Misconduct (6 page)

“You’re booked solid Monday through Wednesday between the office and meetings.” He slammed the door behind him and followed me through the kitchen and down the hallway, past the living room and media room.

“But Thursday and Friday are calm,” he went on, “and I confirmed your dinner this weekend with Miss McAuliffe. If you’re still up for it,” he added.

“Of course I am.” I pulled off my tie, entering my den and slipping off my jacket.

Tessa McAuliffe was uncomplicated and low-maintenance. She was beautiful, discreet, and good in bed, and while my brother had encouraged me to form a steady relationship with her – or anyone – to help my campaign, I simply wouldn’t be pushed into changing my life for a vote.

Getting into the Senate was important to me, but while I enjoyed Tessa’s company for what it was, I didn’t love her and didn’t have the time to try.

And surprisingly, she never gave the impression she wasn’t okay with that.

She was a producer and anchor for a local morning show, and from day one, there were never any misconceptions about what was expected from either of us. On occasion we met for dinner and then ended the evening in a hotel room. That was it.

Afterward, I’d call on her again when I felt the need. Or she’d call me. It never went beyond that.

I briefly contemplated seeking a serious relationship when I’d first started campaigning. Most voters wanted to see candidates representing good family values in their own homes – spouse and children – but I had been focused on work, and I refused to force my private life.

My son, my unmarried status, my thoughts about what it would be like to possibly have more children someday – once I’d proven I could parent the child I already had, of course – were private matters and no one else’s business. Why the hell did it matter when it came to my ability to serve?

“The kid ate dinner, right?” I asked him, rounding my desk and turning on my computer.

He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed his briefcase onto one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I had Patrick take him to Lebanon Café before the open house.”

Patrick was a fan of falafels and Christian seemed to love anything with hummus. It was the second time in the past week they’d eaten dinner together. I reminded myself to make sure I was home for supper tomorrow night, though. With the fucking impromptu meeting with my father earlier, I’d had Patrick drop Christian off at the open house, telling him I had a city planner’s meeting instead of that I was being grilled by my father.

At thirty-five, I still answered to him, and while as a son I hated it, I could appreciate it as a father. My dad had been a good parent. I only wished the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree.

“All right, let’s get to work.”

I poured myself a drink at the small bar against the wall, and Jay and I spent the next two hours condensing a list of meetings to be set up with the who’s who of political influence in the city. Unfortunately, campaigns fed off donations, and I’d insisted early on using my own money, because I hated asking anyone for anything.

After events and meetings were added to the calendar, I let Jay go home, and I stayed up refining my speech for the Knights of Columbus on Wednesday.

I rubbed the fine stubble on my jaw, wondering if Christian would like to come with me to one of these events. I couldn’t imagine he’d find it interesting, but it might be a way for him to see what I did and to spend time together.

I shook my head, standing up and switching off my lamp.

I wanted too many things.

That was the problem. Too many goals and not enough time.

I’d been an arrogant and irresponsible twenty-year-old when Christian was born. I’d wanted what I’d wanted, and I’d blown off consequences, even after he was born. Now I knew the price of my actions, and it was a matter of having to choose. I knew I couldn’t have everything I wanted, but I still didn’t like making choices.

Leaving the room, I headed upstairs for my bedroom, but stopped, seeing the glow of a lamp coming out of Christian’s cracked door down the hall.

Walking down to his room, I pushed the door open and saw him passed out on his stomach, fully clothed on top of the covers.

I went over and gazed down at him, feeling the same tightening in my chest that I’d felt in the car.

He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in calm, even breaths with his head turned to one side. The two ever-present creases between his eyes were gone, and his black hair had gotten rumpled, now covering his forehead and sitting close to his eyes. I remembered seeing him once as a baby, looking almost exactly the same.

But back then he’d smiled all the time. Now he was always angry.

I sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling a spare blanket up over him.

Staring down, I felt my shoulders relax as I rested my elbows on my knees. “I know this is awkward,” I told him, whispering. “It’s different for both of us, but I want you here.”

He shifted, twisting his head away toward the wall, still sleeping. I reached out to touch him but stopped short and got up instead, leaving the room.

I shook my head as I tore off my clothes and made my way to my bedroom.

Why was it so much easier to be with him when he didn’t know I was there?

I headed a multimillion-dollar corporation. I’d traveled in every hemisphere and climbed a volcano when I was eighteen. I had some of the most intimidating people eating out of the palm of my fucking hand, so why was I afraid of my own kid? I stepped into my bedroom, tossing my shirt and tie onto a chair and slipping off the rest of my clothes.

All of the hardwood surfaces in the room – from the floors to the furniture – shined with the soft glow of the bedside table lamp, and I walked across the ornate area rug, running my hand through my hair and trying to figure out what to do with him.

His mother, despite her animosity toward me, was a good parent, and Christian got along with her. She was strict and provided routine, and that’s what I needed to do for Christian.

And that not only included him but me as well. I needed to be home for meals. Or at least more meals. And I needed to be consistent. Checking his homework, attending his sports games, and staying on top of where he was and what he was doing.

I’d asked for this, after all. I’d fought him and his mother to keep him in the country this year.

I climbed into the shower, rolling my neck under the hot spray of the dual showerheads and letting it relax the tense muscles in my shoulders and back.

Easton.

I should Google her. She was a fucking mystery, and she was teaching my kid.

I grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over my chest and arms, thinking about how she’d behaved six months ago compared to tonight. Different but very much the same. In control, sexy, but with a distance I couldn’t put my finger on. It was almost as if she were a reflection in a mirror. There but not really real.

Almost as if she were still wearing that mask.

I should’ve kissed her that night. I should’ve looked down into those blue eyes and watched her lose control when I shut her up and made her melt like I wanted to.

What I wouldn’t give to strip off those prim clothes I’d seen tonight, pin her to the bed, and…

I sucked in a breath, slamming my hand into the marble wall to support myself.

Shit.
 

I swallowed, gasping for breath as I smoothed my wet hand over the top of my head.

Looking down, I saw the stretched skin of my cock, begging for release as it pulsed and throbbed.

Slamming the knob to the left, I breathed hard under the sudden rush of cold water, clenching my teeth in frustration.

Easton Bradbury was off-limits.

And don’t forget it.
 

“
O
kay, so…” I started, slowly stalking between the rows of desks and smiling at the printout of a Facebook post in my hand. “The question posed in the Facebook group yesterday that received the most responses was ‘Why did men ever stop wearing tights? I would’ve rocked that,’ ” I read to the class.

The freshman boys broke out in snorts while the girls giggled, remembering the lengthy conversation some of them had carried on last night.

Marcus Matthews popped up and jumped onto his chair, holding his hands up in the air and smiling as he soaked in the praise and taking credit for his question last night.

I shook my head, amused. “Sit down,” I ordered, shooting my pointed finger from him to the chair. “Now.”

He laughed, but quickly jumped down and took his seat, the rest of the class still voicing their amusement behind him.

During the three weeks since school had started, we’d moved quickly through the curriculum and had been studying the independence of America, the founding fathers, and the Revolutionary War, hence the men-in-tights question.

Out of all the activities I’d planned to engage them, the social media requirements were the most successful. The parents had all received a lengthy letter after the first day, explaining the rhyme and reason to social media in the classroom. The students – per school rule – were already required to have laptops, which made it even more convenient to jump online anytime we wanted without the need for a computer lab. And it fit in perfectly with my goal of educating students to live in the digital world.

Social media was a necessary evil.

There were certainly dangers, and there had been a lot of apprehension from parents at first, but once I’d called and e-mailed to smooth over any resistance, all was well. They eventually understood my position, and most parents found great enjoyment in seeing the class’s interactions online, given that they weren’t able to see the students’ engagement in the classroom.

Parents and students were invited to join our private Facebook group, where I posted assignments, discussion questions, and pictures of what happened in class or videos of presentations. Over the days and weeks, participation grew exponentially as parents were able to take a bigger role in their children’s education and see not only their children’s work but others’ as well.

Not that students should be compared, but I found it a great motivator when parents saw the work of students who held the bar higher.

We also had Twitter accounts and a Twitter board in the classroom, as well as private Pinterest boards, where students and parents could brainstorm and collectively gather research.

Only a few parents were still uncooperative – I glanced at Christian Marek, seeing him slouch at his desk – so I did my best to make accommodations.

But I knew those students still felt left out. I had considered the possibility of abandoning the entire method, because I didn’t want anyone hurt, but once I saw the participation and benefit, I refused. I’d simply have to get through to the parents.

I allowed myself a small smile, grinning at Marcus’s pride in himself. But the silence off to the back where Christian sat was almost more deafening than the students’ excitement.

He stared at his laptop screen, looking half angry and half bored. I couldn’t figure him out. I knew he had friends. I’d seen him eating with other kids at lunch and playing on the field, laughing and joking.

But in the classroom – or my classroom, anyway – it was like he wasn’t even here. He performed well on take-home assignments, but he never participated in discussions and he did poorly on quizzes and tests. Anything that took place in the classroom was unsuccessful.

I’d tried talking to him, but I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I was going to have to come to terms with the options I was left with to help him.

Like calling his father, which I should’ve already done but hadn’t found the guts.

I turned back to the class, refocusing my attention. “Congratulations, Mr. Matthews.” I nodded, teasing Marcus. “While your question was meant to be funny – no doubt – it did spark some interesting comments about the history of attire.”

I rounded the front of the classroom and leaned back on my desk. “Since fashion is a very popular topic, we also delved into the history of women’s fashion, and that led to a debate on feminism,” I reminded them. “Now, of course, fashion wasn’t a topic I was supposed to teach you this year.” I smiled. “But you were critically thinking and you saw how topics like these are interrelated. You were discussing, comparing, and contrasting…” I sighed, eyeing them with amusement before I continued. “And it certainly wasn’t boring to read your responses, so good job.”

The class cheered, and Marcus shouted out, “So do we get Song of the Week?” He lifted his eyebrows in expectation.

“When your team has earned fifty points,” I reiterated the rule. I rewarded them individually, but I also had a team incentive, which allowed their group to pick one song to play in class once they’d reached fifty points, if all work was turned in and they demonstrated good citizenship online and in the classroom.

I walked to the Smart Board – today’s version of a chalkboard – and picked up a stylus, tapping the board to activate it. The projector fed the image from my computer, and all of the students’ numbers appeared on the board, ready to receive their responses.

“Don’t forget” – I glanced up as I replaced the stylus – “group five is sending current-events tweets before seven p.m. this evening. Once reviewed, I will retweet them for you,” I told them, seeing Christian talking to the girl next to him out of the corner of my eye.

“You are to pick one, read and reflect, and turn in your one-page, typed assignment – twelve-point font, Times New Roman, not Courier New,” I specified, knowing their trick of using a bigger font, “and have that to me by Friday. Any questions?”

Mumbles in the negative sounded from around the room, and I nodded. “Okay, grab your responders. Pop quiz.”

“I have a question.” I heard someone speak up. “When are we going to use the textbooks?”

I looked up, seeing Christian’s eyes on me as the other students switched on their remotelike devices, which I used to record their multiple-choice answers instead of paper and pencil.

I stood up straight, inquiring, “Would you prefer to use the textbooks?”

But Marcus blurted out a response instead. “No,” he answered, turning his head to Christian. “Dude, shut up.”

Christian cocked an eyebrow, keeping cool as he ignored his classmate. “The textbooks are provided by the school. They have the curriculum we’re supposed to learn, right?” he asked almost as an accusation.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“So why aren’t we using them?” he pressed.

I inhaled a long, slow breath, careful to keep my expression even.

Kids will challenge us, test boundaries, and throw us curveballs, I was told. Keep your cool, treat every kid like they’re your own, and never let them see you falter. Christian certainly challenged me on all those levels.

Not only was he not performing up to his potential in class, but he also challenged me on occasion. Whether it be tardiness, flippant behavior, or distracting other students, he seemed to have a penchant for disobedience.

And as much as he tried to hinder me from doing my job, the person I was outside of the classroom couldn’t help but admire him a little.

I knew from experience that misbehavior came from a need for control when you lacked it in other venues. And while I sympathized with him – and whatever he wasn’t getting at home or elsewhere – he clearly thought he could get away with it here.

“That’s a good question,” I told him, walking around my desk. “Why do you think we don’t use the textbooks?”

He laughed to himself and then pinned me with a look. “What I think is that you give me more questions when I just want answers.”

I stiffened, my smile falling as students in the room either tried to cover their laughs with their hands or stared between Christian and me wide-eyed and waiting for whatever would happen next.

Christian had a self-satisfied look on his face, and my blood heated with the challenge.

I swallowed and spoke calmly. “Everyone open up to page fifty-six.”

“Ugh.” Marcus groaned. “Nice job,” he shot over his shoulder, not looking at Christian.

Everyone dug their books out of the compartments under their desks, and the sounds of pages flipping and students grumbling filled the classroom.

I picked up my teacher’s manual and cleared my throat.

“Okay, this chapter covers the contributions of Patrick Henry, Benjamin Franklin, and Betsy Ross,” I went on. “I’d like you to read —”

“But we already learned about them!” Jordan Burrows, the girl sitting next to Christian, called out.

I pinched my eyebrows together, cocking my head and feigning ignorance. “Did we?”

Another student jumped in. “We did the book study in groups two weeks ago and the virtual museums,” he reminded me.

“Oh.” I played along. “Okay, pardon me,” I said, moving on. “Turn to page sixty-eight. This chapter covers the presidencies of George Washington through Thomas Jefferson —”

“We already learned that, too.” Kat Robichaux laughed from my right. “You uploaded our campaign posters to Pinterest.”

I looked up at Christian, who hopefully was getting the idea.

We had been learning everything in the textbook, even though we hadn’t learned it from there. Students absorbed more when they sought knowledge themselves and put it to practice by creating a product instead of merely reading from a single text.

“Ah,” I replied. “I remember now.”

Christian shifted in his seat, knowing full well the point had been made.

“So,” I went on, “on page seventy-nine, there are twenty questions to help us prepare for our unit test tomorrow. We can spend the rest of class answering them silently on paper, or we can take ten minutes with the responders and then move on to start researching slave ships online.”

“Responders,” the students cut in without hesitation.

“We could take a vote,” I chirped, not really trying to be fair but to drive the point home for someone in particular.

“Responders!” the students repeated, this time louder.

The class picked up their remotelike devices. For the next ten minutes, I displayed multiple-choice questions on the board, giving them about a minute to answer on their devices, and then, once their responses had been recorded in the program, I displayed the bar graph showing how many students answered a certain way.

Afterward, we jumped on our laptops while I continued to project on the Smart Board as we dived into the next unit with some questions and research online before the end of class.

As the students walked out, moving on to their next class, I watched Christian inching slowly along and peering out the window as he made his way out the door.

“Christian,” I called as he passed by my desk.

He stopped and looked at me like he usually did. With boredom.

“Your questions are important,” I assured him. “And very welcome in this class. But I do expect you to use manners.”

He remained silent, his eyes staring off to the side. I knew he wasn’t a bad kid, and he was certainly smart, but the curtain over his eyes lifted very rarely. When it did, I saw the kid inside. When the curtain was drawn, he was unapproachable.

“Where is your phone?” I asked. “You need it for class, and you haven’t had it.”

He’d also failed to return my battery.

Not a big deal, since we used the same brand of phone, and I was getting by with his, but the students were allowed to use their phones in class – kept in the corner of their desks on silent and facedown – to access their calculators, random number generators for our activities, and other apps I’d found useful for engagement.

I’d found the more you allowed them their technology, the less they tried to sneak it. And since all of these students carried phones, I didn’t worry about anyone feeling left out.

“If there’s a problem, I can speak to your father,” I offered, knowing Christian probably wouldn’t choose to be without his phone himself.

But Christian broke out in a smirk, meeting my eyes. “You will speak to him.” He jerked his chin toward the window. “Sooner than you think.”

And he turned, walking out and letting the heavy wooden door slam shut behind him.

What had that meant?

I twisted my head toward the window, and stood up to head over to the window to see what he’d been referring to.

But I stopped, hearing the intercom beep.

“Ms. Bradbury?” Principal Shaw’s voice called.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Would you please come to my office?” he asked, the fake nicety in his voice turning me off. “And bring your lesson plans, as well.”

I raised my eyebrows, my legs going a little weak.

“Uh,” I breathed out. “Of course.”

It didn’t matter if you were fourteen or twenty-three, a student, a teacher, or a parent – you still got nauseous when the principal called you down.

And he wanted my lesson plans? Why? They were online. He could see them anytime he wanted to.

I groaned, slipping off my jacket and tossing it over my chair – which left me in my slim-fitting black pants and long-sleeved gray blouse. I grabbed the hard-copy plans we were instructed to keep on our desk in case of an impromptu observation.

Thankfully, I had second period free, so I wouldn’t have students for close to another hour.

I walked down the hall and through the front office, past the students either waiting for the nurse or waiting to be disciplined. My heels fell silent as soon as they hit the carpet in the hallway.

I tucked the binder under my arm and knocked twice on Mr. Shaw’s door.

“Come in,” he called.

I took in a deep breath, turned the knob, and entered, nodding at Mr. Shaw with a small smile as he stood up from behind his desk.

Turning to close the door, I immediately halted, spotting Tyler Marek standing in the back of the office.