyes in full effect, and he groans dramatically.

  “Whatever it is, the answer is no,” he growls.

  “Come on,” I whine, batting my eyelashes. I wrap an arm around his neck, stand on my tiptoes, and bring my mouth close to his ear. I can smell him and almost taste the salt from his sweat. “Just,” I whisper, inching even closer. “One. Little…” I nip at his earlobe, and he sucks the air between his teeth. “Selfie!” I yell, extending my arm to snap a quick picture before he can stop me. He breaks out of his trance, and I laugh like a fucking hyena at the expression on his face. Suddenly, his face morphs into a sinister grin, and my laugher dies off into a nervous giggle.

  “You’re going to regret that, little girl,” he says tauntingly. He plucks the camera out of my hands before tossing it into a pile of towels. Then he charges me, and I panic because I have nowhere to run.

  “Pierce!” I squeal, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I think how out here, alone and away from school, being with him feels as natural as breathing.

  He scoops me up honeymoon style as I kick and scream in his arms—even though Pierce James’ arms are not a bad place to be. Not. At. All. It’s more about where I’m going to be in about two seconds.

  “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t! I’m sorry!”

  “Too late for sorry now.” He adjusts his hold, as if he’s preparing to throw me in.

  He wouldn’t dare. I’m fully clothed, for fuck’s sake. But I should know better than to underestimate him. He launches me into the air effortlessly, and I hit the water screaming.

  “Oh, you son of a bitch!” I yell back up at him as I fight my way through my hair that’s threatening to suffocate me. The water is nowhere near as cold as I thought it would be, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s at least one hundred ten degrees today. I dip down into the water to smooth my hair back and come up just in time to see Pierce jump in after me.

  I shriek and race toward the cove, but it’s no use. He swims like a shark, and I guess that makes me the bait. My heart is pounding in my ears, and when I’m almost inside the cove, I turn around to gauge his distance. Except I don’t see him anywhere, which means…

  “Ah!” I yelp, feeling a firm hand tug my ankle. I turn around to see him emerge through the water—flipping his dark hair out of his face—and kick off his abs, but he doesn’t so much as grunt.

  “Don’t run from me, Miss Stringer. I’ll always catch you,” he says, cornering me inside the cove. He means it as a threat, but I wish it were a promise. “Now, apologize.” He’s so close now. His strong forearms are on either side of me. The water is shallower here, and he can reach, but I’m still too short.

  “I’m not sorry,” I whisper, and in a bold move, I wrap both arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. His hands find my hips reflexively, and both of us are breathing hard. His expression is one that others would find intimidating, but I know this is the look he wears when he’s waging an internal battle. I feel his bulge between my legs, and I rock into it without even thinking. He drops his forehead to mine on a sigh.

  “Remington,” he warns, but his hands sliding down to squeeze my ass say something entirely different. He opens his eyes, and then he zeroes in on my lips. He inches closer, ever so slightly, and I close my eyes. I feel his mouth ghost against mine, and I open for him. His hot breath mixes with my own, and his wet lips graze mine. And then Pierce James shows me just how much fun “just kissing” can be.

  We eat seafood for lunch in a darkened corner of a diner that shouldn’t be serving more than a cheeseburger and talk about our lives. He grew up in Orange County, and I’ve never left Las Vegas.

  “I don’t get why you’re here. The world is big, and you’re well-traveled. This place is a shithole.”

  “I can’t bring myself to leave this shithole.” He’s wearing a fitted hat that’s the opposite of his usual attire, but equally hot, and a stern expression. His folded arms over his chest make his muscles pop out. I try to ignore it because we definitely can’t make out in public.

  “Why?”

  “I moved here after college. Blew off my career in law to become a teacher. My sister followed me here to escape my parents. She only lived here for a couple years, and I want to move back to California eventually, but I have some loose ends to tie up here first.”

  He wants to move back? It doesn’t even make sense to feel disappointed, since I don’t plan on being here after graduation, but I feel it nonetheless.

  “She moved away?” I munch on a French fry as I stab my fork at a poor, shrunk shrimp swimming in an unidentified
white sauce.

  “She died,” he deadpans quietly. My eyes dart up in horror.

  “Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I.” He looks relaxed, calculated, and dark. His usual self. You’d think he is telling me that he was slightly late filing his taxes.

  “How did it happen?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

  “Okay.” I feel extremely uncomfortable, and he can probably see it by the way I shift in my seat. He pops some fried calamari into his mouth and chews, taking a sip of his watered-down Coke.

  “Do you think you’ll come back here after you finish college?” he asks. I need to shake my head from side to side just to make sure I hear him correctly. That was abrupt. Also, I’m not sure what my plans are. My immediate plans are to make out with him some more. Other than that, I’ll take pretty much whatever crumbs life throws my way as long as they lead somewhere else.

  “Doubt it,” I say. “Maybe I’ll visit every once in a while to say hi to my dad and Ryan. But other than that…”

  “Why Ryan?” He cuts into my sentence. “Hasn’t he done enough damage? Guys like him are poison to women.”

  There’s something about his tone. Something edgy that makes me freeze in place and examine him for a second. What do I know about Pierce James, other than the dry facts? Suddenly, his presence here seems suspicious.

  “Why are you still here, Pierce?” I call him by his first name, even though I’m not sure how he feels about it. I lean against the table, my fingers lacing together. “Tragically, your sister is no longer here. Then why are you here?”

  “Remington.” He does this thing again where he warns me simply by saying my name. I don’t budge. He chuckles darkly.

  “Are you being a bad girl?”

  “Are you evading the subject?”

  “Are you asking me questions without answering mine first again? I think we both agreed that that’s something I will not tolerate.”

  “I’m not being a bad girl.” I keep my tone casual. “But I’m not sure what to make of your fascination with my brother.”

  “Stepbrother,” he corrects.

  “Tomato, tomahto.” I shrug.

  “He doesn’t deserve you in his life.”

  “That’s not for you to decide.” I grind my teeth together.

  “I like it when you’re mad.” He cocks one eyebrow. I immediately melt and hate myself for it. Goddammit, Pierce James.

  His eyes are still on mine as he signals the waitress to bring us the check. He pays. We walk out. We walk together, but we don’t touch each other. There’s something sizzling in the air, and I cannot wait for it to explode. When we both get into his Audi, he starts the car and drives outside the town limits until he reaches an old, deserted dirt road, then kills the engine.

  I wait.

  He reaches a hand to the side of his seat and presses a button. His seat moves back a few more inches from the steering wheel. He pats his lap.

  “Come.” It’s an order.

  Don’t mind if I do.

  I don’t waste any time. I swing one leg over the middle console and straddle him. His hands immediately find my waist, gripping almost painfully hard. I meet his eyes and bite my lip under his close proximity. He grips the back of my neck and rests his forehead against mine, exhaling raggedly.

  “Fuck the consequences,” he mutters, and then his lips are on mine again. His tongue dips past my lips, and he tastes like Cherry Coke.

  “Mmm,” I moan, sucking his tongue into my mouth. He groans, and I feel his hard length twitch between my legs. Instinctively, I grind on him, selfishly seeking the friction that I need. He slides both hands down the gap at the back of my cut-off jean shorts and pulls me into him. He’s fucking my mouth with his, and I never want this to stop. This feeling. Right here. It’s so perfect, I could cry. He squeezes my ass, controlling the rhythm, and I pull away from our kiss to gasp at the sensation. He licks and nips and bites his way down my jaw, down to my collarbone, and everywhere in between.

  His lips are on my neck, but my heart is in his teeth.

  I want more, so I lift the plain white T-shirt I stole from him over my head and toss it into the backseat. His eyes drop to my sports bra, and my nipples grow impossibly hard. Goose bumps prickle my skin. And he hasn’t even made a move yet. I cross my arms over my chest to remove my bra, too, but right before I’m about to spill out of the bottom, his hands stop mine.

  “Remington, wait,” he says, like he can’t believe he’s stopping me. That makes two of us. I drop my hands, and he rights my bra, pulling it back down over my chest.

  “We can’t go any further than this,” he explains.

  “But I need you,” I almost whine. “I need you to make me feel good.”

  “Fuck, Remi. You can’t say things like that,” he growls, thrusting his hips upward. I want to melt against him. I feel like I might. My lust for him is smeared all over my underwear. Every nerve in my body sizzles with desperation.

  Remi. That’s the first time he’s referred to me other than Miss Stringer or Remington or pain in the ass, and I die a little at him using my nickname.

  “For how long?” I don’t need to specify. He knows what I mean.

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head, scrubbing his face with his palms. “Jesus Christ. Look, I don’t want to ruin you.”

  “You’re giving yourself an awful lot of credit, Mr. James,” I tease, raising a brow, masking the fear that’s creeping its way into my head. He could ruin me. I could ruin his career. This game that we’re playing… it’s not going to have a happy ending. And if we’re not careful, the consequences will be grave.

  He smirks, but when I start to move on top of him again, the smile disappears.

  “So, just kissing?” I ask.

  “Just kissing.” He nods faintly.

  And that’s what we do, until the sun goes down.

  At nighttime, I roll my sleeping bag under the couch and stare at the ceiling, wondering at what point in time I voluntarily gave my balls to a seventeen-year-old, and when, if ever, I am going to get them back.

  Telling myself that I’m staying here to protect her from whatever bullshit is lurking in the shadows of her life is a poor excuse I don’t allow myself the luxury of believing. After all, I didn’t shove my tongue into her mouth trying to protect her. I didn’t grind against the damp fabric of her jeans to make sure that she was okay. I didn’t bite down on her soft flesh like she was my favorite meal to save her.

  I want her.

  I want more of her.

  And it’s either caving in or handing my resignation letter tomorrow morning, first thing on a Monday, and get the hell out of there.

  I could do it. Resign. I can do it in a heartbeat, if I were so inclined. Before I decided to help the youth of America with my brilliant educational skills, I was an intern at Rosenthal, Belmont, and Marks in Los Angeles. I have the résumé to do whatever I want. I don’t even have to be a teacher if I don’t want to.

  I roll to my side and prop my head on my forearm, staring at her through the small light the moon provides. She is beautiful, but that’s not it. A lot of girls at West Point are. And that’s just what they are. Girls. Remi Stringer is not a girl. If she were, she wouldn’t have snorted in my face when my dick was firmly clasped between her thighs and told me I don’t have the capability of ruining her. Not like this, anyway.

  I roll the last two days in my head in slow motion, and before I notice, the sun comes up. At six, I get up and make her breakfast. At six thirty, I shove lunch money into her backpack. At six forty-five, I wake her up.

  “Time to go to school, Remington.” I try to sound firm, but it’s gone now. That shield is no longer there. And it’s always there when I talk to my students.

  She stretches on the couch like a lazy cat under the sun, a smile on her luscious lips, and my dick jerks inside my pants.

  “Mmmm, but I don’t want the weekend to end.”


  “Too bad, it’s already ended.”

  “Sunday felt really short.”

  “That’s the thing about weekends. They’re short,” I snap, even though my weekends used to feel very long before the last one I spent with her.

  “And weekdays are long and hard. Just like—” She reaches out to palm my cock over my pants.

  “Remington,” I cut her off, throwing a pile of clothes—her school uniform, which she brought over with her—at her face just so she won’t see the raging hard-on I’m sporting. Her nipples are erect, and her body is the smoothest, ripest thing I’ve ever seen. How can she only be in high school? “Five minutes or I’m driving without you.”

  “That actually sounds like a plan to me.” She giggles into her arm.

  “Don’t sass.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I’ll take the role of responsible adult in your life, and then you’ll really be in trouble.”

  “I kind of like getting into trouble when it’s with you,” she says, righting herself on the couch and clutching into the new clothes I threw her way.

  “Then I’m happy to report that we’re both royally and completely fucked.”

  Her hip connects with my waist as she swaggers her way to the bathroom to change. What she doesn’t know is that if she got naked here and now, this time I wouldn’t stop her. “Good,” she whispers.

  And that’s that.

  Everything is a production when it comes to Pierce James.

  First, we had to stop by his house before we drove to school because he had to pick up his dress clothes and whatever the hell he needs for his class. I stayed in his SUV, examining his house from the window. Pierce lives in one of those new developments on the outskirts of Vegas, the plush, rich ones. This one is called El-Porto, and all the houses are cookie-cutter, ranch-style homes with perfectly manicured lawns. One is decorated with a giant “It’s a Boy!” sign that stretches across the lawn, along with a blue stork that has the baby’s name, birthday, and weight. Jesus Christ. Might as well give out your social security number while you’re at it. It feels like we live on two different planets.