It wasn’t the right thing to say. I needed to open this up for discussion, but I was having a hard time stringing together a coherent sentence while my panties were this wet. Damn Jaime and his texts.
Straightening my spine, I clapped my hands one time. “Let’s hear your thoughts about Miss LeBlanc’s poem. Anyone?”
Bzzz. Another vibration erupted. A handful of people raised their hands, and I chose Shelly, the girl who I knew wouldn’t shut up, and therefore allowed me time to read my incoming text.
Jaime:
So lost. So confused. So fucking mine. Owning someone has never felt this good.
His words hit me hard.
Was I really his? It didn’t feel like it. Like it was real. Maybe for him, it was. But for me? I was too scared of the consequences of truly having him to even consider it an option.
Lost. Confused. I felt all those things. Not just in that moment, but in general. Where was I going after this? I was a terrible teacher, and my students deserved better. What more, I cared enough about them to acknowledge the fact that I need to make room for someone more passionate. More caring. Someone who would take the Millies of the world and turn them into artists, and not keep them here, in the gray classroom, reading poems they could barely understand.
After Shelly babbled something for the sake of talking, and another student asked Millie a couple of questions, Vicious, who had his long legs crossed over the table, his boots nearly touching someone’s back, held up his hand. My breath hitched. I didn’t want him to shatter Millie’s confidence. Actually, I wanted to talk to her about enrolling in a creative writing class I knew across town. I liked to believe I saw some of me in Emilia. She was delicate, artistic, and unfazed by the privileged environment she wasn’t a part of. I had a weird urge to protect her from Vicious, but no one else was lifting their hands.
I wanted to strangle the sulky bully as I ground out a weak permission for him to speak. “Yes, Baron?”
Vicious’s hooded eyes were on Millie as he played with one of his rusty metal rings—a part of his iconic serial-killer attire. He bared his teeth, expecting her to shrink back into her chair like the rest of them, but Millie was still standing, eyeballing him like he was a punching bag she was about to swing her fist into.
I fucking like this girl.
“I thought it was spectacularly awful,” he said, tugging at his full lower lip.
She raised one lonely eyebrow, a smile on her pretty, round face.
“That’s enough from you, Baron,” I started, but Millie raised her hand.
“Please, Ms. Greene. Let him finish. What was so ‘spectacularly awful’ about my poem?” she asked him, and she sounded genuinely interested.
I cringed. Why was she doing this to herself?
Vicious slumped back in his chair, examining his rings. “Too wordy. Too many analogies. Some of them were corny. Ones we’ve heard a thousand times before. You’ve got talent, I’ll give you that. Still.” He shrugged. “Your writing’s sloppy. Stick to painting.”
“And what would you know about writing?” I snapped. It was my turn to ask. It wasn’t like me to lose my temper during class, but Vicious was literally being vicious. The fact that he’d won on Saturday night at the park didn’t help, either.
I think Jaime knew better than to continue sexting me, because he tucked his phone into his jeans pocket and frowned at Vicious, his expression screaming, Shut the fuck up, man.
“I know quite a fucking bit, actually,” Vicious chirped, his face lighting up. Usually, his voice was like a straight line on a heart monitor, uncaring and flat. “Ass-kissing’s never helped an author or a poet grow and develop. Constructive criticism does. Maybe you’re in the wrong profession, Greene.”
Fuck this shit. I was going to throw him into detention until he was seventy. I didn’t even care that Jaime had just invited me to another sex-fest after school, and that all I could think about was his angry, swollen cock. I didn’t want Vicious talking to me like this and more importantly—to Millie. The girl didn’t deserve it.
“Pack your stuff, Baron. You’re coming with me to see Principal Followhill after class. I hope you don’t have any plans for the upcoming month, because you’re going to spend it with your mediocre educator. In detention. Where you can explain to me all about good poetry and bad life choices. Like talking back to your teacher.” I let loose a sugary smile and cracked open my notebook with the name list, looking for the next poor soul that had to share a poem with class.
Trent groaned from his place on the other side of Vicious. “Good going, cunt. You just had to talk shit, didn’t you? We’ve got team business to handle. Did you forget?”