I stared out the window, seeing the early-morning joggers hop over streetcar tracks and puddles glistening with light from oncoming headlights.
This was the time of day when I liked the city most.
Predawn, before the sun burned off the blue-gray clouds, when the city was heavy with the memory of whatever fun had been had the night before but quiet and peaceful as most still slept.
My favorite time.
“Stop looking at me,” I chastised as I gazed out the window, inhaling his scent as he sat next to me, trying to keep the smile off my face.
“No,” he shot back.
I wasn’t used to someone else being forefront in my mind, but I was always hyper-aware of him now. It kind of sucked. In an attempt to calm myself, I smoothed my hands down my wrinkled skirt and pushed up the sleeves of his white button-down, feeling completely out of order.
“Stop fidgeting,” he commanded.
I turned my head to look at him, arching an eyebrow.
“You’re all sleek in your pressed suit,” I pointed out, “and I’m doing the walk of shame in no makeup and men’s clothes.”
He was taking me home before he headed into the office. Christian was due back later today, and although he’d told me I could sleep in and he’d have Patrick drive me home later, I didn’t feel right about being there without him. I’d wanted to go home last night, but he’d talked me into staying again.
Today, though, I had work to catch up on, and he had a company to get back to now that the rain had subsided.
He smiled over at me and reached up, pushing the button to raise the privacy glass between Patrick and us.
“You’re stunning,” he said in all seriousness, giving me that look of his that made me hot. “And you shouldn’t be embarrassed. I’m lucky people can’t see the scratch marks on my back,” he joked.
It made me laugh as an image of the marks on his back in the shower this morning flashed through my mind.
Butterflies fluttered through my chest, and I released the breath I’d been holding. Maybe that was the ticket. Picture him naked, and he wasn’t so formidable.
“If you’d like,” he started in his smooth voice, “I can offer you an opportunity to rebuild your self-esteem.”
I cocked my head, peering over at him. “Oh?”
He nodded. “I’m hosting a luncheon at the house this Sunday, and I want you there,” he stated, and then blinked. “I would like you there,” he corrected, as if remembering he wasn’t addressing an employee.
I shook my head, even as a grin escaped. The gesture thrilled me, though I would never admit it to him. I looked back out the window, lifting my chin.
It didn’t unnerve me that he wanted to see more of me. But it did unnerve me that I liked that he wanted to see more of me.
But at his house? During the day, with other people there? If I were social—which I wasn’t—it would still be awkward. And make what we were doing even less tactful.
“Tyler, we can’t—”
“Not together,” he interrupted, reassuring me. “But I like to see you and not be able to touch you. It adds to the fun.”
When I turned toward him, expecting to see a mischievous smile, instead I saw a serious, even expression that made me rethink my smart-ass comeback. His eyes were pinned to mine, and I turned forward again, taking a deep breath and resisting the urge to crawl into his lap.
I cleared my throat. “What kind of luncheon is it?”
“Networking,” he answered. “The city elite, a few politicians . . .” He trailed off, sounding bored. “Christian will be there.”
“Thanks.” I shook my head. “But I think—”
He cut me off. “You can bring a friend, if you like. Or your brother?”
I sat up straight, steeling my jaw.
I didn’t want to decline the invitation, but I knew I had to. Even if we weren’t romantically involved, it was a conflict of interest to attend parties at a student’s home.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he teased. “I’m sure you can handle the company.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.
“I’m not nervous,” I argued, turning my head to regard him again. “And I know what you’re trying to do.”
He thought I couldn’t handle myself around his crowd. I’d played tennis with movie stars in the stands.
The car slowed to a stop, and I glanced outside to see that we had arrived in front of my house. Leaves and fronds from a few palm trees in the neighborhood littered the ground, but the rest of the house seemed to be fine, despite my lack of shutters. The ground was still wet, the light sprinkle still falling rippling the puddles that had accumulated on the ground.
I picked up my blouse from next to me on the seat and moved to get out, but he caught my arms, stopping me gently.
“Noon,” he said softly, not really demanding but not really asking, either. “I’ll leave you alone the rest of the week, so we can both get some work done,” he explained, taking his hand away and sitting back, “but if you’re not there, I’ll come to get you myself.”
Despite my best intentions, I smirked, rising to his challenge. Then I leaned over the console and placed an innocent kiss on his cheek.
Whispering against his skin, I teased, “I love it when you play predator. It’s so cute.”
But then I yelped when he grabbed me under the arms and dragged me over to his lap, wrapping his arms around me and cutting off my breath with a kiss as he held me tight.
I moaned, but I couldn’t fight. His tongue swirled with mine and his hand slipped up my thigh, grabbing my ass cheek.
His lips moved over mine, eating me up and sending me reeling. My head spun, and I wanted him again.
And if what I could feel poking into my behind was any indication, he wanted me, too.
Tyler and I were one and the same. Both of us hated to be handled.
Until now.
I liked his dominance, and I think he liked mine.
He pulled away, and I felt like the air had been ripped out of my lungs.
He placed his hands on his armrest and breathed hard.
“Now get out of here,” he ordered, his tone turning clipped. “And if you don’t show on Sunday, I’ll never do that again.”
Arrogant, confident, son of a . . .
I hopped off his lap and pounded on the window for Patrick to let me out. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Marek was smiling.
And when Patrick opened the door, I stepped out, not once turning around for Tyler to see my grin.
Once I’d stepped inside the house, I heard his car pull away, and I closed the door, slipping off my flats.
Catching myself in the large square mirror on the wall perpendicular to the door, I took in my appearance, feeling completely disheveled but not out of sorts. My deep brown hair was clean, but it was a little frizzy, since it hadn’t been blow-dried properly, curled, straightened, or styled in any way. I always thought I looked bland without makeup, but my skin was glowing, and there was a natural blush across my cheeks that I’d never seemed to have before.
The top two buttons of his shirt were open, and I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I could feel the smooth, soft fabric against my sensitive skin. Everything touched me like it was a new feeling. Like my skin had come alive, tingling with frenzy.
I pulled the collar over my nose and inhaled, the smell of a spice, wood, and leather filling my chest.
Twisting around, I hit all the locks on the door and then rounded the entryway into the living room.
I stopped, spotting my brother sprawled out on the couch.
“Jack?” I called, walking up to the couch.
He shifted, lying there in his jeans with no T-shirt as his eyes slowly blinked awake. I looked over at the clock, seeing it was still only six oh four. He must’ve been here overnight.
“What are you doing here?” I rounded the couch to stand next to him.
He opened his eyes and focused on me. “Easton, what the hell?” he grumbled.
Sitting up, he planted his feet on the ground and hunched over, putting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his eyes.
“Did you just get in?” he asked, peering up at me with worried eyes.
I tossed my blouse on the chair off to the side. “Yeah. What are you doing here?” I asked again.
He yawned. “The power went out in my neighborhood yesterday, so I let myself in,” he explained, raising his arms above his head to stretch. “You have cable, so . . .”
I exhaled a laugh and leaned down to start tossing his soda cans and napkins inside the empty pizza box. I never cleaned up after him, but I was in a good mood this morning.
“Where were you?” he pressed again. “I texted.”
I picked up the pizza box full of his garbage and shoved it to his chest. “I was out,” I answered.
He cocked an eyebrow and set the box aside. His eyes fell down my clothes, and he reached up, rubbing the hem of my shirt between his fingers.
“Expensive,” he commented, realization crossing his face as he turned away.
He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, but I didn’t care what he was going to say. Jack watched over me too closely, and I was done with it.
“I want nothing more than to see you with someone,” he appeased, “but don’t you think you’re playing with fire?”
I leaned over, picked up the box again, and pushed it against his chest harder this time.
“I like fire,” I stated, and stepped up onto the couch and sat down on its back.
“Yes, you’re a risk taker,” he teased, “but only when you’re sure of the outcome, Easton. Hate to burst your bubble, but those aren’t really risks.”
I shook my head, rolling my eyes at him. “I’m not falling in love with him. We’re both way too complicated for that.”
“Do you want him to?”
“What?” I heaved a sigh.
“Fall in love with you.”
I stared at my brother, trying to keep a hint of a smile on my face to hide the fact that I was actually thinking about it.
Did I want Tyler Marek to love me?
No, no, of course not.
I wanted someone to love me. Eventually. But I didn’t want it to happen yet.
I thought I’d have years to build a relationship with someone. Years to get my life in order. To feel comfortable letting someone in. But not now and not him.
He was too caught up in his own life—as I was in mine.
He was also twelve years older and at a different point in his life. He probably had too many obligations to take time to travel and explore. And he probably had too many hang-ups about his own parenting abilities to want more children. I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted to have them, either, but it wasn’t something I was ready to rule out.
No. Tyler Marek was a fling.
I licked my lips, flashing my brother a smile. “He makes me laugh and he turns me on,” I taunted. “And I love it when he does this thing with his tongue—”
“Okay!” he burst out, turning away. “We’re not that close.”
I shook with quiet laughter, sinking down onto the couch.
“You want to know the best part?” I asked, and he looked at me.
“I haven’t counted anything since yesterday morning,” I told him.
He looked at me like he didn’t believe me. “Really?”
I nodded, standing up and crossing my arms over my chest.
“I’m keeping my expectations reasonable,” I assured him. “But for now, I feel relaxed for the first time in forever. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.”
He seemed to give up his objections, because he slowly started nodding and taking deep breaths. My brother was a contradiction, and I still had trouble understanding him. He wanted me to move on, but he seemed to get antsy whenever I picked up a racket. He wanted me to date—not just have dalliances—but apparently someone like Tyler Marek wasn’t what he had in mind.
If anything, I would’ve thought my brother would entertain the idea. Tyler was successful, connected, and political, everything my brother wanted to be.
I knew what my brother said he wanted for me, but on the rare occasion—like lately—when I seemed to go after it, he would try to pull me back, and I didn’t understand why.
“Well.” He heaved out a sigh and shot me a nudging smile. “Since you’re in such a good mood, I have been dying for some of your bacon and mushroom quiche.”
“Quiche?” I winced. “Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take?”
He widened his smile, looking more comical than sympathetic, with both rows of teeth showing.
But I couldn’t deny him. Being needed kept me busy.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine, but I’m playing music, then. Use the headphones if you want to watch TV.”
I rounded the couch and walked into the kitchen, halting immediately when I spotted three cabinets and a drawer open.
Seriously?
“Jack!” I called, walking over and closing everything. “If you’re going to hang out here, at least close the cabinets and drawers after you’ve opened them.”
—
“Now, in the decades between the American Revolution and the Civil War”—I paced down the aisle in my classroom the next day—“our country experienced the First Industrial Revolution,” I told the students, summarizing the reading from the storm break.
“What kind of inventions sprang forth?” I asked, snapping my fingers. “Let’s go. Come on.”
“The cotton gin!” Rayder Broussard shot out.
“Which did what?” I continued, listening as I stared at the tile and paced back and forth.
“Uh,” a girl stuttered, and then shouted, “Cotton fibers separated from seeds, enabling clothing to be more quickly produced!”
I looked up, seeing it was a student from Team One, so I jetted over to the board and tallied a point for her team and one for Rayder’s.
“What else?” I called out.
The students flipped through their notes and charts, working vigorously and still going strong despite being worked like machines from the moment they’d stepped into the room today. They sat or stood scattered around the room in organized chaos with their groups and with their noses buried in their research. I would’ve loved this level of participation if my intentions were noble.
But they weren’t. I’d needed the distraction ever since my brother’s visit yesterday. He’d denied leaving my kitchen a mess, and now it was all I could think about. If Jack hadn’t left the drawer and cabinets open, then who had?
He should’ve known. The minute he’d walked into the apartment the night before and seen the kitchen out of sorts, he should’ve known something was wrong. I never left things out of place.
Four cups in a stack in the cabinet, two turns to close the toothpaste, closet organized—blouses, shirts, pants, skirts, dark to light—everything was always in order.
But upon further inspection yesterday, I’d found my shower curtain also open and two skirts I hadn’t worn lately hanging on the back of my bedroom chair.
My heart started to pound again, and I swallowed.
While I arranged and organized things as a way to achieve a small sense of control, it had begun as a way to tell if anyone had been in my space.
At sixteen, when I’d started obsessing, if something was mussed, crooked, or out of place, I would know that I wasn’t safe.
And while now I still did it for a measure of peace, I hadn’t felt unsafe in five years. Not since the last time I’d seen him.
Maybe I’d taken the skirts out two nights ago, when Tyler had wanted to take me to dinner. Maybe I’d opened the cabinets and drawer before that, when I was arguing with Jack.
I hadn’t counted anything lately, so maybe I was starting to loosen my grip on the order I’d once needed. Maybe my brain was so preoccupied with my class and with Tyler that I’d started to do what I’d needed to do for years: move on and let go.
Or maybe my brother did open the cabinets and drawers and just forgot.
Maybe.
I blinked, the class’s commotion growing louder.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to relax. “Come on!” I clapped my hands, rejoining the class. “Team One is in the lead here!”
I looked to Christian, who sat with his team but was not participating. “Christian?” I prompted. “Any ideas?”
He didn’t answer but only flipped through his notes absently, not attempting to even look like he was trying to work.
“The steam engine!” someone shouted.
I let my aggravation over Christian’s continued defiance go as I met Sheldon’s eyes and mentally tallied Team Three.
“Which did what?” I called out, walking for the whiteboard again.
I heard a chair screech behind me as someone shot up. “It allowed a wide range of machines to be powered!”
I recognized Marcus’s voice and placed another point for Team One and one for Team Three on the board.
“What else?”
“The telegraph!” someone called.
“And what was its purpose?”
“To um . . .” The girl’s voice drifted off, while everyone else whispered in their groups or flipped through their notes.
“Come on,” I urged. “You’re heading for Earth, and your spaceship is out of control. You’re going to crash!” I shouted, a smile tilting my lips.
“Communicate over long distances using Morse code!” Dane called out, his eyes wide with excitement.
“They already could communicate over long distances by writing letters,” I challenged.
“But the telegraph was quicker!” he shouted, pointing his finger up in the air as if declaring war.
I laughed. “Good!” I praised, walking to the board and marking points.
Turning around, I walked back down the aisle, paying special attention to Christian.
“Now,” I started. “Imagine that you need a ride home, and cell phones don’t exist. How do you get home?” I asked.
“Find a phone,” Sidney Jane answered.
But I shot back. “The school’s closed, so you can’t use theirs.”
“Go to a business and use their phone,” Ryan Cruzate called out.
I shrugged. “No one answers when you call.”
“Walk home,” Shelby Roussel continued the problem-solving.
I nodded. “Okay, you got there, but you don’t have a key.”
“Sit your butt outside,” Marcus joked, a few kids joining in the laughter.
“It’s raining,” I argued again.
Trey Watts locked his hands behind his head. “Go to a friend’s and wait,” he suggested.
“They’re not home, either.” I winced with fake sympathy.
“Call someone—”
I stopped her with a head shake about the same time she realized we’d already been through that. The class laughed when they remembered that they don’t have cell phones in this scenario. How easy it was to forget that we no longer had something we didn’t realize we relied on so much.
And there really was no solution. You adjust and cope, but you can’t make it the same again.
I paced the aisle, feeling Christian’s silence like a deafening weight to my left.
“Now, we can survive without cell phones and microwaves,” I explained, “but advances in technology have obviously made life easier. To the point where, in some cases, we don’t know what we’d do without them.”
“If your mom—or dad—had a cell phone,” I went on, “you could’ve reached them wherever they were, no matter that they weren’t home. Now, we know what some of the big inventions during the Industrial Revolution were, and we know what they did, but what was the impact on our country and our daily lives after they came into existence?” I asked. “How did they make life easier? Or more difficult? How does new technology”—I raised my voice for emphasis—“forever change the course of our lives?”
I gazed around the room, seeing their contemplative expressions. I hoped they weren’t merely blank and that they were actually thinking.
Maybe I’d asked too many questions at once.
I glanced to Christian, who stared at me, looking very much like he had something to say but was holding back.
“Make a T-chart,” I ordered. “Label pros and cons and then put your pencils down.”
The students did what was asked of them. They opened their notebooks to a blank page, drawing one line down the middle and one across the top and labeling the two sections.
After they’d replaced their pencils on their desks, I went on.
“Revolution usually means quick, dramatic change,” I pointed out. “Do you think the Industrial Revolution was aptly named? Were the changes in production and distribution fast, or were they a steady development over time?”
I walked up the last aisle and stopped. “Christian, what do you think?”
He shook his head, looking bored. “I think it was fast, I guess.”
“Why?”
He dropped his eyes, mumbling, “I don’t know.”
I got closer. “You don’t have to know.” I kept my voice light. “Tell me what you think.”
His eyes shot up to mine. “I don’t know,” he repeated, his voice turning angry.
“It was decades,” I shot out, knowing I was close to overstepping my bounds. One of the first things you learn about classroom management is to never call out a student in front of the class.
But I needed a reaction out of him. I needed him to do something. To say something.
“Is that fast or steady, Christian? What do you think?”
“It’s all about perspective, I guess!” he barked. “Humans are, like, two hundred thousand years old, so yeah, a lot of advancement in only a few decades would be fast,” he argued. “Some civilizations in history barely made any progress in generations, while others a lot. Everyone’s frame of reference is different!”
I held his angry blue-gray eyes—the same as his father’s—and elation flooded my chest. I let out a breath and gave him a small smile, nodding.
“That’s a good point,” I told him, and then turned around to walk away.
“But then it may not be fast, either,” he continued, and I stopped.
Spinning around, I watched as he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin up, more confident.
“I would say the past two decades have seen even more advancement in manufacturing and technology than during the Industrial Revolution,” he debated. “The phones, the iPads, automobiles, the Mars rover . . .” He trailed off. “It’s about perspective.”
It felt like those moments when you get exactly what you want and then you don’t know what to do with what you got.
I stood there, wondering what the good teachers do when a student opens up, and I was clueless. Christian Marek was an angry kid. He was difficult and defiant and so like his father and yet so different. Whereas I gathered Tyler always felt he had something to prove, Christian seemed like someone who never needed to prove anything to anyone.
“So was it fast or steady?” a student called out to my left.
I bowed my head, smiling as I turned around and walked to the front of the classroom.
I cleared my throat. “You’re not being graded on what you think,” I told the class. “You’re being graded on why you think it. Defend your answers.”
I turned off the Smart Board and placed my hands on my hips.
“Complete your T-chart with the pros and cons of the impact on life by the inventions of the Industrial Revolution. Then tweet what you learned today—hashtag Bradbury2015—and then you may get online and start adding primary sources to your folder for the Deep South project,” I instructed.
I turned, grabbing a dry-erase marker, and finished adding points for the class.
“Aw, yeah!” I heard Marcus bellow when he saw the points I added to Team One. “We got fifty points. Good job, Marek!!”
Team One clapped, celebrating their success and the final point Christian had earned for them, bringing them to a total of fifty before all the other teams.
“So we get Song of the Week, right?” Marcus asked, already working his laptop to find his song, no doubt.
“Yes.” I nodded. “You have five minutes.”
“It’s my choice, everyone!” he shouted, clicking his computer and standing up as the song began playing.
The entire class stopped what they were doing and joined in the fun as the song came out louder and louder from Marcus’s computer. Soon there were hands in the air, voices singing along, and people standing up at their desks, moving to the music.
I laughed at the sight, loving the amount of work they put in to succeed just so they could have these five minutes as often as possible. Even Christian was laughing as he watched others dance to the music.
And then my face fell and I sucked in a breath as I finally realized what song was playing, Afroman’s “Because I Got High.”
“Wait!” I blurted out. “That song has profanity.”
Marcus jerked his shoulders in moves probably only he thought were cool.
“How would you know, Ms. Bradbury?” he singsonged.
And I just planted my face in my hands as the entire class joined in on the chorus so loudly the entire school probably heard.
