Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (15 page)

She glanced up at me, not looking happy I
was here. “What’s he done now?” she said to Mr. Grey.

“Dante wants to read you something,” he
replied.

“No I don’t,” I grunted.
“I
don’t wanna read you anything. I’m
outta
—”

“You do if you want me to reconsider my
opinion,” Mr. Grey interrupted, holding out my poem for me to take.

“Bullshit,” I said, realising he was going
to use Mrs. Hatton to back him up. “You just want her to prove you’re right.”

“What did I say about swearing?”

“In your class, not hers.”

Mr. Grey sighed. “Look, Dante. I know how
much you like my class and I don’t want this disagreement to fester into
something that stops you from coming to it.”

“Then, accept my work. You said it wuz
excellent.”

“Except for the topic. And since you
apparently think I’m an old prude who should accept whatever you write, I
thought I’d ask the opinion of a younger teacher. Mrs. Hatton’s also qualified to
judge poems. If she thinks it’s inappropriate like I do, then you have to write
another poem or song, but if she doesn’t, I promise I’ll send it to external
assessment and mark it as an excellence on my side.”

“No way!” I snapped. “You teachers all
stick together.”

“Fine, don’t read it, it’s no skin off my
nose,” Mrs. Hatton said, looking back down at the stack of papers in front of her.
“Mr. Grey’s probably right, since you do have a habit of saying inappropriate
things.”

“He’s
not
right.”

“He is until I hear differently,” she
said, not taking her eyes off the papers. She picked up a pen, totally ignoring
me.

I looked over at Mr. Grey, who was
smirking as though she was one-upping me, which was more bullshit. Only a short
time ago I had her all hot and flustered, yet he thought she was beating me?

“Okay, I’ll rap it.”

Still looking at her papers, she muttered,
“This isn’t a music class, so if you want me to listen, read it.” She ticked
something on the top page.

I grimaced, wondering whether she was
feigning disinterest to get back at me for earlier.

She glanced up at me with a raised
eyebrow. “Well? Either read it or leave. Unlike you, I’m busy.”

Mr. Grey snorted out a laugh.

I threw him a glare, then stalked over to
Mrs. Hatton, slamming the poem down on her desk. “Since you’re an English
teacher,
you
should read it.”

Sighing, she picked up the piece of paper
and focused on it. All sign of annoyance left her expression a second later,
her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. She stopped reading and held it out for
me to take, no way having finished it that fast.

“You think it’s inappropriate too, don’t
cha?” I said, annoyed.

“No, I want to hear it in your voice.”

“Why?” I said, taking it.

“It’s an urban poem, which typically is
better spoken than read. Plus, your accent will add to its authenticity.”

“S’pose
so.” Without looking at my poem, I started reciting it:

Unhappily-Ever-After

If you sleep with me don’t dream, it will end in a
happily-ever-after

That’s a bullshit way of thinking, wanting, deceiving

Yourself
into believing, I’m your Hollywood hero

Cos
I’m not

I’m the bad boy, a fucked up hood

A thug, an addictive drug, who will get you hooked, booked

Locked
up for good

I’ll prey on your afflictions, increasing your addictions

To synthetic sensations, elations, jubilations

A
heroin salutation

I deal in angel dust, not angel wings

Cos I’m always absent when the choir sings

Instead,
my congregation is laden with degenerate desires, not spires

Only pariahs kneel at the pews, praying for me to quench their
burning fires

To douse their agony, by feeding their demons with weed, speed

Not a
creed

But I
can’t be their saviour

I may look like a heavenly epiphany, a cupid with a bow

But my arrows are filled with poison, laying tracks across their
arm, causing them harm

Not a
much needed calm

Cos
I’m
el Diablo

A fallen angel, an acid shot so pure, yet unsure, incredibly
immature

A stupid boy, a toy, who didn’t realise that I sold

Unhappily-ever-afters

Once I’d finished, Mrs. Hatton turned to
look at Mr. Grey. “Sorry, Harry, I don’t agree with you. You should accept
Dante’s poem.”

My eyes widened in surprise.

Mr. Grey also looked surprised. He pushed
away from the desk he’d been leaning against. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with urban
poetry.”

“He’s fifteen.” Mr. Grey indicated to me.
“It’s inappropriate for him to be writing about drugs.”

“He’s writing about it, not selling it.”

“If he wrote about sex you wouldn’t be
saying the same thing.”

“Well, he didn’t. And I didn’t see
anything inflammatory in his words. If anything, his poem was about drugs being
bad. You should at least account for that. And, another thing, I wish Dante would
hand me assignments like this, because since I’ve been here he’s not handed in
one piece of work. How many assignments has he done for you?”

Mr. Grey glanced at me with a frown, then
looked back at Mrs. Hatton. “All of them.”

“And you’re criticising something that is
really good?”

Mr. Grey opened his mouth, then clamped it
shut, looking like he didn’t know how to respond.

I grinned, thinking this was classic.

She continued talking, “I think you came
to the wrong person, Harry. I absolutely lapped up
The Outsiders
when I
was eleven, a story that the author wrote when she was a teenager. Now, if S.
E. Hinton had a teacher who told her it was inappropriate to write about gangs,
then maybe she wouldn’t have published it and won all those awards as well as
made a lot of readers and moviegoers happy.”

Mr. Grey remained quiet, his cheeks
reddening.

She turned her attention to me. “Well
done, Dante. Looks like you’ll be getting an excellence, as promised by Mr.
Grey.”

“Cool,” I said, extremely happy. “Thanks,
miss.”

“You won’t be thanking me the next time
you’re in my class, because now I know what you’re capable of I won’t let you
slack.”

My grin widened. “I’ll do whatever you want
now.”

She frowned at me, probably thinking I was
slipping in a sexual innuendo. She returned her focus to Mr. Grey. “I’m sorry I
couldn’t agree with you, I hope you’re not too angry.”

He shook his head. “I asked for your
opinion and you gave it to me. It may not have been what I’d expected, or even
wanted, but I will stick to my word. Thank you for your help and sorry to have
bothered you.” He headed for me, taking the paper out of my hand. “Let’s go
record your assignment,” he said.

I followed him to the door, glancing back
at Mrs. Hatton. She had her head down, concentrating on the papers in front of
her. I stopped for a moment in the doorway, thinking she was kind of cool.

She looked up at me. “What?”

“You’re not just sayin’ all of this cos of
earlier?” I said, hoping she wasn’t buttering me up so I’d keep my mouth shut.

“No, I meant every word I said.”

I smiled at her, not a grin or an arrogant
smirk, just a genuine smile, the woman making me feel good. “Cool, I’m happy you
liked my poem. And thanks for backing me up.”

She nodded, then refocused on her papers.
“Close the door behind you,” she said, looking like she was trying hard not to
smile.

“No worries,” I said, doing what she’d
asked.

Now happy, I followed Mr. Grey back to
class. The students sat up when we entered. He indicated for me to take the
microphone. To everyone’s surprise, I started rapping my poem. Once I’d
finished, the class cheered and clapped, Mr. Aston’s niece the loudest. Annabelle’s
bright smile lit up her whole face. But it wasn’t her smile I was thinking
about. It was Mrs. Hatton’s.

14

CLARA

I tried to get Dante out of my head by
going to the gym after work, exercising off my conflicting emotions. But when I
started imagining him getting blown, I quickly went and had a cold shower, my dirty
mind taking me places I knew I couldn’t go. Though, in all truth he didn’t look
his age—he truly didn’t. He looked at least eighteen, his height also adding to
the impression, the boy so much taller than me. If anything, he could easily pass
off as a twenty-one-year-old. I could imagine him walking past bouncers without
even being asked for his I.D. I also imagined him going to clubs to lure older
women into bed, getting them to do whatever he wanted, the boy’s smouldering good
looks and sheer confidence again unusual for someone of his age. I had
never
met a boy with that much confidence, or even the audacity to say half the
things he’d said to me. It made me want to demand his birth certificate, because
he couldn’t possibly be fifteen. Someone had to be playing a practical joke on
me, fucking with my head—as well as my body.

I dried off and got dressed, the cold
shower not helping. It felt as though my mind was trapping me in a continual
replay, because I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me during
the blowjob
or
how he’d touched my hip as he’d walked past me in the
classroom
or
the way his eyes had smouldered as he recited his poem. And
last, but not least, that lovely smile he’d given me afterwards. It had been so
genuine and happy, showing a sweet side of him I didn’t know he had; a side
that had melted me.

But despite that, my mind returned to his
blowjob as I drove home, as well as the words he’d said after coming,
‘Did’ja
like that?’
Even though I had at the time, I didn’t now, because it filled
me with guilt, my desire for him unnatural. Again, how could he not be older?
He had to be, because there was no way he wasn’t. I wasn’t the unnatural one,
he
was. He was provoking me, mind-fucking me, and I wanted it to stop!

My eyes went wide, the car in front of me
having braked, my thoughts about Dante causing a momentary lapse in
concentration. I slammed on my brakes and jolted forward. The seatbelt whipped
tight across my chest, yanking me back. My front bumper stopped within an inch
of the other car, the narrow miss leaving me shaken, but also intensely relieved
I hadn’t hit it. I ran a hand across my dashboard, saying a quick prayer of
thanks to the good Lord for sparing my car and an insurance claim.

A
horn blasted behind me, making me jump in my seat. The car I’d almost smashed
into had moved off, leaving me blocking a long line of vehicles. I resumed driving
home, wishing I could redo the day.

***

I got out of my Volkswagen and plugged my
earphones in. I turned the music up on my disc player, blasting my eardrums
with Jewel’s music in an attempt to force all thought of Dante out of my head.
I grabbed my gym bag and nudged my car door shut, locking up. I headed for the
front door of my small three-bedroom brick and tile home, a place I’d lived in
for almost two months since returning from England. I let myself in and dumped my
bag and keys on a side table. Framed photos of the sea and sport events lined
the lemon-coloured walls of the lounge, my husband an avid photographer. We’d
had everything shipped, thinking Markus was going to follow me soon after, but
nothing seemed to be going right, one problem after another holding up his
documentation. It made me want to scream, because right now I desperately
needed him, our separation causing my mind to fixate on Dante instead of the
man I’d married.

I cut through the lounge and passage,
entering my bedroom, which was swathed in beige, a colour I knew Markus
wouldn’t like. He loved bright colours, so bright you needed sunglasses to look
at them. I remembered the day I’d caught him painting our London apartment in
orange and blue. He’d sneakily started it while I’d been substituting at a school
in Sutton. But I’d come home early, finding a partially painted apartment and a
very guilty-looking Markus. After I’d barked out a surprised response, he’d
become openly defiant. Though, his expression had quickly changed from a macho ‘
This
is how it’s gonna be, woman’
to
‘Please let me keep it, Mummy’
when
he thought I was going to make him repaint it.

I opened the bathroom door, almost jumping
out of my skin. Markus was standing in the shower, the naked sight before me
taking me completely by surprise. I blinked, not believing what I was seeing,
since he was supposed to be in London.

I removed my earplugs, exchanging Jewel’s
voice for Markus’s rendition of a Joe Cocker song. He had his back to me and
was rinsing his hair, the diluted shampoo running down his powerful back. Although
steam was fogging up the shower cubicle, I could still see his impressive body.
He had a swimmer’s physique, with wide shoulders, a tapered waist, and long
legs, which wasn’t surprising considering he
was
a swimmer. He was also
a surfer and kayaker, everything to do with water a passion of his. He’d been a
competitive swimmer and surfer in his youth, even representing England.

Oblivious to my presence, he continued
singing
You Are So Beautiful
. As usual, he was off-key, but I still
loved the sound of his rough Cockney accent.

“Markus!” I said loudly. “What are you
doing here?”

He stopped singing and turned around, a lopsided
smile lighting up his face. “’Ello, love,” he said, “how long ’ave ya been ogling
my arse, you pervy li’l tart?”

Despite my troubled mood, I beamed at him,
ecstatic he was finally here. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I said,
bouncing on my feet, beyond excited. “I would’ve picked you up from the airport.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” He held his
arms out. “Surprise!”

I laughed, all my stress melting away at
his bright smile. I walked over and pulled open the shower door, stepping inside.
I gave him a big hug, not caring that I was getting wet.

Markus turned off the water and hugged me
back. “Looks like you missed me.”

“More than you know.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I missed
you too. When the documentation finally came through, I hopped on the first
plane I could get.”

I didn’t ask how he’d gotten inside the
house, realising he’d probably asked my father or my dad’s partner for the key.
I squeezed him harder, the last month and a half without him feeling like a
lifetime.

He ran a hand down my back. “Are you all
right?”

“I am now.” Pulling back a little, I grabbed
his wet hair and yanked his head down, planting my lips against his. He kissed
me back, his hands going to my head too. We stayed like that for a while,
reconnecting, trying to get back the weeks we’d lost.

Without warning, he swept me up into his
arms, making me squeal. Laughing, he stepped out of the shower and carried me
through to our bedroom. He laid me down on the bed and started undressing me,
his honey-coloured skin glistening from the shower. I helped pull my wet clothes
off, desperate to lose myself in him ... to lose the past day, weeks, month...

Once I was just as naked as he was, he
climbed over me, sealing our lips together again. I returned his kiss, not
thinking about anything other than the taste and feel of my husband.

He broke our kiss, running his lips down
my chin and neck, latching onto one of my breasts. I placed a hand on his head
and groaned, again getting lost in what he was doing, Markus knowing my body so
well.

His lips moved to my other breast, making
me groan louder. He was rolling my nipple around in his mouth, sending sparks
of pleasure to my groin. I arched up, wanting more, but instead he let go and nudged
my legs apart. Within seconds, he was inside of me. My body welcomed his cock,
my mind also wanting what he was doing. He started fucking me, the sounds he
was making reminding me of Dante’s moans. I froze in response, the thought coming
out of the blue. Markus also went still. He looked down at me with questioning
eyes, probably wondering why I’d stopped.

“Take me from behind,” I said, praying he
didn’t sense the guilt I was feeling.

A lustful smile spread across his face,
Markus thankfully too horny to pick up on it. He pulled out of me and flipped
me over, yanking me up onto all fours. Before I could blink, he was pushing
back inside of me, taking me from behind, his moan so deep and low that even I
felt it.
After a moment’s pause, he started thrusting
hard, only his tight grip on my hips stopping me from banging into the
headboard.

“Faster,” I said, needing the
pleasure to wipe out all thought of Dante.

I wanted to feel Markus inside
of me, not to think about some boy who didn’t care about me. Markus wouldn’t
toss me aside and move onto the next conquest like Dante would. He’d pledged
his love, vowing to be faithful to me. I glanced down at my wedding ring, using
it to remind myself of that. But it didn’t work, because all I could think
about was Dante’s gorgeous face as well as his sensual moans, the memory making
my toes curl. I started to imagine Markus’s moans were Dante’s, while the
fingers bruising my hips and the cock plunging inside of me also belonged to
him. I pushed back against each thrust, knowing he’d be rough, more concerned
with coming than worrying about hurting me. But it wouldn’t hurt ...
didn’t
hurt
... because I liked it rough. Instead of making me cry out in pain, I
was crying out in pleasure, his hard thrusts causing the pressure inside of me to
build up rapidly, until I was shamelessly begging for release, needing it more
than air. He responded with a sexy growl and pressed his front against my back,
skin against skin, desire riding me hard.

A puff of warm air tickled my right
ear, followed by the caress of soft lips, sending a shiver through me. My lobe was
sucked into his mouth, his teeth nibbling the tender flesh, then tugging on my
earring. I gasped, feeling a twinge below... so close ... so fucking close. Dirty
words followed, rolling off the tip of his tongue. The accent was Cockney, not
Maori, reminding me it was Markus who was fucking me. But it no longer mattered,
because it was Dante’s words that ran through my mind:
‘...think of me.’
And I did, coming hard, the white hot pleasure blinding me, wiping away all
guilt, only leaving behind unadulterated bliss.

Then he was coming. He shouted hoarsely, his
climax sending him to his own personal nirvana. Within seconds his shout turned
into a strangled moan, his orgasm slowly waning, along with his bruising grip. Before
I could put two thoughts together, he pulled out and let go of me. I flopped
onto my stomach, all my bones having disintegrated with the orgasm. I was a
melted puddle on the bed, unable to do a thing but lie there, my body sated and
happy, my mind a furry blur of sweet nothings.

Without warning, I was flipped over, the
sudden movement startling a cry out of me. I blinked rapidly, seeing Markus
staring down at me instead of Dante, the image in my head instantly
disappearing.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rough,”
Markus said, smiling apologetically. A second later, it turned into a
self-satisfied smirk. “Though, I think you liked it, you li’l minx. You came
hard, didn’t ya?”

I didn’t reply, my guilt silencing me, searing
my conscience, as though Hell had opened its gates, the Devil beckoning me to
enter. Because Markus hadn’t made me come—Dante had.

Markus smiled wider. “It’s nuffin’ to be
embarrassed about, babe, it was great,” he said, obviously misreading my
expression.

He flopped down next to me, his damp blond
hair also flopping. He had such nice hair. Actually, everything about him was
nice, which only served to intensify my guilt. I’d never thought about anyone
else during sex, hadn’t even considered it, Markus usually satisfying me. And
although the images of Dante had entered my head uninvited, I hadn’t dispelled
them.

“I think I should quit my job,” I said, knowing
I needed to nip the problem in the bud before it blossomed out of control,
because it would. I knew that. The boy was just too attractive, a dangerous
distraction that could get me into a world of trouble.

Turning on his side, Markus rested his
elbow on the mattress, propping up his head with his hand. “Why?” he asked,
looking surprised. “Only last week you emailed me, saying it was going really
well.”

Unable to tell him the real reason, I leaned
over the side of the bed and swiped my knickers up off the floor, stalling so I
could fabricate an adequate response. I slipped the slightly damp knickers back
on, mumbling, “Working at Wera wasn’t what I expected,” which wasn’t a lie. I
hadn’t expected to fall in lust with a student, especially one so young. And it
was
lust, no matter how much I wanted to deny it.

Markus frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”

I grimaced. “A lot of the kids treat me
like I’m a prison warden or a sexual object. If I hear another wolf whistle or
the words
‘hot mama’
I’ll scream.”

Markus placed a hand on my stomach,
circling my navel with a fingertip. “The boys still made snide remarks when you
did substitute work, yet it didn’t bother you then.”