Page 31 of Lesson Learned

“It’s not her choice, arsehole. It’s mine.” I wave a hand over my face. “See my mouth moving? That’s controlled by my brain or is having a brain another concept you’re unfamiliar with?”

“Now who’s being a cunt?”

“Stop it.” Marnie shrinks her shoulders until she appears half the size. “It’s Paisley’s birthday.”

“And was one of her wishes to grow a foul mouth?”

I glare at James, already knowing the futility of my anger. He’s stealing pieces of her away from me, which is bad. I think he’s stealing pieces away from her, too, which is far worse.

Her voice is tiny when she says, “I just meant we should celebrate, not argue with each other.”

He draws her closer to him, kissing her on the side of her forehead while staring daggers at me. “You’re so right, Marns. Happy birthday, Paisley. We should go out this weekend, my treat.” He gives Marnie the side eye and amends, “Or perhaps a month from now when your face has healed and you’re back to your gorgeous self. You can wear that new gold dress,” he adds, giving her a shake. “You should be slim enough to fit it by then.”

I freeze, avoiding all eye contact.

When I finally look up, James stares straight at me. A shiver catches me off guard and I hide it by spearing another piece of broccoli with my fork.

I can’t work out if he’s teasing, if Marnie has already told him the truth and this is him baiting me, or if he’s just working on instinct, his rat-brain pushing him where he needs to go.

Either way, I’m not about to engage.

“There’s cake,” I tell Brooke, hoping if I ignore James, he’ll go away. “I’ll bring it out to the common room.”

“Yes, please.”

“What?” James asks with a grin. “No invite for me?”

I shove my plate away and stand, needing to be free of his light menace. “And here I was telling everyone you weren’t smart.”

While Brooke tries to hide her amusement, I flounce away, heading to my room to grab the treat.

CHAPTEREIGHT

CONNER

My first weekat school goes okay. The department head gushes over my performance, but it was hardly spectacular. Maybe she’s just sick of being stuck with Gregory Lanchard, the school’s other English teacher, whose specialty is halitosis and sixties beat poets. And who could blame her? After a ten-minute chat on the first day, I’ve avoided him, too.

On a Friday evening, I should be preparing to go out. My phone is stuffed full of numbers to call, or I could just swing into any club in town and find someone in the wild.

The moment the idea occurs to me, I push it away.

I tried to hook up on Wednesday and it was a total disaster. Brynley was happy to answer my text, happy to join me for dinner.

After half an hour spent avoiding her roaming hands, I felt sick to my stomach, called it off, and escaped home where I spent ten minutes jerking off, dreaming of Paisley. I had her confiscated panties on display, finally ejaculating into her dress.

I try to pretend to myself I’m being good, keeping clear of entanglements while my current job is progressing, but my urge to get fully entangled with Paisley proves that a lie.

Scrolling through my contact list now, there’s only one number I want to call.

The same number I absolutely can’t dial.

With a huff of annoyance, I throw my phone onto the sofa and slump beside it. Since I’m apparently allergic to female company, I could at least entertain myself with a movie or a television show or find a new album to put on as background to my chaotic thoughts.

Instead, I stare at the wall, growing more and more pissed off with Creighton, with Patrick, with my ex—with anyone and everyone who stuck me in this position where my only ticket back to my planned life comes at the cost of pretending to be someone else—of having nothing real in my life.

I’ve done what I can this week. Mostly, that’s involved sitting back, watching how the school operates, taking notes.

Once I have a better feel for the rhythms of the place, I can start snooping in earnest. I can dig through the digital and physical records to understand the scope of what can be uncovered.

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