Eighteen (18) (7 page)

As soon as I’m out of Sunday’s car
my mind immediately goes back to last night with Mateo. It’s like a switch flips. But his motorcycle isn’t in the parking lot, and I realize I have another class to go to before his.

I sit through science with my leg bouncing the entire time. Science isn’t a class. It’s a room with about eight kids who have a textbook and do tests. You can do them all open-book and get a C, or do the work and study and go for an A. I opt for open-book and complete four tests in two hours.

The teacher, who never even introduces himself to me, shoots me looks each time I turn one in. “Trying to get them all done in one day, Drake?”

“Yes,” I say. “I have very little control over my life at the moment. I take it where I can get it.”

He leaves me alone after test three.

When the class is finally dismissed I am consumed with thoughts of Mateo. We didn’t even set up a time last night. What if he’s not here? Where am I supposed to go? Should I go to the office and ask?

But in the end, he is sitting at that little table desk in room twenty-one. He’s not wearing a suit. Jesus fuck. His plain white t-shirt stretches across his chest just like the dress shirt did yesterday. And his bare arms are covered in tattoos. His dark hair is neither long nor short, and he’s got a little curl that falls down onto his forehead.

I want very badly to touch that little curl of hair.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I am?”

He nods up to the clock, which reads five minutes after five.

“Was I supposed to be here at five? Because you never said yesterday.”

“Here’s your book,” he says, leaning around to grab a textbook and dropping it on the table with a loud thump. “And here,” he says, repeating the action, “is your workbook. You have homework every night. We meet at five and stay until seven. On the weekends—”

“Weekends?”

He looks up at me, those green eyes burning. He’s pissed about something, I realize. “We did agree on every day?”

“But you never said anything about the weekends.”

“We can meet at my house on the weekends.”

“What?”

“My
house
, Shannon. Do you prefer mornings or mornings?”

I don’t know what to say. This guy, he’s like a bulldozer who runs me over. “I don’t think I can do weekends.”

“You can,” he says, nodding. “Now sit down and tell me what you know about integers.” His legs stretch out under the table. They scissor between mine. My eyes dart up to look at him. “Problem?” he asks.

I blink.

“No? Then read the first paragraph on page eight and tell me what you think it means.”

I look down at my book.

His legs move against mine. Rubbing back and forth. What the fuck?

“Read it, Shannon.”

I swallow and begin. I read for whole minutes about numbers on a number line. Shit any second grader should know, but authors feel compelled to repeat at the beginning of each textbook. I stop at the end of the page and look up.

He smiles. “Keep going.”

“This is dumb.”

“How so?”

“The other class I’m taking just lets me take tests. Can’t I just take tests?”

“The other teacher in that other class doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“And you do?”

“I’m here, right?”

“He’s there, right?”

“He didn’t give you a jacket to wear in the rain last night. He didn’t pick you up, take you somewhere dry, and buy you a cab ride home.”

“No, but that’s not how most teachers behave, Mr.—”

“Mateo.”

I just stare at him. What the fuck is his game?

“Say it,” he says. “Say my name.”

I swallow down the confusion. “Mateo?”

He sighs, letting out a long breath of air. And then he leans over the table, grabs my face, and kisses me.

I am so stunned, I don’t move. But his mouth demands something. Cooperation, or interaction, or submission, I’m not sure.

But I do kiss him back, I’m very sure of that.

He fists my hair, making me stand up, and then his lips break free as he walks around the table, keeping hold of my hair while he does it.

I look over my shoulder, my heart beating fast and my breathing coming out in small gasps. “The door is open,” I whisper, almost in a panic.

He ignores me, just grabs my breast, pulls me towards him, threads his fingers up my scalp so he can fist my hair again, and takes what he wants. My mouth.

I give in. I feel helpless. Weightless. Powerless.

When he breaks the kiss, I feel like I might pass out.

“Where were you last night?”

“What?” I ask, taken by surprise.

“Where were you last night, Shannon? I know you weren’t home.”

“How do you know that?”

He leans down to kiss me again, but this time his teeth nip the sensitive skin.

I let out a small whimper. “The door,” I say, trying to pull away. “Someone will see us!”

“Everyone leaves at five.” He kisses me again and then pulls back, staring down at me like I’ve done something wrong. “Where were you last night?”

“At a friend’s house.”

He pushes me backwards, trying to make me lie back on the desk. It’s slow and not at all harsh. But he makes it clear that I
will
be bending backwards for him. I give in and let my back rest on the table.

He unbuckles his belt.

“What are you doing?” I ask, really in a panic.

“Fucking you,” he says. And in my head I imagine that he says it mean, or rude, or condescending. But he doesn’t. He says it like it’s already happened.

“You can’t fuck me.”

“I can if you don’t stop me.” He grabs my hand and places it over the hard bulge under his jeans, rubbing, moving my fingers back and forth along his shaft. His eyes narrow with pleasure and then he lets go, but I continue.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, his attention back to the task of setting himself free. And a moment later his cock springs out. Long and thick, the head swollen and the tip ready. He pulls a condom out of his back pocket and rolls it down his shaft.

I gulp air.

“Unbutton your jeans, Shannon.”

I do. I unbutton them. I unzip them before he even asks. And then I lift my hips up so he can drag them down my thighs. He leaves them on, bunched up at my knees, and then he lifts my legs up towards my shoulders, dips his head under and licks my pussy.

I almost come immediately.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good,” he whispers back. “Because I don’t have the patience for that.”

He sucks on me, teasing my clit, swirling it around in little circles. It’s so intense my hand flies down to his head, almost ready to push him off me.

But he stops for a moment, and says, “Be still. And don’t come yet.”

I moan. I don’t know if I can control it. I’ve never had a problem achieving an orgasm, but I swear, I don’t ever remember being so turned on before. It’s the door, I think. The open door. I imagine myself walking by, getting a glimpse of his muscled body taking me this way on a makeshift desk in the middle of a classroom.

Wetness pools between my legs and he hums, “Mmmmm,” as his tongue does that dance.

He swipes over my clit and I grab his hair. Handfuls of it in my fists. I don’t know what comes over me except that I’m consumed with need. I push on his head, urging him to go deeper. And then his fingers are there and… and…

I just explode.

I’m not a screamer, I swear, but I scream.

He laughs, pulls back, pumps his dick a few times, and then enters me. And as rough as it was a few seconds ago, that’s how soft it is now. Long, slow movements. In and out, the friction of his cock spreading me. I just don’t know what to do except lie there and enjoy it.

He leans over the table and I can smell him. He smells like motorcycle oil, and leather, and sweat, and desire. He smells like me too. He smells like a man.

“I’m gonna come on that shirt,” he says. “Because it’s not yours.”

And before I can say no, he does. He pulls out, rips the condom off, and comes all over the t-shirt that isn’t even mine.

We look at each other for a few seconds and then he lets out a breath and pulls away.

I swallow down the realization of what we just did as he tucks his dick away and buckles his pants. He combs his hand over his messed-up hair and then looks me in the eye as I lie there on the desk, my legs still spread open before him. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a month.”

It takes several seconds for that sentence to register. “What?”

He takes my hand and pulls me up, then hikes my jeans back up my legs. “OK, now that we got that out of the way, we still gotta work. Go clean up and get your ass back here. You have three minutes.”

“What?”

“Now, Shannon.”

Chapter Nine

My phone dings in my backpack
while I’m in the bathroom.

Sunday: What time?

Jesus Christ. I managed to stay away from boys for a whole month and then in one day, I’ve got two guys. It’s not my fault, and I should not lead Sunday on, but I need to get out of here. No way I’m staying.

Shannon: Now.

Sunday: On my way.

I can’t even go back in that classroom. I cannot believe I just let Mateo fuck me like that. Slut.

Two knocks on the door, and then Mateo peeks his head in. “Let’s go.”

I shake my head at him. “No. My boyfriend is coming to get me.”

He stares at me. Expressionless. Several seconds flash by. “You do not have a boyfriend.”

I nod, slowly. “I do. And… and… I don’t care if I fail or if I never graduate. I’m not coming back here. I’m gonna do those science tests at home this weekend and be done with this.”

He considers this for a moment. His lips purse a little and his eyes briefly fall to the floor, then recover and find mine again. “You should’ve said no if you didn’t want to.”

“I shouldn’t have had to say no. You’re a fucking teacher.”

“I’m not really a teacher, Shannon. I’m a private contractor. And you never said no.”

“I never said yes.”

“You think I raped you?”

“No,” I say, swallowing. I don’t really think that. I’m pretty sure girls who come like that aren’t getting raped. But this guy has bad written all over him. “You’ve been watching me? How long? A month, you said? You didn’t even know me until yesterday. So just what the fuck?”

He rubs his scratchy beard and I have to close my eyes as I imagine how that felt nestled between my legs. “You need a day to process? Fine. But you better be here tomorrow.”

He turns to leave, but I stop him with, “Or what?”

He doesn’t turn back. Just lets the door close in his absence.

I stay in the bathroom for a few more minutes, trying to plan my escape from the building. But it’s dumb. Mateo is gone. Probably walked straight out of the building.

And he lied. There
are
people here. A janitor, one class still going. A lady in the office. Jesus Christ. Did any of them hear me? See us?

I feel a little pool of wetness between my legs at that thought.

Outside it’s cool and dark, but only because it’s January. I hate the weather here in Southern California. Hate it. I can’t even explain how three hundred and sixty days of sunshine pisses me off. And that rain yesterday just fucked with my head. Made me homesick or something.

Sunday. He was a good find though.

Mateo. He was… well, a good fuck, for sure.

I spot Sunday’s black Acura and walk out into the parking lot to meet him. It’s only then that I realize Mateo is sitting in a white Mustang with double blue racing stripes running down the hood a few rows away. He’s fucking watching me.

And who drives a car like that? I mean, come on.