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I stand back as the bell rings for class, and she jumps, grabbing her books and hustling to the counter to get them checked out before she heads to her lesson.
I should also leave for my class, but my gaze stays pinned to her as she goes, checking out the curve of her delicious arse. The one I absolutely need to stay away from.
God help me.
CHAPTERTEN
CONNER
Little changesover the next few weeks. I’m still drinking more than I should, staying home every night, staying chaste except in my X-rated thoughts. Creighton asks me for random updates, bizarre runs of information, and I provide, remaining unsure what his ultimate game involves.
I’m still utterly obsessed with an eighteen-year-old girl. The girl who makes my current Thursday morning class a frustration and an utter delight.
All I can see of Paisley is the crossed ankles stretching in front of her desk. The rest of her is hidden behind the friend with the busted nose.
The injury has healed over the past month or more from a giant bandage to a splint to just the supportive tape she wears now. Soon that’ll be gone, and I’ll have had a longer relationship with Marnie’s dressings than I have with the focus of my obsession.
Paisley shifts in her seat, and I get a sliver of her elbow in view, then it disappears behind the mass of strawberry blonde curls and grim smile of the friend determined to block me.
At first, I just thought she was tiny enough to be hidden by accident. Then I noticed half the glances in her direction were met with a furious glare from Marnie.
Not that it deters me. I can’t stop looking. Half my life now revolves around the tiny glimpses, the occasional bumping into each other in the corridor.
Pathetic.
But better than the other half of my job.
Just this week, Creighton demanded half a dozen student profiles, which I compiled from my staff access without trouble. Then he requested an after-hours pathway into the facility. After spending a few days working out how to duplicate a guest pass so I could steal one, he wondered aloud if there was a way that didn’t involve technology.
My temper grows with each abrupt shift in direction.
Yesterday, I’d linked up every internal camera feed in the school to Creighton’s computer, duplicating the work I’d already done to my phone. I thought we might finally be getting down to brass tacks, but all he used it for was to chide me for rolling my eyes while I was on the call.
Now he can see me whenever he wants through the system, I installed for him. Fan-bloody-tastic. I’ve never been so aware of cameras in my life.
For his latest request, I’m working on extracting relevant information from the janitor, whose fondness for weed occasionally leads to some major indiscretions, and his apprentice, Xander, a kid with a giant scar on the bottom half of his face and a chip on his shoulder sized to match.
I’ve already given up on the security guards as sources. Half of them are less clued in than me.
“Harrison,” I call out in my best warning tone as the jovial boy trades a joke with the kid in the next row over.
“It was to do with English, sir,” he immediately answers back. “I promise.”
“Using the English language to tell jokes doesn’t count,” I reply, earning a few titters from the class.
I try to concentrate but my thoughts roll away from lessons and school security systems and return to the delicate ankles of the girl I crave. The girl I lie awake in bed hungering for.
After my discovery at the mall that she’s prepping other kids’ essays, I should have scolded her for the breach in ethics, convinced her to stop.
Instead, I used it to discover another treasure trove of her writing. Once I clicked into the way she disguises her voice to pretend another person is the author, it was easy to find the essays she’s prepared for others.
The words and phrases might be different, but the cadence and the organisation of her thoughts is the same. Absolutely intoxicating.
If I were a halfway decent teacher, I would have already made enquiries, trying to open doors for her, to break her out of the stultifying experience of high school so she can soar.
But if anything, I’m a thoroughlyindecent teacher. With everything else going on, there’s not enough hours in the day.
I shift in my seat, wishing I could fast forward to the day when Creighton’s satisfied. When I could choose to date some inappropriately young teenager if I wanted to. Throw my career straight into the bin.
