Текст книги "After Tonight "

Автор книги: Annie Kelly

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Chapter Four

The (Re)Meeting

“Where are we going?” I call out as Smith begins pulling me through the crowd. In return, he just squeezes my hand tighter as he leads me off the dance floor.

We make it back to the bar and he stops to talk to a security guard wearing all black and sporting a serious bicep/tricep combination. For a second, Smith listens, then nods his head. He shoots me a glance, his eyes a little mischievous, and I feel my heart rate kick up. Then, the guy hands over a key.

Smith motions for me to come closer to him, and when I do, he grabs my hand again.

“Still with me?”

He pulls back to look me in my eyes and I nod, biting my lower lip. His gaze flares a bit and he dips down to press his mouth against my ear.

“Follow me, okay? The VIP suite is at the end of the hall.”

Smith leads me around the side of the bar and down a small, darkened hallway. There are two restroom doors along with another unmarked door at the very end. He uses his key to unlock that last door and makes a sweeping gesture with one arm.

“After you, gorgeous.”

For a second, I hesitate. The door opens and all I can see ahead is blackness, along with an incredibly narrow set of stairs. I blink at them, then back at Smith.

“You’re not a serial killer, right?”

He cocks a brow and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Are you?”

I grin up at him, shaking my head. “Touché.”

Carefully, I step into the darkness, making sure my heels are hitting sturdy ground. Through the walls, the pulse of the music makes the space feel almost womb-like. I can sense Smith reach around me and, suddenly, the light above us flickers to life, casting a pale blue pool around our bodies.

I feel like I should say something charming or funny, but my brain is blank—completely and utterly empty—of any thought except for my desire. And I guess Smith feels the same way, considering it’s hardly a moment later that he’s got my back pressed up against the wall behind me.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Do you know that?”

Ordinarily, I’d shake my head. I don’t know that I’m sexy. I never feel particularly sexy or hot or even pretty half the time.

But right now?

Right now, I’ve never felt sexier as I slide one hand up into Smith’s hair and pull him even closer.

“I want you,” I whisper against his mouth, letting my tongue flick out against his.

That’s all the encouragement he needs and he practically growls as he lets his tongue press and slide against mine. His hands coast from my waist to my hips, and he pulls me closer into his body.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” Smith says, running his hands over my ass. “The way you move—especially out on the dance floor. Holy shit—I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard.”

I’ve never really been a fan of dirty talk—in most cases, it seems like it’s just an excuse for assholes to use pussy as much as possible. But Smith’s words feel visceral and authentic. They feel real—and I feel the exact same way. I lean forward and capture his mouth again.

“Touch me,” I practically moan into his mouth, surprising myself.

Good Girl Hyacinth—the responsible graduate student, daughter, teacher—well, she’d never say something so brazen. But this Hyacinth? Well, she lets her lips move to Smith’s jaw as she simultaneously shifts his hands back to her waist, then slides them up until they slip up to the smooth satin edge of her bra.

Smith manages to take over from there. Slowly, his index finger slides beneath the elastic and moves backward until his hand reaches the clasp. My skin feels feverishly hot compared to his, and I give a weak moan of something like satisfaction mixed with impatience.

“Are you sure?” Smith’s tone is almost strained as he asks the question, but I know he’d stop if I asked him to. Which, of course, I have no intention of doing.

Instead, I reach back and undo the clasp myself, letting the straps of my bra fall loose along my shoulders and slide down my arms. Seconds later, it hits the floor. After that, any semblance of “taking things slow” turns into “needing it badly and needing it now.”

Smith reaches up with both hands and covers my breasts, which have never felt more sensitive than they do at this very moment. He stares down at them like they hold the key to some sort of mystery, and then shakes his head.

“These are fucking perfect.” He sounds literally blown away, as though my body was something special, something miraculous. I think that feeling is making me more drunk than the actual alcohol I’ve consumed. Slowly, Smith brushes a thumb over each nipple and watches my expression as I suck in a breath. He adds in his index fingers, pinching lightly.

“You like that?” he asks, looking up to meet my gaze. His eyes are hooded, and I swallow hard as I nod. In the pale light, our skin looks almost ethereal, as though it’s glowing with a light source from within.

“What else do you like?” he murmurs, leaning to kiss my collarbone. I moan a bit.

“I just want your hands on me,” I say quietly.

“My hands are on you.” Smith cups the lower curve of each breast and continues to stroke the sensitive skin beneath. “And trust me, I could touch your tits all day. But I have a feeling there are better uses for my hands. And my mouth wants in on the action, too.”

I barely have time to blink then as he dips his head and captures a nipple in his mouth, tonguing it with a firm pressure that makes my eyes close automatically. I bury my hands in his closely cropped hair.

“Yes.”

The word is a cross between a plea and a prayer, not to mention a verbal thank-you note to the gods of sex in a club with a near-stranger.

“I want to get my hands on you, too,” I murmur. Smith pulls back a bit, admiring the taut, red peak crowning my left breast. As he moves to kiss along my sternum, I press my fingers against his abdomen and let them creep slowly toward his waistline. When they hit the button of his jeans, I flick it open and Smith sort of groans.

“Stop.” He grabs my hand, then nods at the stairs. “Let’s take this up to the VIP suite. There’s no one up there tonight.”

Translation: We’ll be alone to do whatever we want.

For a second, I hesitate. Then Smith leans in and captures my bottom lip with his teeth.

“Then I can continue tasting every inch of your body,” he half growls, “just like I promised.”

I don’t think I’ve ever scrambled up a flight of stairs so fast.

Too fast, apparently; by the time I get to the top, the world is sort of rocking back and forth, and I have to grab the handrail to steady myself.

“Whoa.”

I lean one shoulder against the wall just as Smith moves around in front of me. I blink several times and look up into his gaze. In a split second, it’s changed from heated to confused to downright worried.

“Hyacinth? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know—it might be the drinks—”

“Are you going to be sick?”

I bite my lip a little too hard and wince. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t miss a beat as he grabs my hand. “Let’s go back downstairs and find your friends, sweetheart.”

“But I’m supposed to take you home,” I mumble up at him, pressing a clammy hand to my forehead. “It was my number three. You’re supposed to by my number three.”

Not exactly the most brilliant response, I guess, but I didn’t have a lot of time to worry about that. As the world began to spin, I let myself close my eyes and then everything around me—the steep staircase, the blue light, and Smith’s concerned expression—disappear into blackness.

***

I can remember opening my eyes and looking up at the ceiling, wondering how all of the lights looked so much like stars. I remember waking again and thinking I was floating. It took me a minute or so to realize that someone was carrying me across the dance floor and back out into the bar. Then everything goes black again until we’re in the parking lot of my apartment complex.

The rest of my memories of the night are spotty. Of course, Carson and Rainey were unerringly thorough in painting the picture that was the hot mess of my Friday night. Apparently Smith was a gentleman, despite my spectacular failure in the hookup department. He’d insisted on following Carson to my apartment when she wouldn’t let him drive me himself, and he even carried me up three flights of stairs when we got home.

“You came home with me,” I’d said.

Or, at least, I meant to say that. I’m not sure if it actually sounded like that or not. He’d smiled and stroked my face, laying me down on the couch. Then he’d removed my shoes and I’d started trying to undress myself, forgetting that I, in fact, wasn’t wearing a shirt in the first place.

I never learned Smith’s last name. And he didn’t leave his number behind, either. Clearly I didn’t make a lasting enough impression to be worthy of a second date. Or even a real first one.

And, frankly, that sort of hurt. Look—I know it was a potential hookup, not necessarily a long-lasting, loving relationship. But, I mean . . . well, what if it was? Not only was Smith gorgeous, but he was polite. And funny. And over the course of one evening, he was able to make me feel comfortable in my own skin, something Brett couldn’t accomplish over the course of our entire relationship.

It takes me almost two days to get over the nausea and self-loathing that’s infiltrated my body—so much so that I’m actually glad when the workweek rolls around and I’m back at the Franklin School. A long workweek where I can think about anything but fantasy bars and body paint and a mysterious man named Smith who has left me guessing about so much more than his last name.

At least, I’m glad until the principal calls me into his office after the weekly faculty meeting.

If I were still in high school, I would never be sitting across from the principal, trying to read into his stern expression. I’d only be picking up another honor roll certificate or academic achievement letter.

Or a trophy.

There was always a trophy.

But, on Thursday afternoon, when I sit down across from Principal Weathersby, I’m swallowing hard against a lump of nerves lodged in my throat. Somehow, it doesn’t matter that we’re both professional adults—I feel something like trepidation as I force myself to smile at my boss.

“How are you doing, Miss Hendricks? Are the students giving you a hard time?”

Mr. Weathersby doesn’t say the word yet, but it’s implied. Since I’m fairly new at the Franklin School, he’s probably required to bring me in and coddle me a bit. Make sure I’m not letting the seniors railroad me, since, despite the fact that I’m approaching my late twenties, I look about fifteen years old. I also have the unfortunate tendency of talking like Minnie Mouse when I’m nervous.

“I’m doing just fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Your mentor teacher, Mrs. Jenks—is she providing you with all the necessary lesson plans?”

“Um—yes. Absolutely.”

Mr. Weathersby sort of shifts in his chair, his large body making the whole desk rattle.

“I know our school has a reputation for being a bit difficult,” he says, clearing his throat. “Obviously our students can be a little less traditional than what you’d expect.”

I continue to smile at him, albeit weakly. I know what he’s trying to say—the Franklin School is an alternative school, known around Baltimore for being a rough institution with students who’ve been in and out of juvenile detention and social service programs. Even before I took this position, I’d heard it called the “Juvie Junkyard” more often than not. I guess it’s not a complete misnomer—most of the students have been incarcerated at least once, and many of them aren’t even close to graduating, despite being two or three years older than the average high school senior.

“It’s been fine,” I say, hoping my expression is serene—placid and docile, like a cow. Like a happy, peaceful cow who hasn’t been called “hot slice” or “fresh meat” while walking down the hallway earlier this week. I’ve been doing my best to play down my younger features—today, for example, I’m in a knee-length black dress with a red cardigan sweater. My face is really too round to pull off a good updo; despite that, I’m rocking a bun or a ponytail on a nearly daily basis. Still, when the average age of the adults in this building seems to hover around fifty, I guess I should expect at least a little interest from the male population.

Mr. Weathersby gives me the “I don’t believe you, but nice try” look.

“Most of our pupils have been in unfortunate situations before coming to us, but we’re required to admit everyone—regardless of their current predicaments.”

He’s saying that because of the meeting we just had—Officer Rains, the school resource officer assigned to Franklin, told us about some students who’d recently returned from a Department of Justice program that requires them to wear ankle bracelets that monitor their location at all times.

“Which is why I think it’s important that I discuss this with you,” Mr. Weathersby continues, adjusting his striped tie. “You are close to the same age as some of our most troubled attendees. I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or as though you can’t assert your influence as their instructor. Just because you are an intern doesn’t make you any less of an authority figure.”

I nod my head.

“I understood the situation when I accepted the position here. I promise you, I can handle anything that’s thrown my way.”

This is my MO. I’m a rock star. An overachiever. I’ve excelled at everything I’ve done. Honor roll every year, valedictorian of my high school, and magna cum laude when I graduated from college. But now? Well, I’m a little tired of acing every test and winning every game. The truth is that anything that’s considered too difficult is exactly what I should be doing right now.

“Was there anything else, sir?” I ask, trying to sound polite. I’m going to be late to see Dad and I know he’ll worry. I never miss our Thursday night dinners.

Mr. Weathersby clears his throat and gives me a tight smile.

“Actually, yes. This is a bit unorthodox, but I’ve brought you in for a preliminary introduction to a new member of your first-period class. He’ll be starting with you tomorrow and I felt it important that you meet beforehand.”

“Oh. Okay—great.”

I paste on my “teacher smile.” I’ve perfected it—friendly without being too open. Caring without being condescending. It’s like my student-resistant shield. Keep your distance while maintaining authority—that’s how you make them respect you, even if they might be old enough to drink. Definitely old enough to buy cigarettes. And porn.

“Mr. Asher, you can join us,” Mr. Weathersby calls out.

The door opens behind me, and I try to decide whether I should stand up. I wonder why the private meeting is necessary—maybe it’s someone who has a history of violent episodes in the classroom.

Shit, maybe he killed his last English teacher, so Mr. Weathersby is trying to give me a fighting chance to live . . .

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.