Page 29 of Taming His Teacher

“Shep, I—”

“I should go.”

No. Don’t. Please?That’s what my crumpled-up face says but my brain intercedes before the thought makes it out of my mouth. “Yeah.”

Because if you don’t, I’ll throw myself into your arms and never leave.He stands and, always the consummate gentleman, offers me a hand. Though I’m wary of what his firm grasp will make me want, I take it, half-desperate for his touch and half-determined to act like nothing’s amiss. If he offered me a hand up from my seat on the grass watching a soccer game, I would, Ihave, accepted it.

He supports my weight as I come to my feet, wobbly-kneed and shaky. I haven’t let go of him, don’t want to, so I turn it into the world’s most awkward handshake.

“Good luck at Northwestern. Let us know how you’re doing.”

He flinches at my use of the plural. I’m a jerk.Me,I plead in my head where it’s safe to,letmeknow how you’re doing.Tell me you miss me.

We stand there for what feels both like hours and milliseconds, our hands clasped tight. I want another kiss, but in full view of the window, families and faculty milling around not so far away, this “handshake” is suspect. I loosen my fingers as the uneasy thought about what someone like Uncle Rett might think if he happened upon us worms into my brain.

Though it rips my heart in two, I don’t call him Shep as I step back.

“Good-bye, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Bye, Ms. Brewster.”

He looks at me for a long second before he turns and walks out the door. I sink to my knees when the latch trips and cry anew, my fingertips grazing my lips where he kissed me. These tears aren’t for Will. They’re for the lost possibility of what might have been but can never be with Zach Shepherd.

Chapter 9

Shep

“Damn it, Kaiser.”

It’s the second week of school and I’m already buried under mounds of homework. That’s what you get for taking an extra class, I guess. I don’t have time for this shit. But Kaiser’s dragging me out of my chair in a headlock and Paul’s throwing stuff out of the particleboard piece-of-shit that passes for a closet in the crappiest undergrad housing the university has.

“Get dressed, Shep. You’re going out tonight.”

“I would, guys, but I’ve got—”

“Shut the fuck up and make things easy on yourself. You’re coming whether you like it or not. It’s Tudor’s birthday and we’re doing a, uh, team-building exercise.”

I roll my eyes from where my head’s still wedged under Kaiser’s arm. I could have him on his back in a second but I can take some hazing. I push at his flexed forearm halfheartedly to give him the satisfaction. “Is ‘team-building exercise’ code for ‘strip club’?”

Paul snaps a dress shirt against my ass and I growl, pushing harder against the arm at my throat that feels more threatening though the pressure’s the same.

“For being such a geek, you’re not a total square. Now suit up, my friend. This night is going to be the stuff of legend.”

“Then fucking let up, Kaiser. I can’t change my shirt with you choking me.”

He releases his grip and I drag a few breaths into my lungs. He hadn’t been holding me tight, but I hate that trapped feeling. I shake it off and grab the button-down from Paul before I strip off the long-sleeve Hawthorn Hill hockey tee I’ve got on. The guys are still jabbering and I’m half looking forward to the porny bow-chicka-wow-wow beat of the club so I don’t have to listen to them anymore.

Ten minutes later, I’m cramming into Hurley’s Acura. I know enough to know it’s a nice car, but I also know enough about how to fit in with rich kids to not comment. We buzz through the streets of Evanston and down Sheridan into the city, ending up in a neighborhood I don’t know yet. The club is sketchy, but not the nastiest I’ve seen, called something like All Starz, if I read the gaudy sign correctly. The lot of us—spilling out of expensive cars, half drunk and all blowing off steam from a long week—fill up the parking lot and bottleneck into the club.

Someone’s paid our way so we get in no problem and without a second look from the bouncers, jacked dudes who could snap most of us over their knees like twigs. I’ll keep an eye on the guys who don’t know when to shut the hell up to make sure that doesn’t happen.

The place is dark and a bunch of tables have “Reserved” signs on them, where we spread out. Soon after, waitresses wearing not much more than the girls on stage saunter over and take our drink orders. When I ask for water, our server leans over farther, showing off her gaudy, sparkly canyon of cleavage, and a cloying fake vanilla smell pours off her.

“You driving, honey?”

“Yeah.” It was a lie on the way here, but I’m guessing it won’t be on the way back. Hurley had nudged me on the way in. “You’re all straight-edge and shit, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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