Misconduct

I tore open the bag of microwave popcorn, a steam cloud full of the scent of butter and salt bursting forth as I shook the contents out into a large glass bowl.

“Always” by Saliva played on the iPod, and I bobbed my head to the music. Tossing the bag away, I grabbed two Coronas out of the refrigerator.

“All right. Your windows are all secure,” my brother called as he pounded down the stairs. “I’m surprised you don’t have shutters, though. I thought you’d think of that, Miss Self-Sufficient.”

I shook my head, handing him a beer. “Well, consider it my next project.”

He grabbed the bottle opener out of the drawer and popped the top. “There’s no way you’re hanging out the windows to install them yourself, Easton. You’re hiring someone to do that job.”

I shook more salt onto the popcorn. “I was going to.”

“No, you weren’t,” he deadpanned.

I laughed to myself. No, I wasn’t.

Installing shutters sounded fun. Of course, I’d have little knowledge of what I was doing, and by the time I was done, the house would probably look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, but it’d be something new to learn.

And it would get Jack off my back.

I think it honestly bugged him that I didn’t need his help more, which was why he reveled in situations such as these. It gave him the opportunity to hover even when I’d assured him the house was ready for a storm. Windows and doors secure, batteries and flashlights stocked in the kitchen drawer, and food and water shelved in the pantry if need be. That was about all we could do.

The ominous clouds this morning had turned into a light rain this afternoon, and after considering the forecast for the next forty-eight hours, most schools in the parish had decided to close. E-mails and letters were sent home to parents, and I posted in the Facebook groups, reminding students that the chapter test was still set for Friday and to continue with their reading to prepare.

I’d come home, changed into some pajama shorts and my Loyola Wolf Pack T-shirt, and then downloaded some scary movies. Jack had rushed over to make sure I was safe.

“Maybe I should stay here,” he offered, leaning against the counter behind me.

I picked two cloth napkins out of the drawer and then popped the top on my Corona. “Jack, when was I born?” I asked, not looking at him.

“November seventh.”

“What year?” I pressed.

“Nineteen ninety-one.”

“Which makes me how old?” I ran my hand over the napkin, smoothing the folded rectangle as I waited.

“Twenty-three.” He sighed.

I turned and looked at him, his contrite expression telling me he understood everything I didn’t say. He didn’t need to hold my hand during a rainstorm or worry that I’d cross paths with a black cat.

“I’m twenty-three,” I reiterated. “I don’t worry that you can take care of yourself.”

“I haven’t gone through what you’ve gone through,” he said, sounding defensive but sad. “You were sixteen when he started . . .”

I looked away, swallowing the lump blocking my airway.

“When he started following you, texting you, terrorizing you . . .” Jack went on, looking pained.

I shook my head. “Jack,” I warned, wanting him to stop.

“You never knew what was coming.” He squeezed the neck of the bottle in his hands. “You never knew whether he was going to show up in—”

“Jack, stop,” I gritted out, cutting him off.

“I know you have guilt about Avery and our parents . . . about that night—”

I snapped my eyes up to his. “Enough!” I ordered.

He held my eyes, both of us frozen in the kitchen as the sound of fat raindrops pounded the roof and windows.

His expression hardened, turning from sad to challenging, and he set down his beer and powered into the living room, going straight for the bookshelf.

My arms heated with fear, and my throbbing heart pounded harder as I watched him reach onto one of the shelves and unearth the small wooden chest nestled there.

He turned around, gesturing to the locked box.

“What are you keeping in here?” he demanded.

But I clamped my jaw shut. He was invading my privacy, and I refused to give in.

“Open it,” he ordered, knowing that I had the key.

I tipped my chin up and tried to calm my racing heart. “No,” I answered calmly.

“Easton.” His jaw flexed. “Open it.”

I looked away. How the hell had he known something was in there?

My eyes burned, and I blinked long and hard. I can’t open the box. I wouldn’t. It hadn’t been opened in five years, and this was none of my brother’s business.

“No.”

He stared at me, shaking his head, probably not knowing what to do.

He walked over, speaking quietly. “You keep the past too close. You’re not moving on.” His eyes searched my face, almost pleading. “I don’t know what’s in there, but I know it’s too heavy a weight for you to carry around with you. You’re twenty-three. You say you’re a woman, but you still live within the lines as if you were a child.” He dropped his eyes, whispering in a shaky voice, “You don’t step out of the box, Easton.”

I let out a breath and turned, walking back to my popcorn. “That’s not true.”

“Do you have any friends?” he challenged, following me. “Who was the last person to make you laugh? When was the last time you went to bed with someone more than once?”

I ground my teeth together, picking up the snacks and walking back to the living room.

But Jack kept pressing, “Has anyone other than me ever been in this apartment?” he asked.

I slammed my food down on the coffee table and picked up the remote.

“I’m tired of seeing you alone,” he burst out. “I’m ready to burn this fucking place down and everything in it, so you’re forced to leave the safety of your little shell!”

“Ugh!” I grabbed a handful of popcorn and flung it at him, the popped kernels hitting his face.

He jerked back, struck dumb by what I’d done.

Dropping his gaze, he arched an eyebrow, looking down at the white puffs on the floor.

I snorted, trying to contain my laugh, and he couldn’t keep from smiling either, as he looked up at me.

“Ask me how old you are again,” he grumbled. “I think I’d like to change my answer.”

He brushed off crumbs from his shirt as I kept laughing.

But then we both jerked, a knock on the front door catching our attention.

Jack looked to me, a question in his eyes, but I shrugged. I had no idea who would be knocking on my door. He was right, after all. I had no friends.

I walked into the hallway, my bare feet quiet against the hardwood floor.

“Who is it?” I called, leaning up on my tiptoes to see into the peephole.

And my stomach instantly dropped. I fell away from the door, landing back on the heels of my feet.

What the hell?

“Easton?” he called through the door. “It’s Tyler Marek.”

I pinched my eyebrows together and shot up, peeping through the hole again.

How does he know where I live?

He was still dressed in the same suit from today, although his tie was loosened and his hair was wet, probably due to the rain. His head was cast downward as he waited, and I dropped to my feet again, realizing I was breathing a mile a minute.

I couldn’t have a parent from school at my house. What did he think he was doing?

I unlocked the dead bolts and chain but opened the door only enough to fit my body between it and the frame.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. “This is my home.”

He leaned a hand against the door frame and raised his eyebrows, a cocky smile dancing across his face.

“I made you come on a desk this morning,” he pointed out. “I can’t stop by your house?”

A snort that turned into a quiet laugh escaped from behind me, and I peeked over my shoulder to see my brother leaning against the frame between the living room and the entryway, smiling.

“Is someone here?” Tyler stood up straight, narrowing his eyes on me.

I inhaled a deep breath. “What do you want?” I asked, getting to the point.

He pushed his wet hair back over the top of his forehead and stuck his other hand in his pocket, all of a sudden looking nervous.

He cleared his throat, raising his hesitant gaze up to mine. “I want to apologize.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry, Mr. Marek. This morning is our little secret. Just go away.”

I moved to close the door, but he shot out his hand, keeping it open.

“Easton,” he called out, sounding unusually gentle. “I should never have been rough with you today, and I’m sorry.”

Rough with me?

I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. “Why?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you sorry?” I demanded, forgetting my brother standing nearby.

Tyler Marek was never gentle, and I’d never given him the impression that I had a problem with that. Why did he suddenly feel bad?

He opened his mouth, looking like he wasn’t sure what to say. “I . . .” He cleared his throat again. “I just don’t feel like I’ve treated you as well as you should be treated,” he admitted.

I stood there, frozen in place and staring at him suspiciously. What the hell was going on?

When had I ever given him the impression that I couldn’t take what he dished out? And now he was worried about me?

“All right.” My brother grabbed the door and opened it completely, breaking me out of my daze. “I’m out.” He leaned down to kiss my cheek. “Be safe and . . .” He looked at Tyler as he slipped past both of us and through the door. “We’ll meet another time.”

He jogged down the steps, his dark green T-shirt slowly turning black in the rain as he ran for his Jeep.

Tyler looked after him and then turned to me, cocking his head. “I’m not a jealous man, but for you I might make an exception.”

Huh?

And then I realized he’d never met my brother. He thought Jack was a lover.

“No need to be jealous,” I reassured him. “You’re the parent of a student and nothing more.”

He looked away, shaking his head at my audacity.

But then his expression cleared and he looked at me pointedly. “Why didn’t you tell me you played tennis professionally?” he asked.

My face fell. “You had me investigated?” I accused.

“No. I know how to Google, thank you,” he retorted. “You’re as much of a mystery as my son, so I looked you up.”

My hand fell off the door handle, and I searched my brain for a way to deter him without making him more curious.

He stepped through the door, and I backed away, letting him in.

“There wasn’t so much on Easton Bradbury, the Loyola student or teacher,” he told me, closing the door behind him. “But there were thousands of hits and pictures on you as an athlete.” He inched closer to me, not giving up. “Tennis player, close family, promising future that crashed and burned when . . .” He trailed off, and I looked up, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes.

I smoothed my hand down my T-shirt and shorts, steeling my spine.

Now he knew everything. Nearly everything.

There were articles, video footage, interviews . . . My rise had been highly publicized, and so had my fall.

When my parents and sister died on that rainy night in a vicious accident, I’d lost everything. My routine, the world as I knew it, and my desire to play.

Who was I if I wasn’t the star in their lives, and why the hell did I want to play tennis anymore anyway?

It was my fault they’d been driving that night, and when it was time to get back on the court, my will to play was gone. Even now, on the rare occasion I tried, my game had gone to shit.

My magnificent exit and display of temper were forever digitized. I’d forfeited the match and walked off the court, pushing cameras and microphones out of my face as I left for the last time.

“Easton, I’m sorry.” Marek reached out and touched my cheek

But I pushed his hands away and stepped back. “Stop apologizing.”

How dared he act like I needed to be put back together?

“Don’t handle me, Tyler,” I growled. “I’m tired of everyone hovering and sticking their noses in. You don’t matter,” I shot out bitterly, “so stop trying to push your way in.”

I charged into the living room, but he grabbed my arm and swung me back around, pulling me to him. I crashed against his chest, the rain on his clothes like ice against my arms and legs, and my breath caught.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I don’t matter. I don’t matter so much that there was no way in hell you could say no to me today,” he charged. “And I’d be willing to bet I’m the first man you can’t say no to, because it’s the same way for me.”

He bent his head down to mine, our noses brushing. “You’re strong and proud, resilient and capable. I can see that.” His voice was thick, like he was feeling more than he was saying. “I value those qualities in a person, Easton. You don’t give anyone an inch, and it’s like looking into a mirror, because it’s the same independence I value.” He looked at me like a dare and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer and whispering, “And when I touch you, I can’t explain what I feel, but I know you’re feeling me, too.”

I closed my eyes, inhaling his sweet scent of cologne and leather—probably from his car—and even the cold rain on his clothes couldn’t cool me down now.

I let my head fall to the side against his chest as I spoke, closing my eyes. “Everyone watched me all the time.” I trembled. “The cameras, the crowd, my parents . . . Everything I did was under a microscope.”

I slipped my arms inside his jacket and wrapped them around his waist.

“If my lips were tight, then I was angry,” I told him, reminiscing about the commentators’ assumptions as they watched me on the court. “If I hesitated, I was scared. If I didn’t smile at the camera, I was a spoilsport . . .”

I dipped my nose into his shirt, inhaling a long breath before I looked up at him. “Everything was judged.” I shrugged. “And when my parents and younger sister died in a car accident, it only got worse. Everyone was in my face.”

I pulled away, turning around and crossing my arms over my chest.

“So I started over,” I told him. “Jack and I moved to New Orleans, went to college, and let the past go.”

I turned and locked eyes with him. The room looked so small with him in it, and I realized that he was the first person, other than my brother, who’d been in my apartment. Droplets of rain spilled down his temple and neck, and I licked my lips, trying to keep the libido that was beginning to heat low in my stomach chained.

I cleared my throat. “But after five years, my brother still tries to hold my hand. He still worries about me. Am I happy? Do I smile enough?” I approached Tyler, dropping my arms to my sides. “He forgets that I’m a grown woman.”

I slipped my hand against his, resting it there lightly. “But you don’t,” I whispered, seeing his fist curl, holding mine inside it.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly, his breath fanning across my forehead. “I should’ve treated you—”

I cut him off, looking up. “I like how you are with me. You’re not careful with me. You see more of me than anybody else does.”

I pressed my body against his, arching up on my toes and leaning toward his lips. His breath hitched, and I slipped my hands inside his jacket again and gripped his waist.

“Don’t be careful with me, Tyler,” I whispered, catching his bottom lip, sucking it quickly and then letting it go. “Please,” I pleaded.

And he groaned, closing his eyes and diving in.

He held me to his body and captured my mouth, moving over my lips slow but hard. He tasted cool and fresh, like water, but then he pulled away and dove for my neck.

I gasped, his hot breath on my skin causing chills to spread over my body as he kissed and bit me gently.

“Don’t be careful,” I reminded him in a whimper as I reached up and circled his neck with my arms, holding him to me.

He picked me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, kissing him with full force on the mouth.

“Your clothes are all wet,” I rushed out between kisses, breathless. “Get them off.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, nibbling at my mouth.

“Do what?” I played, licking and biting his jaw, hearing him suck in a breath. “Fuck like animals in my bed upstairs?”

His fingers dug into the skin of my ass, and I went to town with my tongue. I attacked his neck, his jaw, and his lips, squeezing my thighs around him.

“Fuck.” He stilled, holding me tight. “Just wait. Hold on,” he gasped, dropping me back down to my feet and letting me go.

“What’s wrong?” My voice trembled. I was so fucking turned on, and he’d just stopped.

His shoulders slumped slightly, and his face was twisted as he breathed in and out. “Shit, that’s painful,” he cursed, the bulge in his pants hard and ready.

What was he waiting for?

“What’s wrong? Is it Christian?” I asked gently, feeling guilty.

He shook his head. “No,” he choked out. “He’s away for a couple of days.” He jerked his chin to the stairs. “Go get dressed.”

“Why?”

I curled my toes into the floor, my clit pounding like my heartbeat during a run. I didn’t want to leave. What the hell?

“Now,” he ordered, his voice hard and pissed off. “I’m taking you to dinner. Go get dressed.”