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STONE
I’ve run every light to get to the school for what my charge nurse coined a very important matter. I’d taken it as an emergency, but here I sit, with my knees bouncing, outside the headmaster’s office. My son has been known to raise a little hell from time to time, and considering he’s only five and has my DNA, we’re in for a long haul.
Times like today is when I miss his mother. I know he misses her, too. She was, after all, more lenient on the kid than I ever will be. And reflecting on the fact we still have thirteen more years of this before he’s off to uni or whatnot, he’ll be missing her a lot.
The idea of my late wife, or should I say my late ex-wife, causes pain and sadness to radiate through my body. Our divorce was more than amicable. She’d always known I had needs she couldn’t meet. And when my secret—not that it was really a secret—came out, she couldn’t give me what I craved. But even in the dissolution of our marriage, she remained my best friend.
That was three years ago, and because I owed it to her, I crossed the pond, as she had with me, to get back to her country, her home. Jett may be half Irish but he deserved both his parents and because I’d been the reason our marriage failed; it had only been fair that Katherine moved back to be near her father.
No one could have predicted the year she fought against the beast known as cancer. Or that she’d lose. Watching as a bystander and not the man who vowed to love her was just yet another kick in the balls. Her father, knowing my preferences, wouldn’t let me get within arm’s reach of her.
She had long forgiven me. Before she asked for the divorce—she’d more than forgiven me and I hope this gentle nature of her forever lives in our son.
The sound of a deep, masculine voice pulls me out of the pain that still plagues me when it comes to my Katherine. “Dr. O’Leary?”
The tone alone is authoritative and my attention piques at the thought of who this imposing voice belongs to.
“Yes, that’s me.” I push to my feet, standing face-to-face with one stunningly beautiful man. The green of his hazel eyes reminds me of my homeland and the four-leaf clover Irishmen are known for. Something about him has me mute. Yeah, a guy who has a witty response to everything is left with nothing.
“I’m Mr. Smith, Jett’s kindergarten teacher.”
Holy hell, aren’t kindergarten teachers supposed to be petite blondes in pencil skirts? Not a man of this stature. Ah, fuck, the feminist movement just went back ten years, merely by my own thoughts. And I consider myself a feminist. What is this man doing to me?
“Yes, of course, Mr. Smith.” I extend my hand to his.
“Sorry, we’re close to the start of flu and cold season. I don’t shake hands right now, not only for me, but for my students.”
He’s a cold bastard, but still stunning. I remove my hand away from his. I didn’t want to touch him anyway. No, that’s a lie. I want to touch him all over. Shit. I’m certainly going to hell.
“Okay then, Mr. Smith, I can’t say I’m surprised to meet you under these circumstances, but I thought maybe we’d get through the first week of school before we’d have to enter the head master’s office.”
It’s a joke, a fucking funny one. He’s had Jett all of three days, and he must know what I’m talking about. My son is what his mother called spirited. Spirited, my arse. He’s a brat and full of energy, but still in all of that, he’s my world.
“Follow me, Dr. O’Leary.”
On further inspection, as I do as I’m told, something my son certainly doesn’t understand with following directions. I not only watch the teacher’s slim figure and an exceptional arse, but there’d been a hint of an accent, so faint I almost hadn’t placed it. But living with my best mate all through medical school, I understand an English accent. Simon’s is pronounced, where Mr. Smith’s is not. But it’s still there. I’ve always been a sucker for an English accent. And if Simon would have batted my way, he would have been my type. But Mr. Smith is certainly my type. Throw in the authoritative tone and…
Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I’m a father first and foremost. My horny alter ego needs to be left at the wayside.
“Dr. O’Leary,” the teacher begins, “this is Mr. Mayon, our principal. We hate to call you in, but this is of the most delicate nature.” Oh, that’s what they call them in the states. I almost hadn’t registered he was talking about the headmaster.
Oh, shit. “Jett’s a good kid. He means well. He’s just very hyper and still—”
“No one is questioning that, Dr. O’Leary,” Mr. Mayon begins, pointing to the seat in front of his desk, when Mr. Smith rounds the corner, standing behind what I would call the head master, leaning against a filing cabinet. “It’s just that…well, shoot. In twenty-five years of both teaching and being part of the administration, I’ve never encountered something like this.”
Yeah, leave it to my child to shock the school.
He swivels in his seat, the back of his bald head pointing at me. “I’ve just…well, Mr. Smith, can you please tell the good doctor what happened yesterday at lunchtime?”
Mr. Smith stares anywhere and everywhere but at me. He massages his temples and closes his eyes. Shit, this can’t be good.
“Yeah, it’s a little delicate because of the nature of his conversation.” His teacher stutters through the sentence. “And I received an email from another parent. A very upset parent.”
Poor Jett, at the age of five he’ll be prohibited from every school in a thirty-mile radius. My pulse quickens and I wipe at the sweat forming at the top of my brow.
“Apparently, Jett’s been telling the girls in class that when he wakes up, his…” Mr. Smith clears his throat, a nervous like high-pitched chuckle falling from his plump lips.
“Hell—there’s really no way to say this without further embarrassment, so here goes.” He clears his throat again. “He’s shared with several students that when he wakes up, his penis is like a skyscraper. Hard as stone and reaching toward the sky.”
