Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) (8 page)

DAWN CREEPS INTO the hotel room little by little. I can feel the warmth of the sunrays on my skin. As I open my eyes, I see one of my calves between Sam's legs, while the other calf is on top of them. I use my toe to trace Sam's ankle.

He stirs. Before he opens his eyes, his hands roam the mattress. His fingertips brush down my arms until they reach my hands. He holds my hands and smiles. His eyes flicker open.

"You know ever since the attack…I've had dreams of being chased by a shadow," I tell him. "Or sometimes I'm tied to a table and there are knives dangling from the ceiling above me. Since the shootings, the dreams have only gotten worse. Do you know what I dreamed about last night?"

"What?" He kisses me.

"Nothing," I tell him. "I don't remember anything except falling asleep next to you and waking up beside you."

"I'm glad you didn't have any nightmares." He sits up. His dark hair is flat on the side he slept on. I stroke it until it stands up straight. He leans against my hand.

"Do you have to work?" I ask.

"Nope," he says. "If I didn't take Saturdays off, my work would kill me. I have to coach middle school lacrosse at four, but that's a long time from now."

I groan. "I should start looking for another job. I have a feeling that the school is going to avoid hiring me."

"I can talk to Principal Pattinson," he says as he kisses my jaw. "I can be very persuasive."

"I'm sure you can, but I'm going to try to keep my job by working hard and playing nice with my coworkers."

"When has that ever worked?" he teases.

I slide my hand over his hip and up his back. I run my nails down his spine. He shivers. "Why don't I show you how well it works?"

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me tight against him. His body heat radiates hotter than the sunlight.

"Well, we should use this alone time right now before I need to go," he says.

"For eight hours?"

"It takes about twenty minutes to get to the school from here, so seven hours and forty minutes." He kisses my throat. I slide my leg between his thighs. Our lips meet and his tongue slides along my teeth.

I close my eyes and pinch my arm. When I open my eyes, I'm relieved to see this isn't a dream.

~~~~~

"MR. FLICK, YOUR HEART seems to be healing well," I tell him, pushing his echocardiogram toward him. He picks it up and examines it. Most patients can't actually figure out what they are looking at, but it makes them feel better to have something tangible in their hands to prove what I'm saying. "How are you feeling?"

"Great, Dr. Meadows," he says. "I felt so terrible before the heart attack…I should have known what it was. But since the angioplasty…I'm beginning to feel like my old self."

"That's great, Mr. Flick. Just continue to take your medications and everything should continue to go well."

Leonard Flick suddenly launches himself at me and hugs me so tightly that I feel his muscles squeezing against my ribs. He lets me go with a giant smile.

"Lisa just told me she's pregnant. I'm going to be a granddaddy!" he says. "I'm so glad that I'm alive. I can't wait to see my grandchild."

"Congratulations, Mr. Flick." I squeeze his arm, genuinely happy for him, but now words are beginning to fail me as we shift to personal conversation. "Well, please see the receptionist outside to schedule your next appointment. I think we won't need to see each other for another three months unless you have any concerns in between now and then."

I slip out of the room and return to the comfort of my office. I sit in my leather-padded chair and close my eyes. Most times, I would sneak in a five-minute nap or simply clear my mind to prepare for my next social interaction, but now I think about my night with Grace.

Her body looks like marble, flawless and firm, but as soon as I touched it, it felt like it was made of warmth and rose petals. It had to be one of the best nights of my life. I had slept with my fair share of women—not to the point that I would be considered a "player," but enough to make it clear that I wasn't waiting for "the one"—but this was different. It was like everything became a miracle—the color of her eyes, the way we ended up in a hotel bed together, the very fact that Earth was revolving around the sun—it was all breathtakingly beautiful and extraordinary.

I think about how she could have died back in Ohio when she was stabbed. It's amazing that her mother happened to come home right after she was stabbed and saved her. It reminds me that life is fragile. It's a risk, and you never gamble with the ones you love.

I pick up my phone. My finger lingers over the numbers before I begin to dial. I listen to the ringing, unsure if I want someone to pick up or for the answer machine to click on.

"Hello?" a gruff voice answers.

"It's Sam, Dad."

There's a pause. I watch the second hand on my clock above the door tick nine times.

"Sam?" my father asks. "Sam Meadows?"

"Yes, Dad, your son," I say, clenching my jaw. This is why I never call.

"I only have one son," he says. "His name is Jacob and he calls at least once a month."

"Dad, you told me to leave the house and never show my face in your house again," I hiss. "It's not my fault that I haven't called and I'm calling you right now, aren't I?"

"Why?" he sneers. "Because you heard what happened and it made you feel guilty? Don't concern yourself with me. I'm fine, no thanks to you."

"Fine," I snap. "I won't call again. The next time I'll see you will be at your funeral."

I slam the phone down. I want to tear apart my office, but a childhood in my family's home has taught me how to shove my feelings down and ignore them.

I pick up a pen and begin jotting down notes about Leonard Flick. Anger and resentment prowl under my skin, but I fake contentment until I convince myself that everything is good.

~~~~~

A COUPLE OF WEEKS after Francis Tate, I tried to test myself. I wanted to return to a feeling of normalcy, so I tried to confront my fears. It took me almost two weeks to stay in my family's kitchen without shaking. It took me nearly three months to not check every young man's hands for a knife or not assume that every sudden movement was made with the intent to hurt me. Knives, however, are a fear that I haven't conquered.

In my head, I know that they aren't dangerous by themselves, but every time I see one, my heart feels as if it's going to beat out of my chest, and my breathing becomes so shallow that I get lightheaded. I wish I could have a normal response to something that is so commonplace, but I can't seem to desensitize myself from them.

This has been proven to be a difficult task while substituting for a science class that is dissecting frogs with scalpels.

"I think my frog's ovaries are filled with eggs," Liam Powers says.

"Ew." Lily Walker, who is sitting next to him, moves her chair away from the frog and into the aisle. Deke Cochrane, who is sitting in the table across the aisle glances at her before meticulously taking out each part of the frog and putting it on the placemat that has a designated spot for every organ.

"So, once you have all separated the organs onto your placemat, just show me and if you have it right, I'll give you a check on Mrs. Christensen's grade book," I tell them. "If you have it wrong, I'll just tell you how many that you have incorrect and you can try again."

I vaguely remember dissecting a frog in high school, which is an amazing feat because the smell is atrocious.

"Mrs. Ellery—" Lily says.

"Miss," I correct.

"Miss Ellery, what is the point of this?" she asks. Deke flicks his scalpel in her direction. I flinch, but nobody seems to notice.

"The point is to make you squirm," Deke tells Lily, twirling the scalpel as he talks. I have to remind myself that he isn't Francis. He isn't a threat. "Don't you think it's interesting that you have the same insides as this frog? You're an animal just like it. Nothing separates you from it, except that you use your little brain to talk about boys."

"Deke," I admonish. He glances at me and shrugs. He returns his attention to the frog. I take a step closer to him. His insult toward Lily was wrong, but I don't want him to think I singled him out. "You seem quite good at that."

"I've hunted since I was eight," he says, not looking up at me. "If I can gut deer and bears, I think I can handle a frog."

I've met students like him in interventional education. They put up walls using sarcasm and rage. There is always something beneath the surface.

"Do you like hunting?" I ask.

He smirks, glancing up at me for the first time.

"Why? Do you want to watch me dissect more animals?" He points the scalpel at me. I take several steps back, almost tripping along the way. He raises his eyebrow, seeing my fear for the first time. The features on his face smooth and he looks like any other teen boy. "I'm sorry, Miss Ellery. I didn't mean to scare you. I just have a weird sense of humor."

"It's fine," I mumble.

"Miss Ellery, I'm done," Liam says. I take large strides over to Liam, keeping my hands hidden behind my back, so that the class can't see that they are shaking.

~~~~~

I CAN'T GO after Grace again. For the first shooting, the police assumed she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. After a second shooting…they would be suspicious. Some police officer would be following her around.

I turn my bike onto Briar Road. When you get this far out, there's no corporations, subdivisions, or big box stores. In this rural area—just miles of woods and houses that you can't see your neighbors from—some of its residents are perpetually trying—and failing—to sell their acreage to the developers who have occupied most of Murray, while the majority grumble about the newcomers who have flooded into the area.

When I end up in front of my house, I hit my kickstand with my foot and jump off my bike. Albert has owned the house since he was thirty-two years old. It's an American-style log house made of Douglas fir D-shaped logs. It's been my home since I was nine years old. Albert had already been taking care of me because my mom died after her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail when I was four years old. My father was fighting in the Iraq War and couldn't take care of my brother, Tom, and me, so we lived with Albert. My father was killed when I was eight years old and Tom was twelve. I remember the soldier who came to Albert's door to tell us. Even though the soldier had to be about six feet tall, he seemed incredibly small in that moment while his words were heavier than boulders.

Tom died while fighting in Afghanistan last year. Half my family died on the other side of the world, and I have no idea if someone was there to comfort them before they took their last breath.

I push open the door.

Albert is on the couch, watching some hunting TV show. He glances up at me. "How was school?" I take the remote and turn off the TV. "Hey! I was watchin' that."

"Why aren't you working?" I ask. "It's Monday. You should have plenty of customers."

"My knee was hurtin'," he says.

I grind my teeth. He's been using this excuse more and more often. If it's not his knee, it's "nobody will come to the shop when it's raining" or pain in his back, but it won't stop him from going hunting or riding the four-wheeler through the woods.

A couple of months ago, I talked Albert into trying advertising instead of relying on word of mouth from his current customer base. But results were discouraging. Getting better results was prohibitively expensive—and not guaranteed—so instead of trying to change his strategy, Albert went back to doing things the old way, while blaming his competitor's better prices on their relying on "foreign" labor instead of hiring "good Americans." Albert, who lost many of his childhood friends in Vietnam, and his only child and one of his grandsons in Middle Eastern military conflicts, was specifically bitter about the number of people of Asian and Middle Eastern descent who own and work in local auto mechanic franchises. He had once seen Lexi and her father at my middle school graduation. The words he used to describe them I wouldn't repeat anywhere, but I understand his rage.

I tried to keep pushing him to increase his business, but I knew advertising was only a small part of the problem. Albert lost business continuously because he was always ignoring regular business hours and lacked the people skills to get customers to like him.

"Albert," I say, as I sit down in the recliner and face him. "What are you going to do when I graduate?"

He cocks his head. "What do you mean? You ain't going to college, are you? You know those places are just an extended party where they charge you an outrageous amount of money to drink and sleep with whores."

"No, Albert," I say. "I'm not going to college…but I want to join the military."

Albert stares at me. I can see his mind working—trying to figure out if I'm joking or if I have lost my mind.

"Do you…know what branch yet?" he asks. I shrug. It doesn't especially matter to me. I just want to do something that will make my deceased family members proud. I just want to matter, to be remembered, to be worthy. "This ain't some suicidal wish, is it?"

"No," I say, though, honestly it could be. Why not die in the same place as my family? Is there a better way to die than for your country? "It's just the best thing that I could do with my life. Fight the good fight."

Albert nods. "True."

His mind seems far off—I assume that he's thinking about Vietnam in the 1960s when he was a soldier. I've seen enough people come back who are haunted by war, but I'm not afraid. All of my ghosts linger here, so there's nothing to fear on the other side of the world. Albert looks back at me.

"The Army is the place to be," he says, but his voice sounds weary. He's skeptical of me becoming another casualty. "Why are you tellin' me this? You don't need my blessing or advice. You're almost a man. You know what you're doin'."

"I'm telling you because I need to know you'll be okay without me. If the shop closes down because you can't make payments—"

"Boy," Albert interrupts. "I am not a child. Do not treat me like one. I am not senile either. I can damn well take care of myself."

"I know, Albert, but…I'm just worried. You served this country. You deserve to get anything you want, but that's not how it works out and I want to make sure that you'll be okay. I can stay if you don't think—"

"Deacon," Albert growls. "I will kick you out of this house the day after graduation. Don't you go pityin' me. I am a soldier still, whether there is a weapon in my hands or not. At some point, the people around here will realize these foreigners are stealing from good Americans and they will come crawling back to my shop. They won't get shoddy work done by an American."

"I'm sure they will." I stand up, and then turn to walk toward my room.

"Deacon," Albert says, and I turn back to him. "You make me proud."

I smile. "Thanks, Albert."

I keep walking down the hall. I haven't made him proud. At least, not yet.

~~~~~