“Cut the nonsense. What’s going on with you today?” His brows are wrinkled, like he honestly doesn’t know that he made my life significantly more complicated by one little conversation.
“You think you know me well enough after a few days to make that assessment? Well, you don’t. I’m not some project for you to fix up to make you feel better about yourself. And I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of my business.” I could get reprimanded for speaking to a faculty member like this, but I can’t stop myself. All I want to do is keep a low profile, graduate, and get into a decent fucking college anywhere but here.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, moving in even closer. “Huh? What’s your game?”
Mr. James drops his head back, and he sighs at the ceiling, hands on his hips.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know what he wants from me. Or if he does, he sure as hell doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
He is making me crazy. There’s no other way to explain my next move. Maybe it’s retaliation for him butting into my business. Maybe it’s just an excuse to ruffle his feathers. But even as I do the unthinkable, the unimaginable, I still don’t regret it. Not even with one bone in my body. I take a step in his direction and place my hand over the first button of my crisp dress shirt, toying with it.
“Do you want this?” I part my lips, my eyes dropping to his mouth. “Hmm? Is that it?”
He takes a step back immediately, and I release the button, exposing milky skin and a hint of cleavage. If I release the next one, he is going to see the valley of my fat, heavy tits that are secured by nothing but my tattered Walmart bra.
“Miss Stringer,” he warns, but I know enough about Mr. James by now to know that this warning doesn’t hold the usual authority. He knows he should stop me, and he is, but his attempt is half-assed at best.
My finger slides down to my second button, and I take another step in his direction. He takes another step back. We tango. I don’t know if I’m fucking with him to show him that I’m dangerous, that he should just leave me be, or because I’m desperate for his reaction. His attention. God, his everything.
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. James.” I pop free the second button, and my pushed-up tits are staring at him now, daring him to look at them. He doesn’t. His eyes become hooded, and his nostrils flare.
“I didn’t answer because I don’t want to insult you. Would you really like an answer to your question?”
“Yes.” I lick my lips, taking another step, and this time, he doesn’t even realize that he stopped walking backwards. We’re almost chest-to-chest now, and I know how it would look if someone opens the door. He does, too, because he folds his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up, his stance guarded and stiff. So unlike his usual self-assured posture. Good thing it’s lunchtime, or students would already be pouring in right about now.
“I’m not interested in high school girls, Miss Stringer.”
“I think we both know I’m not your typical teenager, Teach,” I retort. I’m pushing it, big time, but I want to see how far I can take this without getting my ass thrown into detention, or worse.
“Call me Teach one more time…” His face gets into mine, and hell, I see it. In his pupils. They’re burning.
Yes, I’m not imagining this.
This is mutual. This is magic.
“And what?” I smile, shamelessly pushing my chest between us. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?” My voice turns cold in a second. “Stay out of my personal life. I will be the best student I can, Mr. James, but you don’t get to talk to my stepbrother and stir chaos in my life.” I throw the words we spoke in debate class in his face.
“I wasn’t stirring anything, Remington. I was merely dropping a very subtle warning.” His lips thin. I’m not sure who is scarier, him or Ryan. They are intimidating in very different ways. And lookie here, he referred to me by my first name again.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I beg to differ. Look at your thigh.”
“Maybe you should stop looking at it, Mr. James. Your job is to educate me, not to ogle me.” I just went there.
“That’s rich coming from the woman who’s throwing herself at her teacher,” he whiplashes quickly. A debate teacher, after all.
“So now you admit that I’m a woman?” I smile sweetly, twirling a lock of chestnut hair around my finger, putting on a stupid show he can see right through.
That awards me with a smile, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from Mr. James. Funny, I haven’t even noticed he doesn’t really smile until now. But it is glorious and beautiful, and I want this smile to be only for me.
“You should be a lawyer, Miss Stringer,” he says darkly, motioning with his head to the door, excusing me. “You’d be dangerous.”
“I’m in the right class then.” I shrug my backpack onto my shoulder and walk away. He collapses in the chair by his desk behind me and sighs.
“You’re in the right class, but you’re definitely the wrong kind of student.”
“What’s up with Mr. James?” Christian asks as he slings an arm around my shoulder on our way to the cafeteria. I snort and hitch one shoulder up.