Stop it, Cyn.
But, when I turn and smile, I forget all about violent offenders and parole violations. Because I know the student who just walked through the door.
Like, know him, know him.
In fact, the last time I saw him, I was half naked and covered in body paint, pressing up against him in a dark stairwell and begging for him to touch me.
Same golden brown hair, cropped military short, that had me wanting to drop and give him twenty. Same intricately scripted tattoo crawling down his muscular forearm. Same sexy half smirk attached to a set of full lips that, last Friday, made me swoon.
Fuck.
I am in hell.
I am in a horrible, horrific, fiery version of hell especially made for me.
If I were alone, I’d put my head between my knees and try not to hyperventilate. But here I am, frozen in this chair and absolutely mortified. I mean, I’ve only been a student teacher for a couple of months. You’d think I’d make it through without attempting to seduce a student.
I think I’d make it through without attempting to seduce a student.
Apparently, we’d both be wrong.
I stare up at Smith, who is staring right back at me. His eyes are wide, like mine must be, but my stupid, sex-starved brain still sees his eyes and thinks about him touching me.
Oh my God. What if he reports me? I’ll lose my job here. I can’t believe I could be this stupid!
“Miss Hendricks, this is Smith Asher. He’s just enrolled with us, and one of his required classes is senior English, your first-period class.”
I swallow and nod. Mostly because if I don’t, I’m going to throw up or cry. Swallowing and nodding feels like a slightly better option.
“I’m introducing you to Mr. Asher early because his situation is a specific one. Since he’s transferring from the social services in-home program, he will be entering your class well into the term, so I’d like you to exempt him from earlier assignments. His seat time and participation from here on out are all that are required in order for him to receive his diploma this spring.”
Mr. Weathersby tents his hands in front of his face and looks from me, still sitting, to Smith, who is now standing to my left, leaning one hip against the chair next to me. I lick my lips and force myself not to look up at his face.
Instead, I focus on the principal—the principal, who could end any chance of me keeping my student teaching position if he knew how much of this student’s student body I’ve actually seen.
I hear a rustle of fabric—Smith must have changed his mind about sitting down after all. As he drops into the seat next to me, I get an immediate whiff of his aftershave. I can remember how it smelled, earthy and crisp, when I’d been pressed up against him.
“As I said, Mr. Asher’s presence and class participation is of the utmost importance,” Mr. Weathersby continues. His eyes are almost blank as he rattles off the details. “He needs to have a ninety percent attendance record to receive his diploma, so your data on his attendance is vital. I don’t think I need to stress to you, Miss Hendricks, how seriously we take our students’ futures.”
“No, sir—of course not.”
My voice is breathy—annoyingly breathy. I feel a flush crawl up my neck, and I want to close my eyes. Instead, I manage to stare straight ahead at a cluster of pictures on the desk.
Smith coughs. “Listen, Mr. Weathersby. This is really unnecessary.”
Hearing his voice again is like a lightning bolt through every nerve in my body. I almost pop up out of my chair, and I have to cross and uncross my legs quickly so that I don’t look like some spastic freak jerking around all over the place.
“Miss—um—Hendricks won’t have any problems with me.”
My gaze slides over to Smith, whose arms are crossed over his chest in a defensive pose.
The principal raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re right about that.”
There’s a knock at the door and one of the school secretaries comes rushing in.
“Mr. Weathersby,” she said, a little breathless, “Kyle Dorman’s probation officer is demanding to see you—apparently he failed to show up this afternoon. And one of the metal detectors is malfunctioning. Again.”
The principal shakes his head and raises his eyes heavenward, then looks back at me.
“I appreciate you coming in, Miss Hendricks. Mr. Asher, please check in with me tomorrow morning before going to class and I’ll get you your official schedule.”
I stand up slowly, forcing myself not to bolt from the room.
“Thank you, sir.”
I swallow and turn to Smith. I don’t look him in the eye as I hold out a hand.
“It’s very nice to meet you. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable.”
When Smith doesn’t shake my hand, I can’t help but look up and meet his gaze. Those eyes—they’re still emanating a constant heat that has to be directly related to testosterone or something. He just oozes it—confidence and lust—right out of his pores. In my memories of him, I assumed it was just the lights in the club or the effect of the alcohol. Now I realize that Smith is just as potent as I remembered, regardless if it’s day or night.
“Thank you, Miss Hendricks.” His voice is low. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I can use your assistance.” I blink a few times, then force a smile—my teacher smile, no less—and let it take over my face.
“Okay, great.” My voice has risen an octave, but I manage to stand my ground as he finally reaches out to shake my hand.
The moment his hand touches mine, I feel like one of those inflatable punching bags with sand in the bottom, the kind kids have in their basements or backyards. I’m already sort of wobbly by nature, but the sensation of Smith’s skin against mine hits me harder than a TKO. It’s a revelation—a warm, inviting, spark-fueled revelation. And he doesn’t even shake my hand—he just holds it for a moment, then squeezes and lets go. Even after he’s backed away, I still feel his proximity like an extra layer of clothing.
What was I saying before?
That I love a challenge?
Please remind me to shut the hell up next time I’m making a blanket statement like that. It’s like saying “be right back” during a horror movie or “things couldn’t get much worse” during a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week.
Kind of like this one is shaping up to be.
Mr. Weathersby scoots his chair out, and the screeching scrape travels up my spine like a shock. I have got to get the hell out of here.
“Have a great evening,” I choke out in the principal’s direction.
Then, I bum-rush the door and bolt through the main office, smoothing a hand over my dress as though I can brush off the mixture of horror tinged with mortification. I’m all the way down the hall before I start breathing again. When I actually reach my classroom, I shut the door behind me and collapse against it.
Fuck.
For the last several days, I’ve tried to forget Friday night. I made an ass of myself by the end of the evening and I’ve been attempting to pretend it never happened. But, here, standing with my back against my classroom door, all five of my senses seem to be reignited by Smith’s presence. And all I can do is remember how he touched me.
I have to find a way to forget it again—starting with getting the hell out of the Franklin School.
Chapter Five
Damage Control
For a good minute or two, the only thing keeping me upright is the door behind me. I take in sips of air so as not to start heaving in panicked breaths. I need to get my bearings and consider the facts. Once I feel confident enough in my walking abilities, I move slowly over to my desk and sit down, then let my head fall forward until my forehead meets the cool surface.