Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (14 page)

“God, you’re amazing,” he growled low. “I
can’t wait to fuck you.”

It felt like he was talking to me, my presence
getting him off as much as the girl sucking on his cock behind the door. All
thought of stopping him flew out of my mind, the sounds he was making lighting
me up, making me want to be the one pleasuring him. And those eyes, they kept
watching me, as though he was imagining my lips wrapped around his—

Things amped up, his moans turning into
pants. His eyes closed, suggesting he was close to coming, then the loudest,
most sexual groan I’d ever heard filled the room, making me gasp.

His eyes shot open at the sound, his intense
gaze once again locking onto mine. Even though I couldn’t see his mouth, I knew
he was smiling, the creases around his eyes indicating it. “Did’ja like that?”
he asked.

“Fuck, yes,” the girl answered, although I
knew the question was for me.

I
took off, bursting through the exit, horrified that my answer was the same.

***

I ran back to the girls’ restroom,
splashing my face with more cold water, my hands shaking badly, what I’d done
wrong on so many levels. I had fully intended on stopping him, knowing damn
well he was going to have sex in some way with the girl, but his stare had
frozen me, destroying my morals, the boy pure temptation. When he’d seen me in
the corridor, he’d basically dared me to follow, and I’d walked straight into
his trap.

After calming myself down, I went to my
class, apologising to the students for being late, cursing Murphy’s Law that it
was the juvie one. I headed for the whiteboard, purposely keeping my eyes away
from Dante, who was already in his seat, looking smug. I clenched my hands,
regretting talking him into coming back.

He called out, “Why are you late, Mrs.
Hatton?”

Ignoring his question, I started writing some
Animal Farm
quotes on the board, hoping like hell he didn’t mention what
I’d done, the boy having no filter.

“You didn’t answer me,” he called out
again.

“It’s none of your business why I’m late,
Dante,” I said, not turning around.

“Are you sure ’bout that?”

“Positive.”

“’Kay, whatever you say,
Mrs.
Hatton.”

I tensed, the emphasis on my title making
me feel like I’d cheated on my husband ... although I hadn’t, which I needed to
remind myself of. All I’d done was freeze in the moment,
not
participated in it.

Dante piped up again. “By the way, Mrs.
Hatton, can you answer a sex ed question for me?”

“No,” I gritted out.

“But I needa know how babies are made. Jasper
told me I could get a girl pregnant if she swallows.”

The class erupted with laughter, Jasper
spluttering he didn’t say that.

I slammed the marker down and spun around,
levelling Dante with a glare. “If you say one more word you’re out of here.”

Smirking at me, he zipped his mouth.
Thankfully
,
he kept quiet for the remainder of the lesson. Regardless, I couldn’t help
stealing glances at him, concerned he was running his mouth off to his best
friend about what I’d done. But instead of whispering to Jasper, he was staring
at me.

Every.

Single.

Time.

When the bell rang, I called out, “Dante,
stay back, I need to talk to you about some homework,” I lied, wanting to make
him understand that what had happened meant nothing to me—another lie.

“Why? I never do homework,” he replied.

His mates laughed.

“Which is why I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, miss, whatever you say, miss.”

I waited until the rest of the class had
left, then walked over to him. He was still sitting behind his desk, with his
feet resting on it. “Did’ja enjoy the show?” he asked, giving me a wide grin.

I crossed my arms over my chest, willing
myself to stay calm. “I should report you for what you did with that girl.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Then, how will you
explain not stopping us? Instead, you stood there, gettin’ off on watching me.”

He was right.
But
it didn’t mean I could admit it. “I was just shocked,” I said instead.
The
truth
. “People react differently to seeing shocking things.”

“You didn’t
see
anything, only
heard it.”

“I was still shocked. Also, that girl was
a senior. You’re only fifteen years old.”

“While you’re even older. By the way, it
almost felt like we were having a threesome.”

I bit my tongue, forcing myself not to
lose my temper. All I wanted to do was to slam my hand against his desk, making
him jolt in his seat, giving
him
the fright, making
him
nervous,
but I couldn’t afford to lose control.

“I’m not going to react to your goading,”
I finally said, “so you might as well stop it. Also, you won’t say a word about
what happened to anyone, including Jasper, or I will go straight to the
principal and report you.” I leaned my face closer to his. “And guess who he’ll
believe.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ooh,
you’re playing dirty. I
like
it. But I should warn you, I’m the king of
dirty, baby.” He leaned forward and ran his hand up my leg.

I smacked it off and took a step back. “Why
do you act like this?”

“I don’t
act
, I
do
.”

“Stop turning everything sexual.”

He swung his feet off the desk and stood
up, making me take another step back. “This is just the way I am. I couldn’t
stop it even if I wanted to. And don’t worry, I’m not a nark, I’ll keep what
you did a secret.”

“What
I
did?”

“Yeah, you got off on me. Your knickers
are sopping, admit it.”

“Dante! I’m warning you!”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?” I replied, my inner pendulum
constantly swinging between anger and remorse.

“When Mr. Hatton fucks you next,” he
smiled, “think of me.”

He slipped past me, brushing his hand over
my hip. Before I knew it, he was gone, leaving me a quivering mess.

I slumped down in his seat and covered my
face, wishing I’d never met him.

13

DANTE

Smiling, I headed down the empty corridor
to my music class, still on a high over Mrs. Hatton’s reaction to my blowjob.
I’d thought she’d yell at me, not
watch
me. I closed my eyes briefly,
remembering what she’d looked like in the restroom. Her eyes had been so big,
her cheeks so red, the arousal on her face undeniable. I wondered whether I should
make a serious play for her, because I
definitely
wanted to play with
her.

Considering it, I pushed open the door to
the music room, stopping at the sound of singing. Phelia was standing in front
of a microphone, belting out a godawful love song to the class, the words so
corny I felt like chundering. She came to an abrupt halt and looked over at me,
appearing annoyed I’d interrupted her pathetic song.

Ignoring her, I headed for one of the
seats in front of the microphone, noticing Mr. Grey also looking annoyed. My
music teacher was sitting off to the side with a pad on his lap. Although he
was in his forties and had a head full of hair the same colour as his name, he
had a pretty-boy face that got the food tech teacher foaming around her
dentures. The amount of times Old Lady Stewart had interrupted Mr. Grey’s
lessons had become a running joke. She always pretended that she had something
really
important to tell Phelia, since the cocksucker was in her class. But we all
knew it was an excuse to see Mr. Grey, who she giggled around like a lovesick
schoolgirl.

“I warned you not to be late today,” Mr.
Grey said. “Now poor Phelia has to restart her song.”

I shrugged. “Blame my English teacher. She
held me back,” I replied, taking the chair next to Mr. Aston’s niece. I twirled
the chair around and sat down, leaning my arms against the back.

Mr. Grey frowned, but instead of making an
issue out of it, like dickweed Aston would have, he turned back to Phelia. “I’m
sorry, please start again.”

She scowled at me. I pursed my lips,
blowing her a kiss. Her scowl morphed into a smile. She patted her hair, then leaned
toward the microphone and started singing her song—the assignment we had due
today. Although she had a gorgeous voice, she sucked at writing, not to mention
her rhyming was lame.

Still singing, Phelia’s gaze shifted to my
right, giving someone a stink eye. I turned to see who was upsetting her,
finding Mr. Aston’s niece staring at me. The redheaded chick quickly dropped
her gaze, pretending to focus on a piece of paper on her lap. I glanced at it,
the title
Losing Love
catching my attention.

I leaned over, whispering into her ear,
“Can I have a look?”

Keeping her gaze down, she handed it over
with a shaky hand. I knew she had a crush on me, which probably pissed off her
uncle no end. Jasper had tried to talk me into fucking her to get back at Mr. Aston,
but I’d refused. The girl was too sweet to mess with. Plus, it wasn’t her fault
her uncle was an arsehole.

I took the sheet of paper out of her hand and
read over the lines instead of listening to Phelia’s crap. To my surprise,
Annabelle’s song wasn’t a sickly-sweet love ballad, like most of the chicks
wrote. Instead, it described the loss of her family. Although it didn’t go into
the reasons why she’d lost them, I could feel the pain in her words. Wondering
what had happened, I looked up at her. She was staring down at her shirt,
picking at the hem like I did when I was nervous.

I held her song out for her to take, whispering,
“It’s really good.”

Her gaze shot up to mine, her expression
surprised. Then a big smile lit up her face, making her look lovely. “Really?” she
asked.

I nodded. “What happened to your family?”

Her smile dropped.

“You don’t hafta tell me if you don’t
wanna,” I whispered, knowing it hurt when people asked about my mother.

“Ma wee brother and parents died in a
boating accident,” she muttered with a much stronger accent than Mr. Aston’s.
“It’s why I live with ma uncle.”

“My mother wuz murdered.”

“I know,” she said. “Ma uncle mentioned
it.”

“I bet he told you to stay away from me.”

She nodded. “But I dinnae listen to him.
He’s a numpty.”

I stifled a laugh. She smiled back at me,
her green eyes sparkling.

“Dante and Annabelle; please be quiet,”
Mr. Grey called out, Phelia having finished her song. “If you want to talk, ask
Phelia a question about her song.”

I zipped my mouth, smirking at Annabelle,
who did the same. For a second, I wondered whether I should ask her out, but decided
against it, thinking she didn’t need my baggage added to hers.

People started asking Phelia questions,
the normal Q and A that happened after every performance. Someone tapped me on
the shoulder, pulling my attention away from her. I glanced back at Mason, a
stoner who I supplied.

“Why haven’t you been answering my
messages?” he whispered. “I’m desperate, man. You can’t leave me hanging.”

“I didn’t get any messages,” I said.

“I sent you three.”

Frowning, I patted my pocket, not finding
my phone. I checked my other pockets, then grabbed my bag and searched through
it, still not finding it.
Shit!

“Dante,” Mr. Grey said. “Put your bag down
and pay attention.”

I dumped my bag on the floor, wondering
whether I’d left my phone at home. I turned my gaze back to Phelia, who was answering
a question about the ‘meaning’ behind her words.

“I wrote the song ’bout someone I love.” Her
gaze moved my way, pretty much letting me know it was about me. “Though, he
doesn’t deserve my love.”

“He doesn’t want it either,” I retorted,
thinking it was pathetic she was writing love songs after giving me one
blowjob.

“Dante!” Mr. Grey said. “Questions only.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Okay, I
have a question for Phelia. The guy in your song,
whoever
he is, sounds
like every chick’s wet dream...”

A few of the students sniggered.

“...but how can you love him when you
hardly know him?”

“Dante,” Mr. Grey interrupted again.
“You’re making this personal.”

“Just stating that she can’t really love
the guy she’s singing about, since she’s basing things on how he looks, not
what’s in here,” I said, tapping my head.

“There’s nothing in her song suggesting
that,” he stated. “She’s singing about her feelings. And since you’re so quick
to criticise other people’s work, how about you go stand up there and sing us
your great masterpiece, oh flawless one,” he said, his English accent dripping
with sarcasm.

“If you say so,” I sniggered, pulling my
poem out of my bag. I pushed to my feet, getting a scowl from Phelia, who
walked past me, handing her song to Mr. Grey.

I put my poem, slash song, on the music
stand and adjusted the microphone higher, since Phelia was a short arse. When
ready, I focused on Mr. Grey, waiting for his signal to begin. He indicated for
the camera guy to start filming. Taking the same cue, I began rapping my poem.
As I finished the third stanza, Mr. Grey called out, “Stop!”

I scowled at him. “Why’d you do that for?”
I asked, wondering whether he was teaching me a lesson for interrupting Phelia.

“You should know why.” He pushed out of
his seat and walked past the other students, stopping next to me. He picked up
my poem and looked down at it, his frown growing as he read it. Once he’d
finished he looked back up, the dude a few inches shorter than me.

“Drug dealing is an inappropriate topic to
sing about,” he said.

“No, it ain’t. Rappers sing ’bout it all
the time. Bone Thugs-n-Harmony’s
1
^st
of tha Month
has dealing
in it, and that song wuz nominated for a fuckin’ Grammy—”

“
Language
, Dante.”

“And what ’bout the Notorious B.I.G? His
Ten Crack Commandments is
numero uno
.”

“Those rappers aren’t fifteen-year-old
high school students.”

“Teenagers sell drugs too,”
like me
,
“hell, even younger kids do,”
like I used to
. “It’s the real world. You
can’t stop it from happening, so you shouldn’t stop me from rapping ’bout it.”

“This is my class and I won’t allow it.”

“Why?” I sneered at him. “Cos you wanna
protect our innocent ears? Get real, Mr. G. All the kids in ’ere have either
bought drugs or have seen someone snort or light up. No matter how much you
want to, you can’t shelter us from the real world. If a fifteen-year-old wants
to buy weed or crack, they
will
find a dealer.”

Mr. Grey’s expression grew concerned. “Is
your song personal?”

I barked out a false laugh that would make
Mr. Aston proud of my acting skills. “Hell, no, I don’t sell drugs.”

The stoner sniggered in the second row. I
shot him a glare that said he wasn’t getting any weed if he didn’t shut the
fuck up. He covered his mouth, still looking amused.

I refocused on Mr. Grey. “I just thought I’d
write ’bout sumpthin’ real, sumpthin’ that people hafta deal with in my hood.”

“I understand what you’re saying and I’m
impressed with your thought processes, but I still cannot film you rapping that
song. I could lose my job.”

“Don’t cha think that’s bein’ a bit overdramatic?”

“Maybe, but my decision remains the same.
Plus, you should be writing about things that relate to you personally.”

“I may not sell drugs,” I lied, “but it
doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me personally. I know what it does to people, to
families. My father used to be a meth head.” I scowled at Mr. Grey, angry he
was making me feel guilty for dealing. Though, meth was the one thing I didn’t
sell,
refused
to go near, that shit having almost destroyed my dad. “Where
do you think he got his supply from? The supermarket?”

Mr. Grey didn’t reply, his expression
turning sad.

Not wanting his sympathy, I pushed on,
determined to get him to accept my rap. “And music shouldn’t ever be censored.”

“But it is. They block out swearwords all
the time on the radio.”

“I only said
fucked up
in my song.”

“And
bullshit
, but that’s not the
issue. Those can be fixed, the topic can’t.”

I waved my hand at Phelia. “So, you’d
prefer I write shitty love songs that make me want to chunder?”

“Hey!” Phelia yelled.

Mr. Grey shook his head at me, looking as
annoyed as Phelia. “That’s not a very nice thing to say about someone’s work,
Dante. How would you like to be told your writing is ‘shitty’?”

“I’d much rather be told, than live in
la-la land, thinking I sound like hot shit instead of horseshit.”

Phelia yelled again.

Not doing it to be spiteful, I made no
apologies. “You should help Phelia make her writing better instead of using it
to put mine down.”

“I’m not putting it down. Your poem is
very good. If it wasn’t about drugs I would’ve given you an excellence. But
unfortunately it is, so you’ll have to redo the assignment. I’ll give you a
week to write another one, that is, with an appropriate topic.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Keep your bad language out of my
classroom, Dante. Unlike other teachers, I won’t tolerate it.”

“You’re not bein’ fair.”

“I am. I’m giving you an extra week to
complete your assignment.”

“I’ve already completed it, which is more
than my other teachers get.”

He exhaled. “Look, I have other students I
need to help, so let’s talk about this after class.”

“Not interested.” Pissed off to the max, I
snatched my poem out of his hand and grabbed my bag. Hooking it over my
shoulder, I headed for the door, pausing at his voice.

“Dante, I’m not doing this to upset you.”

“The result’s still the same.”

I kicked the door open and stormed out of
his class, heading back down the corridor. A door banged behind me, followed by
Mr. Grey calling out for me to stop.

I spun around. “What?!”

He strode up to me and extended his hand.
“Give me your poem.”

“Why? So you can burn it with all the
other shit you censor?”

“Just give it to me.”

I exhaled loudly and held it out. “Take
it, then.”

He took it and walked past me.

I frowned. “Your class is the other way.”

“Follow me,” he said, disappearing through
the door that led to my English class.

I remained where I was, not sure what he
was playing at.

A few seconds later he poked his head out
of the doorway. “Dante, I told you to follow me.”

I swore under my breath and headed for the
room, Mr. Grey holding the door open for me. Except for Mrs. Hatton sitting at
her desk, the classroom was empty. Piles of assignments were stacked in front
of her, this period obviously a free one.