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“Oh. It was the, uh…the Sharks. They were the worst.”
“Oh really?”
“Uh huh.”
“And I suppose their arch enemies were the Jets.”
“Oh, you heard about them?”
“They’re the fictional gangs on West Side Story, Connor. Everybody’s heard of them.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Are you asking for a spanking?”
I huffed in surprise. Shit, I’d forgotten this was a Dom I was talking to for a minute. I folded my arms over my chest. A spanking—as if.
“What? No way!”
“There’s no need to shout.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“And for future reference, if you lie to me again, I won’t be happy about it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah.”
“Not ‘’yeah.’ It’s crass. Say yes, sir,” he prompted.
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it, Connor. No more lies.”
“Yes, sir.” I couldn’t help grinning at him, as I snapped off a little salute.
He closed his eyes briefly, like he was pained and counting to ten or something. He opened his mouth like he had something he wanted to say but must have thought better of it or just given up, because he turned his head to look out the window instead.
I could resist one parting shot. “Though a spanking does sound really hot.”
Chapter Three
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I felt my cheeks burn like hell. I got a sudden image of myself sprawled out over this gorgeous man’s lap with my naked ass raised and got an immediate erection. Thank God, he didn’t say anything else about it or push for more answers. I had to shift in my seat to adjust myself a little. I fell silent, staring out the window on my side of the car.
I never used to tell so many stories. I preferred “telling stories” to lying. Lying was such a harsh word, and I never lied about anything important. Maybe for a little while right after my mom died and Dad was gone, and I had to go live in the foster home, but I only lied then to make myself more important, and more like somebody. I used to spin elaborate stories about all kinds of things back then. I told people at school that my dad had been a jet pilot, shot down over ‘Nam. I said my mom had been a doctor who went to the jungles to help the natives, but she got attacked and eaten by cannibals. That kind of thing.
But maybe that last one had been a road too far, because my foster folks found out about the stories I’d been telling at school. They sat me down and let me know in no uncertain terms that I was in trouble. That sort of behavior was unacceptable, and they didn’t like me setting bad examples in front of their real kids—who were “young and impressionable.” Unlike me, I guess, who was nine and whatever the opposite of “impressionable” was. They said if I kept it up, they’d send me back right away.
I never did that shit anymore. Well, hardly ever, except when I was nervous. Or couldn’t think of anything to say.
Hell, I knew I did it way too much. I almost always got caught at it. I just wasn’t any good at it.
I was good at teaching, though, and I used to love it. Not the actual practice, you understand, which is fraught with more frustration than a Chinese finger trap. But the idea of it, I guess. I still clung to the dream that my efforts at trying to instill an appreciation for Shakespeare in those teenage brains was not just a grievous waste of my time and energy. And I hoped that one day, one of those seniors I used to try so hard to teach would see me in a crowd somewhere, rush up to me, wring my hand, and tell me I’d opened his or her eyes to a whole new world—a world in which Eazy-E’s rap, “Boyz N the Hood,” was no longer one of the immortal pinnacles of the poetic arts. And that I had changed his life forever.
It never happened. At least it hadn’t yet. And as Shakespeare said, “What’s past is prologue.” Besides, I’d lost that job anyway, and would probably never teach again. So I didn’t really have much hope it ever would at this point. But I didn’t like to talk about all that.
I didn’t like to talk about how I’d had to leave teaching, because I felt most of the time like I was in a pressure cooker and the top was about to blow off. That I felt like such a failure and so worried about my students’ performance on state exams, that I had a little meltdown in the middle of class. Someone went for the teacher next door when I started crying and couldn’t seem to stop, and then the principal got involved and the next thing I knew I was on my way to a hospital.
The doctor in the ER said I’d had a “mental health crisis.” I think that was the more modern way of saying a “nervous breakdown,” and I spent the next few days in the hospital. It was there I admitted to the doctor that I felt hopeless and depressed and like a failure, and sometimes I just wanted to sleep all day. All week. All the time, I guess. That raised some red flags, and they had me committed for a few days. When I was finally released, the doctor suggested I take some time off, gave me some meds and sent me home. When I tried to go back to work, I found that my services were no longer required.
