Chapter 7

Tuesday began under a threatening gray sky. A brisk, chilly breeze rippled my shirt as I stepped from the pickup into the school parking lot. Right as I was about to close the door, the rapid click-clacking of high heels approached from behind me. Once I’d turned, I struggled to keep myself from grinning.

In a sleek, navy-blue pantsuit and an ivory mock-neck blouse, Mrs. Goodman halted before me. With the jacket’s collar flapping against a set jaw, her drawn and pale face screamed sleepless night. Red, her drooping eyes were black-rimmed. At that ensorceling glimmer of fear, my pulse sped.

“We need to talk, Damon. This isn’t—”

At the swift flick of my hand, she fell silent. Lips pursed, she scanned the other students and faculty streaming towards the main building.

“The clock’s ticking once again, Mrs. Goodman.”

“What do you mean?”

Those shiny eyes zipped to me. No longer drooping, they were wide, flooded with anxiety. Although my jeans tightened, I continued restraining my smile.

“Well, exactly one week from yesterday morning, an anonymous, concerned citizen will send out that horrific video of you molesting me.” Right then, I let the grin slip onto my face, and she trembled. “Tick, tock.”

“But—”

Before she could continue, I thumped the door shut and strode into a group of students heading for the entrance. Just inside, serendipity played its hand once more.

Up ahead, swapping books from a glossy pink backpack into her red metal locker, was Amy Warren. Black, straight-leg jeans and a fluffy burgundy sweater accentuated slender curves.

Amid everything else, I’d run through the options. There was no downside. Plus, she was damn cute. Perfect.

At the slap of my palm onto the locker beside hers, she jumped and spun to face me. That flash of fear in her wide eyes sent a shiver speeding through my entire frame. Just behind her, the same girl from the day before jerked backwards a step. Beneath unkempt black hair, terror lurked in her icy blue pools. Pity, I only needed the one. Maybe another time.

“Hiya, Amy.” With the widest, friendliest, church-going smile plastered across my face, I slipped into a whole new role. “I was wondering if, um ... You know, if, uh, you had nothing to do, um, Friday ... Would you, uh, like to go out with me? See a movie or something.”

“Uh, sure. I’d like that, Damon.” She glanced at the friend, who gave her a quick head shake that Amy ignored while returning to me. With cheeks reddening, a nervous grin crept onto her. “A movie.”

“Cool, I’ll—”

Just then, the buzzer sounded, calling us to class. After scrambling to get her phone number, we agreed to a time. With another cheek-aching smile, I moved off into the hurrying crowd.

Okay, cover plan enacted. As I sat in Mr. Kennedy’s classroom, my brain was pummeling itself. It was so obvious; I should’ve thought of something like Amy earlier. Once seen with her, nobody’d suspect I’d have any reason to pursue Mrs. Goodman. Instead, it was even more ammo. Any curious person would assume the predatory older woman was exploiting me.

At my curt laugh, Kennedy glanced my way, but after my swift nod, he wandered back to the muddled depths of algebra-land.

Other than a single highlight, lunch lasted a million years. While the guys bullshitted about the latest sports cars, Mrs. Goodman had appeared. With a tray clutched in white-knuckled hands, she dashed past us. But at her quick glance and lingering perfume, my core tensed. When one of my buddies tapped my shoulder, I jolted before spouting more words for the inane conversation.

Oh, but that fourth period was the new contender for the most fun in school to date. While struggling to teach, Mrs. Goodman stayed behind the desk. Each time the pale-faced woman started to rise, her frame would quiver, and she’d settle back into the chair.

She didn’t look at me.

Not once.

Until that point, I’d never been so hard in my young life. At the bell, while the other students gathered their books and headed for the exit, she met my eyes at last. They sent spears of desire through me. On the verge of tears, she shoved back from the desk and staggered towards me.

“I won’t do it, Damon.” As she whispered, her lips shook. Hell, her entire frame was trembling. “You, um, d-don’t understand. I just can’t.”

In the brief gap before the incoming students were to arrive, I slipped off the script. When my hand lifted, her eyes widened. As it rose along the silken heat beneath her jacket, my cock ached. Her shakes intensified. At the slow fondle of a firm, warm breast through the blouse, her lips flew wide.

Although she uttered no sound, those emerald pools ... Oh, God. The profound terror. But at the squeaks of approaching sneakers, I dropped my hand. With my heartbeat pummeling my ribs, I flashed a smile at her bright-red face.

“Yes. Yes, you can, Mrs. Goodman. Remember, dress—”

“—sexy,” she finished in the shaky voice of a broken woman.

Only the giggling of two girls entering the room held me from doing or saying more. After only a curt nod, I stood and pushed through the next group of kids.

Was that a foolish risk? Yes. But God Almighty, had it ever been worth it. Throughout the following class, the velvet heat of that perfect globe flooded my empty palm. Soon I’d have that feeling without clothes in the way. At my groan, the girl seated beside me shifted away in her desk. Fear, yes, but ugly. She wasn’t worth it.

The week dragged. Each of Mrs. Goodman’s classes was the same. Not only wouldn’t she meet my eyes, but she remained fixed behind the desk. Ankle-length dresses. Long-sleeved jackets. Frilled collars to her chin. The most conservative attire I’d ever seen her wear. Far too late. Bar the soaked bikini bottoms that had barely covered her taut pelvis, I knew precisely what she was hiding.

There were no further attempts to talk with me at school. Nor a single phone call. But despite missing her flustered begging, every glimpse of her was enough to send my pulse soaring.

After school, my job had picked up. As fall deepened, the hardware store was stocking up with mulch and heavy winter items. So, lots of hard labor. Which provided more money for my primary plan but did nothing to ease the ache deep behind my balls.

By Friday, any time I moved wrong, a groan would leave me.

That evening, the earlier storms had cleared. As my truck rumbled to a halt beside the curb, I scanned Amy Warrens’ spotless middle-class neighborhood. Beneath slanting orange sunbeams, manicured lawns surrounded row after row of new, white-trimmed, two-story homes. Nothing at all like where I lived.

“But one day,” I muttered.

No sooner had I turned to her home than the door flew open. After saying something over her shoulder, Amy dashed down the walk towards me. She wore a huge smile.

“Hi, Damon!”

With a quick wave, I hopped from the cab to open the passenger door. While moving around the hood, I scanned her petite frame in a tight, V-necked baby blue blouse and a flirty short black skirt. Pretty. Yeah, she’d work just fine.

“Aww, such a gentleman,” she said, while taking my hand so I could help her into the seat. “Thanks, Damon.”

Gentleman or not, as most of her bare thighs flashed while she settled, my gaze lingered. When she caught me ogling, her grin widened. How those hazel eyes twinkled. But no fear. None at all.

Which was fine. That wasn’t her role. After a quick smile, I thumped the door closed and walked to the driver’s side.

Just as I was about to climb inside, the front curtains of Amy’s house shifted. For the briefest of seconds, I spotted a woman’s pale face before they swept closed. With a shrug, I sat and flashed Amy another smile. One I’d been practicing. When she returned it, the tension along my spine released. Okay, it could work.