At least I have that going for me.
I didn’t care too much about Mikaela’s jab. Surprised Mr. James did. Then again, maybe it was just another way for him to embarrass me. And it seems like every time he does, I try to one-up him and beat him at his own game. Pushing back has always been something that I liked doing. It’s a daily struggle to stay neutral.
You’re playing it smart, Remi.
Listening to Queens of the Stone Age and mouthing the words to “No One Knows,” I still when I hear a familiar voice.
“Get in.”
I look up and see Mr. James. I’m more than a little shocked to see him here. Though he doesn’t look happy about seeing me at all. I see the indecision warring on his face.
I stub a finger to my chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. It’s just a ride. I happen to know you don’t live in the best neighborhood, and it is my duty as an educator to keep you safe.”
Again with this bullshit. Is he trying to convince himself or me? I smile and hop from the bench. “You give me detention and then a ride home? Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
I grab my bag and head toward his SUV.
“Sweet minivan,” I joke as I slide into the smooth leather seats that burn the backs of my thighs. This heat is no joke. He only looks mildly irritated at my jab.
“It’s an Audi Q7,” he explains as he pulls away from the curb, like I’m supposed to know what that means. I raise my eyebrows questioningly, causing him to sigh, exasperated. “Never mind.”
“So, am I just supposed to ignore the fact that you know where I live?” I can’t assume that he sought me out. Not when he’s vehemently shut down my advances. But, I can’t seem to come up with another explanation either.
“Buckle up,” he deadpans, giving me a sideways glance, avoiding my question. Interesting. Maybe he did look me up. I do as he says and buckle my seatbelt, stealing a glance at him, and literally feel my stomach flip. From his black Wayfarers and his perfectly disheveled hair to the way his forearm flexes when he grips the gearshift, he’s fucking flawless. I wish I could reach into my backpack and pull out my camera to capture him in this moment. And I decide to do just that.
Mr. James doesn’t even notice at first, but the sound of the shutter has his head snapping in my direction, his brows furrowed.
“What are you doing?” he asks, suspicion lacing his voice.
“Calm down, Teach. It’s just a picture.” I take a few more. His hand on the gear, my feet up on his dash, the new mural on the freeway.
I put my camera away, and my eyes trail their way back up to his. I can’t tell for sure through the sunglasses, but I’m pretty damn sure he’s zeroed in on my thighs, and his throat bobs with a hard swallow. My hands fist the edge of my skirt nervously, and I adjust my legs that are sticking to the hot leather seat. His head jerks up, and he clears his throat and focuses back on the road. I’m flushed and on fire, but it’s not from the Vegas sun.
I bite my lip to keep from saying something stupid and rest my forehead against the window. Flirting comes as naturally as breathing to me, but it’s one thing to bait him at school. This little game feels all too real off school grounds and in the intimate space of his car.
As we get closer to my house, my stomach is flipping for a very different reason. I don’t want him to see where I live. He says he knows, but knowing my address and seeing where I live are two completely different things. I hate that I’m ashamed of something I have no control over, and at that I feel a twinge of guilt. My dad works hard to keep a roof over our heads, and there’s no shame in that. I half expect Mr. James to ask for directions, but sure enough, he knows exactly where he’s going.
I don’t notice him at first, because our street is lined with shitty cars parked every which way, blocking my view of the driveway, but when I see Ryan and his friend Reed in the yard, my whole body fills with dread. And when I notice the beer in his hand, that dread turns into panic. What the hell is he doing home? And why wasn’t he there to pick me up if he was in town? I whip my head around, my wide eyes pleading with his to understand. Mr. James’ jaw flexes, and he shakes his head imperceptibly. He’s not going to make this easy on me.
“Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow?”
He unbuckles his seatbelt, and I turn to see if Ryan has noticed our arrival. Oh, he has, all right, and he’s marching straight toward us.
“Don’t,” I implore before Ryan is in earshot. “I don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight.”
“Deal with what, exactly, Remington? I thought you said you weren’t in any kind of danger?” I roll my eyes and hop out, coming face-to-face with Stepbrother Dearest. He’s in a muscle tank and grease-stained jeans, his massive ink-covered arms crossed over his chest.
“You play chauffeur to all your students?” Ryan flicks his chin in Mr. James’ direction. I don’t dare look at him, but I feel him come stand behind me and I sigh, knowing this isn’t going to end well.
“Just making sure she gets home safe since no one else cared to,” he says as he presses his palm to my lower back. It’s meant to be a polite gesture, I’m sure, but I know Ryan, and he’s not going to see it that way. I can’t even pretend that the weight of his large, warm palm on the small of my back doesn’t affect me. His pinky finger rests on the small space of skin above my skirt, where my shirt has ridden up, and if we were anywhere else, I’d be tempted to ask him to show me how good his hands can make me feel on other parts of my body. But Ryan notices the placement of his hand, and I know I have about two seconds to act before shit hits the fan.
Annnd here we go.
Ryan grips my bicep and pulls me out of the way. My foot catches on a rock in the yard, causing me to stumble into him.
“Get in the house, Rem,” Ryan says as he chugs the rest of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He tosses the empty bottle into the graveyard of bottles in our yard.