Misbehaved

Oh, how pathetic would that be if I’m the only one who burns under these clothes.

Mr. James continues, “Yesterday, when I saw you for the first time, you appeared to be in good shape, except for the shoes, of course. Today, I found something different. You’re a smart girl, so you don’t need me to spell it out for you. Tell me, Miss Stringer, is there a reason to worry about your safety?”

I gulp and look away so he doesn’t see what’s in my eyes. I’m not even sure what’s in there myself. Fear? Desire? Anxiety? All I know is that I need to get out of here, fast.

“No need to worry.” I shake my head. “May I be excused now?”

“No, you may not.” His voice is so cold, it provides a little comfort to the scorching hot waves he seems to be making inside my body. “What happened? Explain. With words. Preferably an adequate amount for me to make an educated decision on whether to call social services.”

“Funny you should say that, you use so little,” I whip out without even meaning to. I have to stop doing that. Taunting him like this, like we’re equal. Mr. James lifts a lone eyebrow, a ghost of a smirk finding his perfect lips.

“Miss Stringer,” he warns, his ice-cold tone licks at my burning flesh. “You’re not getting out of here until you explain.”

“I got into a fight with my kitchen drawer handle,” I say dumbly. “I lost.” I let the lie roll from my tongue, and Mr. James’ expression tells me that he doesn’t believe me for even a second.

“Put your palm flat against the mark,” he orders. My first thought is, fuck, he knows it’s a handprint. My second thought is even more alarming. His demanding tone is turning me on.

I chance a glance at him, and his eyes are half-mast, so I know I’m not the only one who is feeling it. Feeling this. That thought hits me like a ton of bricks. Mr. James is a grown man, and I affect him.

And suddenly, putting my hand on my thigh doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe I’ll put those morals of his to the test.

I do as I’m told, not breaking eye contact with him. I don’t need to look down to find the mark because it is still searing, even after all this time. His eyes roll down—slowly, I don’t fail to notice—until they stop.

Starting just above my knee, I slowly trace my black fingernails upward, bunching my skirt up my thigh in the process. I lay my hand flat on the mark, not giving away the fact that it still stings to the touch.

His throat bobs on a swallow, and he looks up.

“Are you going to make a habit out of lying to me, Miss Stringer?” He steps toward me, backing me into my desk. I sit perched on the edge with my skirt still bunched. I have the urge to push him further, to spread my legs,

and to let him see what he does to me.

“Are you going to keep asking me questions I can’t provide the answer to?” I ask honestly, letting my skirt fall back into place. “I’m a big girl. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”

He takes his final step toward me, erasing the space between us, and now I can see him and smell him and feel him. So help me God, I need to keep my knees from buckling and see this thing through, because he makes me want things. Things I shouldn’t want to do with my teacher. Things a girl shouldn’t ever want to do at all.

“That’s the problem,” he hisses. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Miss Stringer. I’m trusting you here. If something happened to you, and I failed to report it, well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad that would be for the both of us.”

“Thank you,” I say curtly, because apparently, I’m done acting like a brat for the day. “But there is no need.”

“On the contrary.” He turns around, sending one last look on my thigh. I don’t ask if I’m excused. I know that if I don’t leave his class now, I’ll do something we’ll both regret. So, I turn around toward the door, taking tentative steps, both afraid that he will stop me and that he won’t.

He doesn’t stop me.

He lets me go.

And he should.

Because he’s my fucking teacher.

But a second before the door closes behind me, I hear him say, “There won’t be a next time, Miss Stringer. Not to your tardiness, not to talking back to your educator, and not to putting on your little show. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” I swallow as I shut the door behind me and rest the back of my head on its window, closing my eyes.

Holy. Fuck.

I pop open the trunk of my Audi SUV and take out the paper bags of groceries. I will get them all the way to the fourth floor, like I do every month.

I knock and she doesn’t answer, but that’s nothing new. I don’t give a damn. I kick the old door open, which is easy because this building is rotten and everything is decaying, including my sanity, and walk into the apartment. She doesn’t greet me, but she’ll come out once she’s sure it’s just me, and for just a couple hours, I’ll feel close to Gwen again.