Julie Shriver hadn't put on a play at Lakeside for years. Quickly, I flip through scripts in my head--something with a small cast, with catchy songs, something with an underdog . . . something they would like.
"Little Shop of Horrors. Do you guys know it?"
A few of them shake their heads. The others don't respond.
"It's about a plant from outer space. And a guy, a florist, who had been pushed around his whole life, finds it and takes care of it. Then . . . he chops up everyone who's ever been mean to him and feeds them to his plant."
They laugh.
"Dayum! Like Saw on Broadway," Toby says.
"Gruesome." David nods. "Is there blood?"
"There is." I nod.
"No way am I getting up on a stage," Simone scoffs. "I'd rather have my belly-button ring slowly ripped from my body. And my nose ring too."
Bradley flinches and covers his nose.
"You wouldn't have to," I shoot back. "Not all of you will be actors. We'll need . . . a director's assistant--someone to keep things running smoothly. A stage crew to make and move the sets. Sound crew, light crew. We'd need makeup crew and costume design."
"I'll be in your play." Bradley holds up his hand. "But only if I get to kiss a really hot chick."
I've been on enough stages to know when my audience is captivated. Right now, this one is, so I keep it going.
"The second boy I ever kissed was in a play, a stage kiss. He shoved his tongue down my throat, even though he wasn't supposed to, in front of an auditorium full of people."
"That's messed up," Simone says.
"It was. After the performance, my boyfriend kicked the crap out of him."
Layla's voice is quiet, and lilting, but I hear her. "That was Coach Daniels, right? You guys used to go out when you were in high school?"
I chuckle a little. How do they know these things? No point in denying it now. "That's right."
Then I clap my hands. "So, how about this? You work with me and I'll work with you. We start working on the play, and I'll award a one-hundred-dollar gift card to the best theater student at the end of each semester."
"Can you do that?" Michael asks.
I shrug. "We'll call it a scholarship. I won't ask Miss McCarthy if you won't. If we don't know we're breaking the rules, we're not really breaking them, are we?"
There's more than one way to skin a cat . . . and there's a bunch of ways to teach a class.
"Five hundred dollars," David says from the back, daring me with his eyes.
I lift my chin and nod sharply.
"Done."
My voice is brisk and authoritative, without even trying, as I walk back behind my desk.
"Michael, I'd like you to be my assistant. Auditions will start next week, and we'll need to get crew sign-up sheets posted. Are you good with that?"
"Uh . . ." His eyes are round behind his glasses, like an owl who has no idea how he ended up on this particular branch. "Yeah. Sure."
"Good. As for the rest of you, before auditions, there's some basic acting techniques we need to go over." I snap my fingers and point at the small elevated platform in the corner--the makeshift stage. "David, you first."
He rolls his shoulders and flips his dirty-blond hair, then he rises and hops up on the stage. He lifts one leg, like a flamingo, holds his right arm over his head and his left arm straight out to the side.
I sit back in my seat and fold my arms.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm being the tree." He grins smart-assedly. "Isn't that what theater is all about? Feel the tree . . . be the tree . . ."
The kids laugh, and I join them.
"Theater is about taking something that's been done a thousand times before--Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Arthur Miller--and making it feel like something new again. Making it your own. So forget the tree . . . be the leaves instead."
You got this, Callie.
And I think I just might.
Chapter Eleven
Garrett
Slowly, firmly, I slide my tongue into Callie's warm, waiting mouth. Her lips are rose-petal soft, and with every inhale I breathe in the sweet, delicious scent of her.
I forgot about kissing. Just kissing.
How good it can be--how hot--all by itself. The kind of hot that feels like my heart is going to punch out of my chest and my cock is going to bust through my zipper.
I forgot . . . but with every brush of her lips, Callie reminds me.
I feel the tip of her wet tongue stroking mine and I moan. I lean forward over her, my arms pulling her closer, my hands sliding into the silk of her hair, cradling her head--holding her right where I want her. Where I need her to stay--tight, flush against me, chest to chest, breath to breath. Right here, right there.
One hand stays fisted in her hair, while the other slips down, brushing her neck where her pulse thrums against my fingertips, and across her collarbone.
Over the years, I've touched lots of breasts. Hundreds. Probably thousands, if you count them separately. I'm a connoisseur of breasts, an expert. If tits were restaurants--I'd be fucking Zagat's.
But these . . . these are Callie's breasts.
And that makes it different. More. Better.
My fingertip circles her nipple, feather light and teasing, making it stiffen beneath the cotton of her blouse. I slide the rigid point between my thumb and forefinger, softly at first, then harder, pinching. And then I open my palm and cup Callie's breast in my hand, massaging and rubbing.
Hello, sweet friend, how I've missed you.
She's perfect . . . fucking perfect in my hand--all soft and full, warm and firm. I want to drop to my knees and worship her. Lick up her stomach, suck the hard, scorching point of her nipple into my mouth, and feast on her until she screams my name.
Callie's hips rotate, rubbing against me, searching for friction, and the sexiest purr rolls from the back of her throat.
That's it, baby. Give me those sounds. Fuck me, this is good.
It's also insane.
Riiiiiiing
The bell screams outside the heavy door, disturbing our happy place--sucking face in the fucking janitor's closet. Ray's whack-job palace. This is what we've been reduced to, this is who we are--two horny teenagers stealing kisses and dry-humping the first chance we get.
Between Callie taking care of her parents and their house, me grading papers--which is more fucking time consuming than the world will ever know--football practices and the extra one-one-one practices with Parker Thompson, our after-school availability is practically nil. We talk on t
he phone every night--long, good, deep conversations that end when we're yawning more than speaking. Phone sex isn't on the table just yet, so I've made do with jerking off to the memory of Callie's sultry, sleepy voice after we hang up. I also had dinner at Callie's parents' place on Tuesday. We all watched Jeopardy and ate KFC together while I copped a feel of Callie's smooth, bare leg under the dining room table.
It's ridiculous. Like high school all over again. I'm seriously considering sneaking through Callie's bedroom window tonight. I wonder if Mr. Carpenter still has that shotgun.
"Shit," I pant, pressing my forehead to hers, trying to catch my breath--and get the steel pipe of my dick under control.
I need to find a textbook to hide behind. Male teachers walking the halls with too-obvious-to-be-missed boners are generally frowned upon by the school board.
"Damn it, I have to go." Callie straightens her clothes and pats at her freshly fucked looking hair. "I need to be at the auditorium before the late bell and traffic in the C-wing is always a bitch."
I nod, blowing out a slow breath. "Yeah, okay. So, you're definitely not making it to the game tonight?"
"No, I can't. My dad has a cold. My mom might hurt herself trying to take care of him, because of course he says he's dying." She shakes her head, muttering, "Men."
"Hey, take it easy on us. Colds hit us harder than women; everyone knows that. Our immune systems are fragile . . . like our egos. Present company excluded, of course."
"Of course." She smiles as she kisses me one last time. "But I'll be listening to the game on the radio. Good luck tonight, Garrett."
"Thanks. We're gonna frigging need it."
I crack the door and take a quick look into the hallway to make sure it's empty. But I don't look hard enough--because when Callie and I step out, it's into the direct path of Miss McCarthy. And she's got David Burke with her, probably hauling his ass to the office for vaping in the bathroom or something.
McCarthy narrows her eyes, like a snake.
And I don't have to worry about that textbook anymore--my hard-on runs for his life.
"What's going on here?"
"We were just looking for . . ."
"Spackle." Callie finishes, her eyes wide like quarters.
She's a stage actress so you'd guess she'd be good at lying. But she's really not. She never was.
"Spackle?" Miss McCarthy asks.