Misconduct

Life never follows your plan.

The truth was you could spend countless hours planning and preparing, and the only thing you could count on once you’d got your plan set was that it would be the one way things won’t happen.

This year was supposed to be about Christian—creating a relationship with him—and my future in the Senate.

But all it takes is for one woman to look up at you, her eyes saying everything that she doesn’t want to admit out loud, and all of a sudden she’s all you’re thinking about.

Easton was jealous last weekend, not only of Tessa McAuliffe, but also of having to hide our relationship. She would never admit it, because she was too damn stubborn, but she wanted more.

The relief in her eyes and the weak little smile she gave me when I admitted how much I wanted her was tearing me up, because what I’d told her was the truth, and I didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

I was thirty-five and had never been married, so why shouldn’t I want something permanent? She was young, beautiful, smart, and well educated, and while her temper was a pain in the ass, she was also a force to be reckoned with. I liked the idea of having her at my side in life.

Patrick opened the door, and I stepped out of the car, buttoning my black pin-striped suit coat as I headed over the grass to the sidelines of the soccer field.

I’d missed the reminder for his soccer game on my calendar and had zoned out when the secretary had reminded me during a meeting, because I was trying to multitask too much at once, so now I was late.

As usual.

My father had always attended my games, on time, ready to cheer for me. He was also a busy man—and still was—but he’d managed to show up anyway.

He would tell me that I just didn’t know how to prioritize, and that came from selfishness. I wanted what I wanted, and I didn’t want to give up one thing in order to have another.

He never went easy on me and still regularly called me out as if I were twenty-two again and not a grown man who had built a worldwide corporation without any of his money giving me a head start.

I had big shoes to fill, and I wasn’t measuring up.

Never measuring up.

“Tyler!”

I heard a stern voice cut through the cheers and whistles, and I turned, immediately inhaling a ragged breath.

Speak of the devil . . .

Tipping up my chin, thankful that my undoubtedly annoyed expression was covered by my sunglasses, I walked down the sidelines to a group of parents who had set up a couple of tents with a small buffet spread out and cushioned lawn chairs. Aluminum trays were heated by candles underneath, and an array of salads and other sides adorned the tables. Balloons and tablecloths in the black and forest-green school colors blew in the light wind, and women toasted with their mimosas, trying not spill anything on their designer scarves.

I strode up and scanned the field for Christian, seeing him stop the ball with his chest and then begin to kick it in the opposite direction before passing it off. He wore black and green face paint like a mask over his eyes, and I smiled, seeing that he was the only one daring to be different.

I wondered what had made him do that.

“So how are you doing, old man?”

I laughed, shaking my head. Matthew Marek was thirty years my senior, and yet he’d called me “old man” since the first day I’d stepped into his classroom fourteen years ago.

As my professor, my father didn’t treat me with any gentler a hand at school than he had at home. He’d said I must be ancient to have such a cynical world view, and I’d absolutely hated having him as my teacher.

Until, of course, nearly the last week of the course, when his advice had changed my life forever.

I understood then that, despite the old money and Marek family expectations, my father had been right to follow his calling to academics. He knew a thing or two.

I pushed my sunglasses back up the bridge of my nose. “I’ll let you know once this day is over.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, they all start melting together eventually,” he agreed. “And judging by that gray”—he ruffled my hair—“I’d say time is moving faster than you.”

“Bite me,” I grumbled, smoothing my hair back down. “My hair is as black as yours was thirty years ago.”

He snorted, crossing his arms over his chest, and I did the same, both of us watching Christian run back and forth on the field.

I quickly scanned the rest of the area, finally spotting Easton at the small concession stand, filling containers of popcorn.

I lingered on her, and the temptation of her bright smile as she exchanged snacks for cash was absolutely brutal. I bit the corner of my mouth to stifle the desire running hot in my veins.

She looked gorgeous. Her tan pants were tight, not inappropriate but definitely becoming, and showed off her form very well. She wore a long-sleeved white blouse buttoned up to the neck, and her wavy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

I loved her teacher clothes. They gave a false impression of innocence and purity, like her lips weren’t wrapped around my cock two nights ago when I’d called her at midnight, telling her to open her front door for me.

“I checked out your recent developments with Marek Industries,” my father said. “Hiring local workers in the East with the same pay they would’ve made in the United States. That’s positive change, Tyler.”

I continued watching Christian as I spoke. “And in the meantime, my competitors are paying slave wages in those third-world countries and spending three times less.”

“How much money does a man need?” he shot back.

I glanced over at Easton, her hands on her hips, chatting and smiling with Ms. Meyer.

“There’s always more world to conquer,” I said in a low voice. “Always things I want. There’s never enough money.”

“And that pursuit will take you away from everything that truly matters,” he retorted.

He was always the teacher and never just my father. I faced the field again, barely seeing Christian as I braced myself.

“You still fight that battle,” he went on. “Your conscience knows what’s right, Tyler, but your ego keeps telling you to advance. It’s not about speed. It’s about direction. Clarify your goals.”

“I want everything.” I turned back, shooting him a cocky grin. “Those are my goals.”

“But it’s not about getting what you want.” He shook his head. “It’s about wanting what you get. In the end, is it going to make you happier? Was it worth it?” he asked. “You’ve got a thriving corporation that employs thousands of people worldwide. You’ve got a healthy son, but for some reason you’re not content.”

I gritted my teeth, seeing Christian score a goal, but it didn’t even register, and I didn’t clap.

Why did everyone want to fuck with me?

I managed real estate and relationships, dealt with banks and thousands of workers around the world, and I did a damn good job.

And I had noble intentions for the Senate. It wasn’t some scheme to further my business interests.

I did my best. I managed everything to the best of my ability.

I just wanted more. I didn’t want to have to live up to anyone else’s expectations but my own.

“I just . . .” I searched for the words. “After all these years, I still feel like . . . like I haven’t proven anything. I still feel like I’m twenty-two.”

My father loved me, and I always knew that. But I guess, growing up, I resented the teacher in him. The one who couldn’t say “Good job” or “That’s okay; you did your best.” No, the teacher always expected better, and after years of giving up and giving in to mediocrity, because I was afraid to fail him, he’d finally told me off in front of the whole class when I was forced to have him as a professor during my last year in college.

He’d handed me my ass and told me that success is earned and not given. A winner fights for it, and I’d been a loser.

“I know I can do better,” I said, my voice turning thick.

I felt his eyes on me and then his hand on my shoulder. “Which is exactly why you have my vote if you ever get there,” he added.

He turned and walked back to his friends, who’d probably invited him, knowing his grandson was playing today, but then I heard his voice again.

“Tyler, try to remember one thing,” he insisted, and I kept my back to him but listened.

“You can do a couple things and succeed,” he pointed out, “or you can try to do fifteen things and fail at all of them. Clarify your goals. What are you doing? And why are you doing it?”

And then I heard him walk away, leaving me with his rhetorical questions.

He was right. Every ounce of me knew that something had to give, and I’d end up having to let go of something I very much wanted just so everything else in my life didn’t suffer. I was one person with limited hours in a day and too much desire to fill it.

And too many people with their own expectations.

I wanted Marek Industries to grow, because it was something I had built from scratch. I was proud of the work we did, and I could see its effect around the globe in the structures it had built and the people it employed.

I wanted to sit in a Senate seat in Washington, D.C., because I’d read too much and seen too much to trust anyone other than myself. I couldn’t watch the news or read a paper without thinking about what I would’ve done differently.

I wanted my son to smile at me and joke around with me. I wanted to tell him stories about me as a kid, for us to watch football games together, and I wanted to teach him things. I had loved him since the first time I saw him, and I was desperate for him to know that my decisions weren’t his fault. They were mine, and I regretted them.

And I wanted Easton.

I wanted to see her in a beautiful dress across a crowded room, knowing those clothes would be on my bedroom floor later that night.

I wanted some of these things more than others, but I didn’t want to give up any of them.

“Ms. Bradbury!” someone behind me called. “Please have a seat.”

I glanced to my side, my arms still crossed over my chest, and spotted Easton handing a rack of water bottles to one of the coach’s assistants.

She twisted back around, sparing me a quick glance before turning to the small party where my father sat.

“Oh, no, thank you,” she replied to Principal Shaw. “I’m just making the rounds. Helping out . . .”

She stood not five feet away, but it felt like much closer. I could feel her heat, and my whole body buzzed with awareness of her.

She looked at me again, nodding politely. “Mr. Marek,” she greeted.

I nodded to her, seeing Shaw rise from his chair out of the corner of my eye.

“Ms. Bradbury has been doing wonderful things in her class,” he told everyone. “We were all very hesitant at first, but it’s working phenomenally. Mr. Marek,” he called from behind, “Christian seems to be doing well. You must be pleased.”

I twisted my head, eyeing Easton through my sunglasses but speaking to Shaw. “Yes, I’m very happy with her.” I tried to keep the smirk off my face. “She has a very hands-on approach.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and she glanced at Shaw, looking half nervous and half enraged.

I snorted and focused back on the soccer match, letting my lips curl into a smile. But before I could enjoy that one too much, she retaliated, getting me back.

“And Mr. Marek has graciously accepted an invitation to speak on Career Day,” she announced, sounding unusually cheerful. “I may have dangled a nice lunch to sweeten the deal,” she told Shaw.

What the fuck?

“Well”—he laughed—“we beg, borrow, and bribe around here. Easton’s catching on quickly.”

Yeah, no shit. Career Day?

“Ms. Bradbury,” I cut in, “may I speak to you about Christian’s project, please?”

She nodded, her small smile saying she knew she’d gotten me, and I walked down the sideline with her following behind me.

Stopping just far enough that we were clear of listening ears, I faced the soccer match and spoke to her at my side.

“I meant what I said.” I spoke softly. “I am very happy with you, you know? Especially with the way I woke up the other night.”

I caught her sharp intake of breath and saw her thumbnail go immediately between her teeth. She was trying to hide a smile, and I found it endearing and frustrating. Hiding what was going on between us had an element of excitement and turned out to be great foreplay for later. We were living two different relationships, so it kept things constantly new and unpredictable.

However, I wanted us to have liberties that we couldn’t have in public. I wanted her to smile at me and to be able to reach out and touch her.

But I couldn’t, and that part was getting increasingly annoying.

“I want to do that to you again,” she said softly, her breathy voice turning me on.

“Do you?” I played, remembering waking up and how my hands instantly went into her hair as she took me into her mouth.

“Yes,” she responded, dropping her voice to a small whisper. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

And I looked down at her, seeing her eyes locked on the match and an innocent blush cross her cheeks as she bit her nail.

Damn. I blinked, turning back toward the field, realizing I didn’t know when I was going to see her again. And I needed her soon.

“Good job!”

She suddenly broke out in a yell, clapping her hands, and I shifted, refocusing my attention and seeing Christian and his teammates celebrating on the field.

I let out a frustrated sigh and clapped as well, feeling like a bigger asshole because I’d missed it.

You can do a couple things and succeed, or you can try to do fifteen things and fail at all of them.

My son’s black hair was shiny with sweat, and I smiled, seeing him enjoying the win with his friends.

“Mr. Marek, may we have a picture?” a woman asked, holding some high-tech digital camera.

I nodded, but Easton pulled out of the picture before she took the shot, adjusting her ponytail and trying to act nonchalant.

The woman shrugged with a polite smile and walked off.

I narrowed my eyes, studying Easton. “It’s just a friendly shot for the school paper,” I assured her, having seen the woman’s school sweatshirt. “A parent and teacher talking isn’t scandal-worthy, Easton.”

She didn’t make eye contact or say anything, and before I could pry, she smiled widely, seeing Christian heading over.

“Hey, great job,” she exclaimed. “You did amazing.”

“Yes, you did great,” I told him, seeing his smile fall when he looked at me.

“Were you even watching?” he shot back.

I dropped my eyes, thankfully disguised behind my glasses. I didn’t think he’d realized I was here, since I’d been late. But he’d known, and he’d seen that I was, again, distracted.

Inhaling a deep breath, I lifted my chin. “I thought we could go to Sucré for some dessert before dinner,” I suggested. “To celebrate.”

He shook his head, brushing me off. “I’m going to hang out with friends.”

“Your friends can wait an hour,” I pressed. “If Ms. Bradbury came, would you be less bored?”

No sense in coddling him with a softer approach. My son wasn’t an idiot, and I wouldn’t try to play him like one.

“Thanks, but I need to get home,” Easton interrupted.

“Christian?” I prompted him for an answer, ignoring Easton’s protest.

He looked between his teacher and me, seeming to consider it. “Can I drive?” he asked.

The corner of my mouth lifted, actually liking his boldness.

When I didn’t answer right away, Easton stepped in, urging me.

“No, he can’t drive,” she answered for me. “Ty—” She stopped and corrected herself. “Mr. Marek, he doesn’t have a permit,” she pointed out.

I eyed Christian. “Have you ever driven before?”

“Not in the city but yes.”

I nodded, giving in.

He turned and started walking for the parking lot, and I followed, glancing behind me to a baffled Easton.

“Get in the car,” I ordered. “Don’t act like you’re thinking about saying no.”

—

“No, wait,” Easton burst out. “That’s a light!”

“Shit,” Christian cursed, and I shot him a glare. I didn’t have a huge problem with swearing, and I didn’t mind him working me a little, but I didn’t want him taking advantage. Fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t swear, especially not in front of their parents.

He’d stopped at the red light, just like a pro, but after a second he started to go through it, thinking it was just a stop sign.

“It’s confusing,” he barked. “There are so many stop signs, it throws me off when they have a light instead.”

“And half the streets are only one way,” Easton added from the backseat.

“And land in the wrong pothole,” I contributed, “you could total your car. My car,” I corrected, shooting him a warning look. “So be careful.”

After Patrick had tossed the keys to Christian, we’d offered to give him a lift home for the night, but he’d said he’d rather take the streetcar, so the three of us just left together. Christian drove with me in the passenger seat, and Easton sat in the rear-facing seats behind Christian. All I had to do was look to my left and there she was.

“So many issues with the streets.” She shook her head. “I don’t suppose fixing any of these problems are on your platform.”

“No, but I can get you in touch with the mayor,” I replied, resting my elbow over the back of the seat.

The light turned, and Christian pulled forward, cruising the streets easily but looking a little nervous. I suspected he’d driven four-wheelers out in the country but never a big SUV on busy city streets. Thankfully, we were off the main avenues and coasting through the quieter, less-populated neighborhoods.

I glanced back at Easton, seeing her watching the road as well. With both of us, we were probably making Christian more nervous, but she was right. He was only fourteen, and if he got into trouble, he might find being Tyler Marek’s son finally somewhat useful.

“There’s no parking.” He scowled, scanning the space in front of the shop.

Easton pointed to the right, just a few yards ahead. “Right there.”

Christian jerked the wheel right and slid into the spot between two cars, his front end in the clear, but the back end still sticking out into the street. I turned away, not wanting him to see my smile at his attempt at parallel parking.

This was a big car. For a space that tight, he’d have to back into it.

“Shit,” he cursed again. “This is ridiculous.”

I shook my head. “First, stop swearing,” I ordered. “And second, you’ve lived here your entire life. Haven’t you ever paid attention to your mother while she drove, or were you too busy playing on your phone?”

“And what do you do while Patrick carts you around town?” Easton blurted out.

Christian laughed, and I pursed my lips in annoyance.

“Hey, how’d you know our chauffeur’s name?” Christian asked, looking at Easton through the rearview mirror.

I caught Easton’s eye as she clearly realized her mistake.

But she blew it off and changed the subject. Looking out the back window and seeing a car go past, she instructed Christian, “Okay, back out and pull up right next to the car ahead of you.”

Christian gripped the wheel, looking worried. But he followed her instructions. After backing out, he pulled ahead and lined up with the car next to him.

“Okay—” Easton started, but Christian cut her off.

“But I’m in the driving lane,” he protested. “There are people behind me waiting.”

“And they’ll wait,” she assured him patiently.

I watched as she instructed him and led him back into the parking space with ease, and I was surprised by how different she was with him from with me.

Not that our interactions were bad, but she was almost never calm. With him, she stayed controlled and relaxed, easing his nerves about the cars behind us waiting to get by and stopping and correcting him without sounding brusque.

She was good with him and slid into her role with ease. I smiled to myself.

It was funny that I liked her being so calm with him while hoping she would never be that way with me.

Christian put the car in park and broke out in a huge smile. “I did it.”

I shot Easton an appreciative glance and turned to Christian.

“Good job.”

He shut off the car and took the keys out of the ignition. “Thanks,” he said quietly, handing me the keys.

He didn’t look at me, but it was a start.

After entering the shop and picking out a selection of macaroons and homemade marshmallows, we took our desserts and drinks to a small table perfect for watching clientele breezing in and out of the quiet atmosphere.

Easton had picked out some gelato, and I loosened my tie, drinking some coffee.

“I got an e-mail from your mother today,” Easton told Christian, and I narrowed my eyes, not realizing that they were in contact.

I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it. Of course Brynne would be in touch with all of Christian’s teachers to make sure she stayed abreast of his progress. I guess I had figured Christian was keeping her informed during their weekly video chats.

“She’s thrilled with your progress,” Easton went on. “We thought you might like to test for an AP class.”

Advanced placement?

“Really?” Christian’s eyebrows pinched together as he thought about it.

“Like an honors class?” I asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “It would be with a different teacher and the class would be even more demanding, but I think he’d be challenged more.”

“You’re pretty challenging,” Christian retorted, and Easton laughed.

“Well,” she inched out. “It’s also about being with peers that challenge you. Braddock Autenberry has an excellent student body full of students that excel, but there are always a few who could use a more stimulating environment.”

Why hadn’t I known about this? I’d stayed up on all the social media groups and e-mails from all of his teachers. I may have been late to his soccer game, but I wasn’t dropping the ball on everything.

And it’s not like I hadn’t seen Easton. She’d had opportunities to tell me.

“Thanks.” Christian shook his head. “But I like being in classes with my friends, and I like your class. The activities are fun.”

She tried to hide her smile, but I could tell she liked hearing that. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted Christian out of her class.

Of course, if she were no longer his teacher, our relationship wouldn’t be such an issue, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice a good teacher that made him happy just so I could have what I wanted. If I had to make the sacrifice, I would. But not him.

“You could just take the test,” Easton offered. “To see where you stand in case you change your mind.”

“Does my mom want that?” he asked.

Easton’s eye flashed to mine for a moment, and I knew she felt awkward talking about Christian’s mother as if my thoughts didn’t matter.

But I guess Christian had every right to trust his mother’s opinion more than mine.

“Your mother wants to see you reach your full potential,” she answered.

Christian sat silently for a moment, staring at the table as he chewed his macaroon.

And then he looked to me, his eyes thoughtful. “What do you want me to do?”

My eyebrows shot up, and I opened my mouth but nothing came out. He’d just asked for my opinion.

I searched my brain, trying to think of what he wanted me to say. Or maybe what my father would say.

This was an opportunity to not fail, so I struggled with what to tell him, because I honestly didn’t feel strongly about the advanced-placement class. He’d have a bright future no matter what classes he took. I only wanted him to know that he was free to choose, and in my eyes, I’d be okay with either choice.

I locked eyes with his and spoke with certainty. “I want you to do what you want,” I told him. “Just remember, you’re the only one who has to live with the decision, so whatever you decide, just have a good reason for it.”

And that was all I wanted him to learn. Bad decisions were made from either not thinking them through or for the wrong reason. As long as he had a good one, he’d feel confident about his choice.

He let out a breath and looked to his teacher. “I’ll do the test,” he told her. “Just to see what it says.”

—

“You did a good job today,” I told Christian, grabbing a couple of Gatorades out of the refrigerator and tossing him one.

I’d driven us back to the school tonight and watched while Easton got safely into her car and drove away. Bringing her home with me had been all too tempting, but it was impossible.

“Would you like to practice again tomorrow?” I asked. “Driving, I mean.”

He twisted the cap and turned away, heading out of the kitchen. “I’ll be busy.”

Shit.

He was pulling away again.

I rounded the island. “You forgot you hated me for a little while today,” I reminded him.

He stopped and turned around, his eyes faltering as if he was trying hard to stay angry because his pride wouldn’t let him forgive.

“Come on,” I urged, brushing past him down the hallway.

I pushed open the door to the den, hearing his reluctant steps behind me, and I headed straight for the cue rack, taking out two sticks.

He hovered in the doorway, slowly inching inside as he took in the large, darkened room. I’d told him my den was the only place off-limits when he moved in. It was two rooms joined, my office and the billiards room, great for entertaining and bullshitting with guests over cognac and cigars.

But I rarely used it, since I almost never had people to my home; last Sunday’s luncheon was the first time in more than a year.

I racked the balls and then grabbed the pool cues and handed one to Christian.

He reached, looking annoyed as he took the stick.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled.

“It’s what I know,” I told him. “My father always talked to me over a pool table.”

Men and women were different creatures. My mother, before she passed away when I was fifteen, tried sitting with me and talking to me about her being sick. About the fact that she wasn’t getting better and she wouldn’t be around for very much longer.

She kept wanting me to react, to say something or tell her what I was feeling and how she could help, and all I remembered was feeling uncomfortable, like the walls were closing in.

So my father took me into his den, and we played pool. After a while, we started to talk, and by the end of the night, I’d let it all out. My anger and my sadness . . . how she couldn’t die and how much I loved her.

In that respect, I knew my son. Forcing him to sit down and bare whatever was in his head would be just as uncomfortable for him as it would be for me.

We needed to be moving and doing something. We needed to have an activity together without the pressure of conversation. The communication would eventually come.

I started off, taking the first shot, the fourteen in the corner pocket and then the twelve, but missing.

Christian pocketed the one and then the six. I was pleasantly surprised and relieved. He wouldn’t want me trying to teach him how to play right now, so I was glad he could hold his own.

Moving around the table, he shot the four but missed the two.

We took turns, and he won the first game. When I asked him if he wanted to play another, he simply nodded and stood silently by as I racked the balls again.

“I know why you’re mad at me,” I started after he took the first shot.

“You don’t know anything,” he threw back, taking the next shot and missing. And then standing back upright, he scowled at me. “Why do you even care all of a sudden?”

I bowed down to the table, aiming for the nine. “I always cared.”

“You have a crap way of showing it,” he shot out.

I pocketed the shot and moved around the table to take aim at the eleven. “You’re right.”

I’d helped support him, and I’d wanted to do good by him, but he was ultimately right. I couldn’t argue that, and I didn’t want to.

It was his turn to shoot, but he didn’t budge. “It was kinda fun tonight, you know? We could’ve had that all the time. Why were you never around?”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I was a dumb kid, Christian. I didn’t want to care about anyone but myself. And then later, I didn’t want to fail, so I didn’t even try.”

“You still failed.”

“No. I just haven’t done it right yet,” I replied, a small smile playing on my lips.

He rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t leaving.

I wanted to be a man Christian could look up to. I wanted to show him that mistakes can be made but so can amends. I would never not look him in the eye again, and I would never let him think he wasn’t wanted.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me or act like the past fourteen years didn’t happen,” I told him.

He pinned me with stern eyes. “Then what do you want?”

For a moment I blinked long and hard, hating that question. I knew exactly what I wanted, but I feared there would come a day when I had to admit I couldn’t have all of it.

But he was first. He always had to be first. Before anything or anyone.

He may not want me as a father, and he may never forgive me, but what I had right here, right now, I had to keep.

I looked at him and spoke gently. “I want to play pool.”