A gay story: Once a Nerd Ch. 06 Editor’s Note: Dean’s…redemption arc? Maybe? He’s doing his best, ya’ll. No TW’s necessary, I don’t think, but this is mostly plot with a sprinkle of smut at the end. Same warnings as usual though, be aware of POV changes and lack of a beta [and my laziness to re-read back through]. Not sure how I feel about the direction I’ve taken this, but thank you to the people who keep commenting, it means the world.
The room is spinning.
My ears are inhabited by a high, shrill squeal that I can’t hear through.
I’m…not nearly sober enough to process this, and Jamie knows it.
Come on, come on. Pull yourself together, Sam. Deny, deny, deny, like your life depends on it. There’s no time to question anything: how she knows, why she’s invited me out to bring it up like this, what her motives are. Focus, focus, focus, come on.
I fabricate an expression that’s deeply offended, offended to my bones. “Why would you…ask me something like that? Of course not, no!”
She laughs. “Oh, come on, Sammy. You think I wouldn’t notice?”
Jamie hooks her finger in the collar of my shirt and tugs, pulling it beneath my clavicle. Clear as day, there’s an ugly, purpled bite that’s only just started to yellow around the edges. I slap her hand away. “That’s not from–”
“From Dean? It is though, isn’t it?”
“…it’s not.” It sounds weak and difficult to believe even to my own ears.
Jamie clicks her tongue, peering at me like I’m a four-year-old she’s just caught wrist-deep in the cookie jar. “Mr. White might’ve bought that little story on Friday, but I’m afraid I’m not so simple-minded. Dean was the one who closed and locked your door, and even drew the little privacy curtain. When you opened it for Christopher, well…” She places the manicured nail of her index finger on her bottom lip, tugging it downwards, away from her teeth. “…right here, it was awfully puffy and red, as if you’d just been passionately kissed.”
I stare firmly ahead. “That’s totally circumstantial, if even that.”
“It is, you’re right, but I think…you’re an honest guy, Sam. So honest, it’s to your detriment. If I were to spread a little rumor, who knows what might happen.”
She said ‘if’, which means there’s something she’s hoping to get out of this. “What the hell do you want from me?”
She leans back in the booth, folding her slender, smooth legs at the knee and lifting her beer from the tabletop to polish it off. “Well, don’t you think you’re being a little greedy?”
“…excuse me?”
“You’re hogging the whole pie, Sammy. I just want a little slice, and Dean’s…too tasty to pass up. You get it, right?”
I’m going to throw up, without a doubt: whether it’s right here at the table, in the gravel outside, or in the safety of my bathroom. Perhaps the reason she was able to sniff it out so fast when no one else had, was because she’s prone to those same proclivities.
“I have no control over what Dean does or doesn’t do.” I grit, honestly.
“Mm, I’m not so sure. You’ve clearly got him on some sort of leash, because rumor has it that he’s been completely celibate for the past few months, all for sake of his ‘out-of-town girlfriend’ that no one’s ever met.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“Look, I just want the chance to shoot my shot, that’s all. Cut him loose. Whatever you think is going on between the two of you, it isn’t. To Dean, you’re just another warm body he’s managed to conquer, and he’ll move onto the next in a heartbeat the second you close the door in his face. Come summer, he’s gone. He’ll go on to make a name for himself in college, then maybe we’ll see him on the big screen every Sunday night come Fall.”
Everything she’s said is true. It’s all in the same vein of what I’ve already been thinking to myself, but to hear it out loud, from a woman like her…
I can’t breathe. Is this how everything ends for me? Outed by Jamie Rosenthal, because she wants to sleep with the same student I’m currently sleeping with? Because I was stupid and weak enough to sleep with a student in the first place? Saliva is building up in my mouth at a telltale right, the uncomfortable feeling of nausea is climbing my throat like a ladder. I turn to look at her, doing my damndest to pull it together.
“I’ll say it again. I have absolutely no control over Dean, and I’ve never cared about who he’s fucking. Whatever you choose to do, I suppose that’s up to you.”
She juts her bottom lip out in a faux pout. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. I really do like you, Sam, and I want to be friends. Unfortunately, we’re definitely not each other’s type.” She laughs. “I don’t want to see you lose your job either, I was just making a suggestion, that’s all.”
I withdraw my wallet from my back pocket and leave two twenties on the table.
“It’s been great. Goodnight.”
Jamie doesn’t stop me, simply bids me goodnight with a little wiggle of her fingers. I squeeze out of the booth, cross the main room towards the door, and leave Rodney’s with my entire world on its head. I’m not piss drunk, but I’m not sober enough to drive. I do it anyway, because there’s no one I can call. I’d rather not catch a cab and leave my car at a place like this, not with work in the morning. Maybe I’ll die on the way home, we can only hope. My house is ten minutes away, and I spend the entirety of that time fighting back a panic attack.
Technically, I didn’t admit to anything, but does that matter in the grand scheme? She sounded so…fucking confident.
I’ve never known regret as intimately as I do now. I want to blame Dean, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It might not feel that way most of the time, but I’m in a position of authority over him. I’m in the wrong, no matter how you spin it. I should’ve put a stop to his antics as soon as they began, but I…I liked the attention, I guess. This town has nothing and no one in it for me except my father’s ghost, so the slightest scrap of positive attention made me feel more alive than I had since his passing. Dean liked me enough to pursue me for months. He liked me enough to appear spontaneously at an airport two hours away to pick me up. He liked me enough to get me a gift for my birthday, the only one I received outside of my mother. He likes me enough to, apparently, not fuck anyone else, claiming a fake girlfriend.
Now, I find that I like him, too. I put myself in a position to let genuine feelings grow, despite knowing what the natural outcome would be, despite the potential consequences. Dean has his entire life ahead of him. He has plenty of chances to love, lose, and love again. I know I’m only thirty, but thirty is a tough age to have to admit you’re so utterly alone. Liking him or not is moot in the grand scheme, because if Jamie lets a rumor slip or gathers some sort of hard evidence to present to the administration, it’s over for me. I knew this could happen, and I did what I did anyway.
Dean, too. No matter how popular, athletic, and attractive he is, sleeping with a male teacher? He’ll be right up there on the cross with me.
Maybe I should just resign early and move in with my mother in SoCal, get a head start on my life while I still can. If I do that, I’ll be out of Jamie’s way. I can only pray she leaves our reputations intact.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to tell him.
—
Something’s wrong.
Really, really wrong.
Sam looks…bad. He’s hiding it well, acting as he normally would, but there are dark, sleepless circles under his eyes. His gaze, usually sharp and bright behind his glasses, is haunted and drawn. He also won’t look me in the face. He had drinks with Ms. Rosenthal last night…
What the fuck happened?
Did they sleep together? Is he feeling guilty?
No, no, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Look at where that got me last time. We need to talk, and I need to…be honest with him about the things I want. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to wait until graduation, because Sammy is starting to feel more and more like sand slipping through my fingers. Tightening my fist won’t keep him in it. Thankfully, he leaves a note on the corner of his desk for me to take at the end of class. Today’s date is the only one written, and six is the time. I can work with that.
Those next six hours, they might as well have been fuckin’ years. It’s like your girlfriend hitting you with the ‘we need to talk’ text, then ghosting you for the rest of the day. Sammy hasn’t said anything of the sort, but it’s written all over him: his expression, posture, tone of voice. It’s absolutely killing me to wait, but I can at least pretend to be a patient man. It’s the least I can do. There’s no practice on Tuesdays unless Celner is in the midst of a personal crisis, so I head straight for the gym. My body is a knotted mess of restless energy, muscles locked and tight, nerves jumping like popcorn kernels in a microwave.
The bar is the best therapy I’m going to get right now, so I try to press, squat, and row my head to some kind of clarity. I give it up at a quarter to six, shower, change, and make the trip to Sam’s neighborhood. The sun is still a bright beacon hovering the horizon, so I make sure I’m not seen by passing cars when I pull off into the abandoned garage. Only when the sky darkens and there’s a veil to creep through, do I finally venture from my hideyhole and jog the remaining distance to his porch. I’m…anxious, I think. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and I can’t say I’m a big fan, but I know it’s a BOGO in relationship-building.
The door is unlocked as it always is, and I announce my presence as I pass through it: “Sammy…?”
“Kitchen.” He calls back, and he sounds…dead inside, fuck.
In the kitchen, Sam is sitting on his large island’s countertop. He’s not showered, nor changed out of his clothes from earlier in the day. He still has his lanyard around his neck, shoes on, for Christ’s sake. Beside him, there’s a half-empty glass of that same liquor he’d been drinking a few weeks ago. The decanter is a teaspoon away from being completely empty, so he’s had more than one glass. He’s got a carton of lo-mein from the one and only Chinese joint in town pressed against his chest, plucking at the noodles with a pair of chopsticks like he’s having to force himself to eat them.
He lifts his head as I come around the island, and his eyes are…blank, exhausted.
“Sam, what the hell is going on?” I pull the pint of noodles away from him, and he doesn’t put up a fuss about it. Instead, he goes for the tumbler, maybe to give his hands something to do. I slide it out of his reach, and that at least earns me a weak glare. I call his name again, more firmly.
He digs his knuckles into his eye-sockets, then drops his hands into a limp pile in his lap. “I’m ending this, Dean. That’s all I wanted to tell you.”
…
Excuse the entire fuck out of me?
Fury ignites in the depths of my chest, and I’m too slow to stamp it out.
“The fuck you are!” I snap, totally disbelieving.
“What, without a reason? Is it that easy for you, Sammy? Is this because of–”
Sam sighs, and it’s such a weary sound, like he’s not got a lick of energy to fight with. “I shouldn’t have to give you a reason. I just…want to stop. I shouldn’t have let any of this happen in the first place.”
I know I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t, but the accusations are flying from my mouth before I can reel them back: “Is this because of Ms. fuckin’ Rosenthal? What, you like her? Did you sleep with that bitch last night?”
This, more than anything, breathes life into Sam. His eyes blow open. He looks at me like I’m the stupidest bastard who’s ever drawn breath, before breaking out in hysterical, incredulous laughter. “Oh my fucking God, are you…actually stupid? Is that what had you so twisted up on Saturday? You think Ms. Rosenthal is interested in me?”
“Why the fuck wouldn’t I think that?! You went out with her last night!”
Sam scowls fiercely, and to my complete shock, shoves against my chest with all his strength. I stumble back a step, as I’m in no way expecting him to physically push me away. “Fuck you, Dean! You–! She doesn’t want me, you stupid bastard! She wants you, you!”
“What…what the fuck are you talking about? I mean, I know the bitch is handsy, but–”
In a much quieter, colder voice, he says: “She invited me out last night to tell me that she knows.”
“…knows what?”
“That you and I are having sex.”
My brain hits the personification of a record scratching in the midst of a crowded, coke party.
My body tightens up, adrenaline flooding all systems. I’m looking at Sam like he’s just blown a hole through my chest, and there are no ‘first instincts’ to rely on. It’s a full reboot, lasting maybe thirty seconds. You could hear a mouse sneeze in the next room over.
When thought does return, naturally, my first instinct is anger. I immediately reel that shit in, opting for a deep breath and rationale instead. I know, hold your applause. Getting pissed won’t help anything.
“How…could she possibly know that?”
Ms. Rosenthal has been on campus for all of a week and a half. Sam and I barely interact at school, no more than any other student and teacher. I’ve only approached him twice, last Friday and yesterday morning. It’s not like she walked in on me breaking him over his desk, we were just talking. We don’t communicate in any other way, and I take great pains to not be seen coming and going from his house.
Sam reclines back against the elevated bar top, folding his arms across his chest. “As far as I know, she doesn’t have any hard proof. Whatever…hints we were dropping, she made a highly, highly educated guess. She saw you, too, on Friday. She saw you close and lock my classroom door, and when I opened it for Mr. White, she said…”
He frowns, touching his fingertips to his lips. “…it looked like I’d just been kissed.”
That sneaky, fucking bitch. The pieces snap together in my mind as Sam talks, and I become aware of the holes. She invited him out, just the two of them, to bring this up. She’s after something.
“Did she threaten you with it? For what?”
Sam, again, spares me a look like he’s exhausted with my smooth-brained antics. “Of course she did. I already told you, I’m in her way.” He gestures to me, dropping his hand through the air, and swings his eyes. “You’re the prime cut around here, Dean. She thinks I’m monopolizing you, some shit like that. Once I end whatever we’ve got going on, you’ll resume your body-hopping ways. So, congratulations, you won’t have to go to nearly as much trouble this time around.”
Temper, temper, control it.
“So, let me make sure I’ve got this right. Rosenthal is threatening to report you if, what, I don’t fuck her?”
“That’s the long and short of it. Listen, please.” Sam stresses the plea, looking me squarely in the eye. “Sleep with her, don’t sleep with her, it makes no difference to me. Do exactly as you want to do, Dean, just as you always have. These…are nothing more than the natural consequences of my own actions. She doesn’t have to have evidence, she just has to bring it up as a concern to the administration. This is…on me, completely, so whatever she chooses to do–”
“Stop.” I can’t keep listening to where he’s taking this. I’m so pissed, I can barely see straight. With him, with myself, and with that conniving bitch, Rosenthal. “Sammy, can you be honest with me, for once?”
“I am being honest, what–”
“Do you like me?”
He stares at me, gobsmacked. Finally, finally, there’s some color in his pretty cheekbones, some brightness in his speckled eyes. His red, chapped mouth opens and closes helplessly, and his thin fingers clench wrinkles into the hem of his shirt. He drops his head after a moment, using those dark, springy curls like a veil.
“What…does that have to do with anything?”
“Because I like you. I like you so much, it actually drives me insane. I know you better than you think I do, and I know you’re a huge pussy. This whole shit with Ms. Rosenthal, this is the perfect excuse for you, isn’t it? You couldn’t bring yourself to cut me off on your own, so now she’s doing it for you. You couldn’t do it because you like me, you want me around, even if it makes you feel like shit.”
There’s a subtle tremble in his shoulders, and his hands are bone-white against the material of his shirt.
“Does it make you uncomfortable? It makes you feel like shit? You still think you’re taking advantage of me, doing something wrong? I don’t give a good goddamn, and I’ll be sure to help you get over it, because you’re all mine now. There’s no ‘until graduation’ or ‘until summer’ in my mind, there’s no finish line. So, you can admit it. Tell me you like me, for once.”
“I…” His voice cracks, and it’s a sharp noise that bounces off his cabinetry. He lifts his head, and his expression drops my heart out of my ass. He looks devastated, helpless, but resigned: a wobbly, pained smile and eyes glassy with a threat of tears. “Yeah, I like you. But, what good is that going to do me now, Dean? If she…brings this up to the administration, I’ll most likely lose my job. Not just that, but getting fired for sleeping with a student? I’ll never be able to teach again.”
With his admittance, I feel like it’s safe to approach him again. I slot myself between his warm, firm thighs and draw him into a tight hug, resting my ear over where his heart rattles. With this initiation of physical intimacy, Sam breaks.
He winds his arms around my neck, squeezing tightly, and cries into my hair. There’s a strange mixture of feelings whipping through me. I’m thrilled, goddamn stoked, at his willingness to admit some affection for me, his willingness to rely on me for emotional support.
I’m also seething with a powerful rage at the fact that he was reduced to a state of needing emotional support in the first place. If I could make it so, he’d never cry again unless it was on my cock. I know that’s not realistic, people cry, but fuck. His sadness feels like it’s punching holes out of me, it hurts so bad to feel his body shaking like this against mine.
“Sammy, hey. Can you look at me, please?”
It takes him several minutes to do so, and I grant him all the time he needs. When he finally withdraws enough for eye-contact, I grit my teeth at the sight of his face. Red-rimmed eyes, runny nose, trembling mouth, he’s like a little kid.
“Do you remember what I said the first night I came here?”
He shakes his head and actually chuckles. “You said a lot of stupid shit that night…”
“I did, but I also said I’d sooner break a snitch’s leg than let you lose your job.”
“Dean, no, you can’t–”
“Relax, relax, I won’t break any legs, but I meant that, Sam. I won’t let you lose your job, no rumors will spread, and nothing is getting reported to anyone.”
“How…? How can you promise something like that?”
I let a little bit of that rage slide into my expression, and he flinches back. “Well, I might not break her leg, but she’ll wish I had. I know you don’t trust me yet, but I’m literally begging you, let me handle this. I won’t sleep with her, I won’t break her leg, but I’ll have this cleaned up by next week.”
“What…are you going to do, then?”
“You’ll see. I won’t come back here until it’s done, and whatever you see this week, I want you to ignore it.”
Sam looks totally flabbergasted, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. I guess it does sound a little too good to be true, but even he doesn’t know what I’m capable of. I’m not trying to make myself sound like some sort of Billy Badass or John Wick roleplayer, I just know myself. I can be a real piece of shit, should push come to shove, and I’m absolutely not above manipulation or ruining a life. I run a little low on empathy sometimes, I can admit that.
Ms. Rosenthal has no concept of my personality. I know exactly what she thinks about me, and it’s what I’m sure everyone is quick to assume:
Brainless, shallow, a little narcissistic, give a shit about anything but athletics and getting my dick wet. Honestly, the last part was pretty true, like, five months ago. It’s inconceivable, sometimes even to me, that I’d put someone else’s wants, needs, and feelings ahead of my own. Dean Saunders isn’t a name that’s synonymous with things like: commitment, selflessness, monogamy, and emotional intelligence. So, I know what she’s expecting to happen.
Sammy will cut off my regular supply to sex. I’ll accept the inevitable end of our physical arrangement and resume skirt-chasing without a second thought. I’m clearly not above fucking my teachers, and she’s an objectively hot woman. I’m in love, not blind. The bitch is a ten. So, being a hard ten, she’ll stick her tits out, drop a few convenient pencils in front of my desk, lay on some compliments, and theoretically, I should be eating out of the palm of her acrylic-tipped hand.
I return my attention to Sammy, who’s looking vaguely off-kilter.
“One more thing. I…Sam, look, about Saturday, I’m…so fucking sorry for how I acted. I was out of line, I know that. You were right, and I was driving myself crazy thinking you had something going on with her. I was pissed, and I took it out on you, but that’s no excuse. I’m just…shit, I’m really sorry, Sammy. I swear to God, I’ll never treat you like that again, unless you want me to.”
Sam studies me for a second, before sighing from the bottom of his lungs. “I…forgive you, and it’s not totally on you. I let you do it, after all. I…was just willing to take whatever you had to give, I guess. That’s on me, too.”
I’m not really sure how to respond to that, if I’m honest. It breaks my heart a little to think he accepted that type of behavior from me because of, what, low self-esteem? It’s the best he’s going to get?
God, I’m such a dick. It’ll take the next ten years to make up for a stunt like that, even if Sam is seemingly so quick to forgive. We’re gonna have to work on his confidence.
“Alright, that’s enough of that. Get your sweet ass in the shower, get comfortable.”
I abstained from sex that night, making it my mission to ease Sam’s physical and mental distress as much as possible. I’m assuming he didn’t get much sleep the night before, given Ms. Rosenthal’s threat to his livelihood, because his eyelids were dropping like lead weights hung off them by nine. I put him to bed and stroked my hand up and down the smooth, warm expanse of his back until he was teetering the cliff of his first REM cycle.
The next day, operation ‘Destroy That Bitch’ began.
When I tell you it was easy? Jesus Fuck, she really is a slut, and I would’ve been all about it once upon a time. I thought I’d have to…I don’t know, try? No, man. I had her number by Friday. Her personal cell number. Sam still hasn’t given that up.
She’s laying it on as thick as she has been, the only difference being my blatant reciprocation. Coming into fourth period, I lean over her desk and make a little comment about how good she looks. Rinse and repeat as the class lets out. If there’s practice, I ask her if she’s coming by. If she puts an inappropriate hand on me, I put one back. I chat her up between classes, and I go out of my way to pretend Sam doesn’t exist. It fucking sucks, but a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. The only peace of mind I get is the little knowing glances we exchange during his class. I stare at him like I’m trying to ascertain his state of being, read his soul, and he looks back like he can tell that’s what I’m doing.
He rolls his eyes, tucks a smile into his collar, and carries on with the lecture. I know I told him to ignore my actions this week, but it still makes me sick to my stomach to boldly flirt with this bitch when he’s within earshot or has a direct line of sight. Well, it makes me sick anyway, but what can you do? Of course, he doesn’t leave me any notes, as I said I wouldn’t be back until I resolved this. Part of me was hoping he’d leave one anyway, because I’d absolutely show up on his porch if he was just dying to see me, y’know.
Friday is a game night. Jamie’s there, Sammy isn’t. She’s decked out in our school’s colors, and I’ve never been more disgusted by a display of school spirit. She’s talking animatedly with Celner, like she’s his assistant coach or some shit, when I roll over with my helmet tucked against my ribs.
“Ms. Rosenthal, hey!” I greet, turning up the charm to maximum level. “You ready to watch me beat some ass?”
“You know it!” She smirks up at me, and I’m thinking it’s supposed to be sultry. Ugh, Sam really has me whipped.
“Are your engines all hot and ready?”
See? What the fuck is that? Who says shit like that? Now, I have to say something just as stupid back.
“Hotter than they’ve ever been, especially when I’ve got someone like you cheering me on.”
Celner rolls his eyes, but says nothing. Now, if I’d said something like that to Sammy, you would’ve thought the moon had imploded. Double standards, people.
She laughs, smacking a playful palm against my chest. Except, it lingers there. “Make me proud.”
I lean over her, a little too close. “Just promise you won’t take your eyes off my back, ‘kay?”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
Gag me.
Jogging onto the field, I earn some slick looks and high-fives from my teammates, except Jacob. I haven’t told him anything of my plans, so he’s been side-eyeing me hard this week. He’s not usually one to judge, but I think even he’s probably not got the best opinion of me right now. I’ll have to rectify that when I can.
We win, because no shit. We’re absolutely dominating in the surrounding counties, and if our overall team was just a little better, we might’ve gone to some form of national playoffs instead of capping out at State. It doesn’t bother me too badly, as I’m perfectly aware of my own skill. I’ve already got a few scholarships on lock, though I’m heavily leanings towards one in particular.
Once the game wraps up, I make my move. Ms. Rosenthal is loitering behind to interact with the players after we change out of our gear, as she tends to do, and I patiently wait for them to clear out.
“Can I walk you to your car?”
Because I’m such a fucking gentleman.
She brightens like a Christmas tree, and I’ve never wanted to hit a woman so badly. “I appreciate that, Dean, thank you.”
We make idle chatter about the game, and I’ve gotta admit, she really knows her shit. I wonder if she just genuinely loves the sport, or if she learned it inside and out to seduce barely legal athletes like myself. Once we make it to her driver’s door, I go to open it for her, but pause.
“Ms. Rosenthal, I was wondering if…I could maybe get your number? In case I need to text you about any late assignments, you know.” I tilt my head, smiling devilishly.
She blinks, like she can’t believe how well everything’s suddenly going. “Mm, well, I don’t see why not.”
I type her number into my phone, a little amazed at how quick she was to give it away, and she leans her entire body into me, nudging against me with her shoulder. I take the bait, so to speak, bringing my arm around her lower back to get at the door handle.
“Try not to abuse this sought after privilege, Mr. Saunders.” She winks. “Oh, and when it’s just you and me, feel free to call me Jamie.”
Opening her door, I lower my head to murmur in her ear: “I’ll do my best, Jamie, but no promises.”
She smells…cheap. Like a discounted Bath&Body spray, and I miss Sam’s organic, clean fragrance dearly. With how close we are, I feel the little shiver that runs through her. She tilts her head back, and Jesus Christ, is she going to kiss me in the damn parking lot?
“I’m looking forward to your…efforts. Goodnight, Dean.”
Ugh.
“Goodnight, Jamie, get home safe.”
Or crash and die, either way. It would save me a lot of trouble.
With the arrival of the weekend, I work overtime to have this whole farce wrapped up by at least the end of the coming week, like I told Sammy I would. It only took one text to open the proverbial floodgates:
‘Did you make it home okay?’
Classic, thoughtful conversation starter if sent to the right person, and Jamie is definitely that person. She latches onto the open line of communication with both hands, and from Friday night to Sunday night, we’re texting at a rate of no less than three messages per waking hour. Sometimes much more, sometimes less if I’m at the gym. I’m very, very careful in how I word my messages and replies, tiptoeing the line of flirty, but Jamie’s weaving all over it. For the sake of evidence, I need her to look like the aggressor and instigator in this, and she’s doing a spectacular job of upholding those expectations.
She started sending pictures of herself by Saturday evening. I almost wish I was kidding. She’s either that confident in my blind interest in her, or she doesn’t have a lick of common sense. I’m used to Sammy’s brand of hypervigilance, borderline paranoia. He doesn’t even want me to look at him wrong during the day, let alone actively sending me nudes. God, that’d be hot, though. During the day, she would send pictures of lots of little, innocuous things: her Starbucks coffee, her corgi, a new dress she’d just picked up from the boutique downtown.
The first picture of herself was in that dress, asking my opinion of it. It spiraled from there. Selfies became body shots, and body shots became more and more risqué. The first borderline nude? Monday night, without even asking for it. I suppose my replies were just interested enough for her to keep the momentum rolling all by herself. I waited until Tuesday afternoon to send the nail-in-her-coffin text:
‘I’m having a bit of trouble grasping some of the content for this unit, you think you could make some time for me?’
I didn’t specify the time or place, and it could technically be read back as a genuine request for tutoring. That’s not how she took it, because seconds later came the invite to her place.
‘I’ve always got time for you. Here’s my address, you can come anytime after 6 ;)’
One week. One. Week.
That’s all it took?
Really?
I’m a little mind blown, if I’m being honest. I had to work so, so hard [months!] to bag Sammy, and Jamie Rosenthal is giving it up in less than a week? I know I’m biased, but I look at it as the difference in effort required to gain something cheap versus something of genuine value. McDonald’s is almost always five minutes down the road, no matter where you live, and will only set you back a few bucks. Olive wagyu, however, is $500/lb and sold exclusively out of Shōdoshima, Japan. One takes a considerable more effort than the other. If you didn’t get that analogy, Sammy’s the wagyu.
Jamie may or may not be a great lay, fine as fuck, but she’s my McDonalds. Who wants a McDouble after they’ve had wagyu? I’m a man of refined taste now. School let out an hour ago, and again, it’s a Tuesday, so no practice. Instead of leaving campus for the gym in town, I decide to pound out a quick workout in the school’s weightroom to save time. It’s left unlocked until the administrator’s leave at five. This is where Jacob finds me fifteen minutes later, loading plates onto a bar for squats.
“Dean, hey.” He calls, and he doesn’t look too thrilled at the sight of me, even though I know he deliberately sought me out. He looks seconds away from winding his arm up like a windmill and clocking me a shiner.
“Hey, man…” I reply slowly, drawing my shoulders back just in case.
“Bro, what the fuck is going on?”
“Hey, hey, wait, hear me out–”
“Last week, you wouldn’t spit on Ms. Rosenthal if the bitch was on fire. Now, what, she’s the flavor of the week? Normally, I wouldn’t be giving you shit for it, but even I can tell Mr. Powell is having a hard time. I might not have a raging hard-on for the guy, but this might be the biggest dick move of the century, dude. You’re actually making me feel bad for my Lit teacher, he’s like…Eyeore lately.”
I lift my hands in the classic ‘woah, there, buddy’ gesture. “I hear you, I really hear you, but I swear, it’s not what you think.”
“How the fuck not? At least with Mr. Powell, I didn’t have front row tickets to your…” He wrinkles his nose. “…moves. It’s gross, dude.”
“I am making moves, yes, you’re not wrong about that. But, I have a very, very good reason.”
“Which is…?”
“Blackmail.”
Jacob blinks, dropping his head. “Blackmail…?”
“Look, somehow, Ms. Rosenthal made a fuckin’ good guess about me and Sammy. When they went out for drinks last week, she accused him. Woman’s intuition, some shit, but she threatened to report him.”
“Isn’t that, uh, a little hypocritical? I mean, she’s all over you.”
“Exactly, I’m irresistible, y’know.” I puff my chest out, and Jacob scoffs. “But, I guess I haven’t been receptive enough to her…advances, so she told Sammy to cut me off. Dude, look, check this out.”
I pluck my phone from where I’d left it on the bench and unlock it, pulling up my thread with Ms. Rosenthal. I swipe up, up, up, pausing briefly on the many pictures she sent. Jacob’s eyes get progressively bigger, mouth dropping in awe. “Damn, dude…” He whispers.
“This is all just since Friday’s game, dude. I got her number after, and it’s been nonstop. I’m going to her place tonight.” I scroll to the very bottom of the thread so he can see that exchange. Jacob looks at me, amazed, vaguely afraid.
“So…what’s your plan? I mean, are you going to like, turn this stuff in? Get her fired?”
“Well…” I scratch my cheek. “I thought about that, but I don’t think it’d be a very popular decision. I mean, there would be consequences for her, but I’m sure I’d get the side-eye for reporting it, y’know? So, I’m just gonna threaten her. What’s she gonna do, report Sammy with no hard evidence, when I can report her for the same shit with loads of evidence?”
Jacob claps a hand on my shoulder and spares me a solemn look. “I’m never gonna cross you, dude. Need a spot?”
We wrap it up by four, and on the cusp of victory and a solid pump, I’m feeling like Superman, if Superman resolved his problems through blackmail instead of the world’s most renowned plot armor. I return home to spruce up, putting on the part of an eager eighteen-year-old about to fuck his bombshell of a teacher. Ms. Rosenthal is staying in one of the town’s nicer apartment complexes, and I make absolutely no effort to conceal my presence outside of her place. The more potential witnesses, the better.
I’m practically vibrating as I rap my knuckles against her chipped door. I’ve never been more giddy to fuck someone over. Jamie opens up a few seconds later, and I’m half-expecting her to be naked from the jump. She’s not, but she isn’t exactly dressed modestly: shorts that are half an inch away from being underwear, a crop top, and pink, fuzzy slippers. I glance down at my groin, waiting for a reaction of some sort. Love is one thing, but Jamie Rosenthal is…undeniably hot. She’s got curves for days, in all the right places. The perkiest, most upright, perfectly-sized tits you’d see outside of a Hooters or a volume of Playboy. Her legs are thin, tan, and unequivocally feminine. I know her ass isn’t any less impressive.
But, my dick is more loyal than I gave the little guy credit for. He’s completely dead in the denim coffin of my jeans, not so much as a twitch of life. Love does funny things to a man.
“Dean, you made it!” She smiles, pushing her hair behind her ear.
“I wouldn’t miss your invitation for the world.”
She blushes, laughs, and scoots to the side to let me pass through.
It’s obvious she’s still in the process of moving in, but she’s done her best to feminize the place. It’s decorated cute enough, there are places to sit. She flits into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Can I get you anything to drink? I’ve got a few beers left, if you want one of those.”
Oh my God, offering a minor alcohol? She’s practically signing her own resignation. I feel like an undercover cop, and I have to swallow down a little laugh.
“Yeah, I’ll take one.”
She snaps the top of a Miller High Life and sets it on the counter for me, and in the brief time it takes for her to turn back to the fridge and fish out her own, I snap a picture of the beer with Ms. Rosenthal’s ass in the background. It doesn’t get more incriminating than that, I’d say. She comes back around the counter to stand next to me, boldly encroaching on my space. She tucks into me and looks up through her lashes, smiling.
“I’m so glad we could finally get this one on one time.” She quips, referencing the tutoring I’d asked for. I’m supposed to engage at this point, probably. Touch her, throw a few innuendos around, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The charade is getting harder and harder to maintain, and I’ll lose the element of surprise if she picks up on it. I’m going for a supervillain reveal here, gotta have fun with it.
She does pick up on it, but she mistakes it for nerves, which is a little insulting. She slips her hand beneath the front of my shirt, raking her nails over the ridges of my abs, and grabs my other hand to bring it up to her breast.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to be so shy with me.” She murmurs.
I’d say that’s my cue.
“Jamie, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, anything.” She breathes.
“How fucking stupid are you?”
She snaps with tension, suddenly feeling like a statue leaned up against me. Upon lifting her face to look up, she’s frowning: nervous, confused, and slightly offended.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s the plan, yeah.” I laugh.
She backs away, but this time I follow. When her back bumps the wall, her face colors with genuine fear. “Dean, what the hell…what are you doing? What’s going on?”
“Do you have any idea…how hard I had to work to get to Sammy? To get him to give me a chance? To like me? Just for you…” I press my fingertips to her forehead, pushing until her scalp gently hits the wall. “…to breeze in and try to fuck it all up for me?”
You could hear a sewing needle hit the carpet.
Her brows knit together, distraught. “Sam…? I–I thought–”
“That I’d fuck anything with a pulse? Once Sammy turns me loose, it’s easy pickin’s? You poked your nose where it doesn’t belong, baby. See, I promised him no one was gonna find out, and I’d break bones if I had to. Lucky for you, we don’t have to take it that far.”
Her eyes blow open, before shrinking with an anger she clings to in hopes of staving off the anxiety. She slaps my hand away.
“So you really are screwing him?! What the fuck is wrong with you? How is he…any better than I am?! Don’t tell me your…actually gay!” She spits.
I roll my eyes at the accusation. “What, a guy has to be gay to not want to fuck you? None of it, absolutely fucking none of it, is your business. That’s the problem here. You tried to make it your business, and you went and threatened Sammy with it.”
Her sharply-lined eyes float back and forth, mouth opening and closing around a defensive spiel. She has her hand clasped to her chest, and her body language is begging the question: ‘am I about to become a statistic?’ I try not to take it personally, as I know I’m a big, intimidating guy. But, shit, I’m not a murderer. Well, she doesn’t know that, and as she’s just learned, she doesn’t know the first fuckin’ thing about me.
“Relax, relax.” I laugh, and it’s not a very nice sound, nor does it make her relax. “I’m not here to make it on the news. But, you understand the position you’re in right now. If you try to report Sammy with nothing but your little hunch, I’ll report you with all that evidence you were generous enough to provide.”
Once she realizes murder and/or domestic violence is off the table, she finds a backbone.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Dean?!” She snaps. “Why are you…doing all this for him? You’ll never see him again after graduation, there’s no way you won’t play at the collegiate level.”
“Of course I’m gonna play in college, it’s the only way I’ll get into one.” I snort. “Never see him again? Says who, you? Sammy? He’d probably like to think so. But, between you and me,” I smile, and even I know it’s a twisted, little thing. “He’s going out of state to get his PhD. So, that’s where I’ll play. He doesn’t know that yet, so keep it to yourself.”
Did I snoop through his shit while he slept? Yeah. Does he have the most predictable password known to man on his laptop? Yeah. If you’re judging me, I don’t give a single shit. Just stack it up on top of the pile with the rest of my sins and dubious choices.
“You’re…you’re serious…”
“Mm, very.” I straighten up, giving her some room to breathe. “Since I’ve gone to all this trouble, let’s make a few things clear. I don’t give a shit what you do, who you fuck, but Sam is not your goddamn friend. Beyond what’s necessary between coworkers, don’t look at him, don’t talk to him, don’t even breathe his fucking air. The only exception is an apology for all the stress you’ve put him through. Got it?”
She doesn’t say anything. She’s still huddled against the wall, watching me like I’m a venomous snake within striking distance.
“I’m sorry, was I mumbling? I asked…if you fuckin’ got it.”
She jumps at the hard, sharp angle of my tone. “I-I got it.”
“Great. I’m sure this goes without saying, but stay off my dick. Don’t call on me in class, don’t talk to me in the halls, and don’t show your fuckin’ face at my practices. I want a wide berth, got it?”
“…got it.”
“Great, great. Just so we’re completely, crystal clear…” I look her square in the eyes, flattening the emotion from my face. “…if you make any more trouble for me, we just might make those National headlines.”
I leave that up to her imagination. Murder, sex scandal, either way. Well, she looks sufficiently threatened to me. I roll my shoulders back, swing my head in a little stretch, and return to the counter. I tip the Miller over my face, letting the entirety of its contents drain down my throat, before replacing it on the counter. The empty aluminum smacks loudly against the laminate, and Jamie jumps at the weaponized sound.
“Thanks for the beer, Ms. Rosenthal.”
—
It’s been a long week.
Perhaps, the longest and most exhausting week of my entire life, and no, I won’t cop to exaggeration. Dean talks a big game, always. He’s got a lot of confidence, and I don’t think it’d be right to call it baseless, but…he really does strut around like nothing and no one is a challenge. It’s reassuring, I guess. He claimed he’d fix this thing with Jamie, and he asked me to ignore his antics in the coming week. He also claimed he wouldn’t sleep with her, but…
Well, I suppose that’s why he asked me to look away. If I didn’t know any better, I’d presume that’s exactly what he’s trying to do: fuck her. I’m still not totally convinced that isn’t what he’s after. You would never, ever watch their interactions and peg them as student and teacher. It’s the most in-your-face, vomit-inducing, cringe worthy display of flirting I’ve had the dissatisfaction of witnessing [even if I didn’t like him], and by God, is the power of heteronormativity is a force not to be fucked with.
Because Dean is Dean and Jamie is a young, attractive woman, despite their behavior being on full display for students and faculty alike, no one says a word. Jamie isn’t dragged into the Principal’s office and chastised, nor is she shunned by her fellow educators. Some of the older women on staff do gossip about it, but they’re sweet as pie to her face. There are no warnings, write-ups, or threat of losing her job. I won’t lie, it really shakes me to my core. It makes me question my own morals, as well as everyone else’s sanity.
If Dean was half as brazen with me, and I with him, I’d have been doing the walk of shame, toting a little file box with all my belongings under my arm, after the first week. But, because Jamie’s hot and has a vagina, all’s right with the world. It’s as nature intended, and who can get in the way of nature? Certainly not the administration at this school.
My only silver lining during this time is, whether or not Dean was full of shit, Jamie should be satisfied enough to keep her silence. She’s gotten exactly what she wanted, so I can only pray to God she doesn’t take any accusations to the school’s upper echelon or spread a rumor about me. I just sort of have to sit on my hands and wait. My only indication that Dean does, in fact, have some sort of plan, is the way he looks at me during my class.
He looks just like a dog who’d been caught in the wreckage of an upturned trash can: horribly guilty, pitiful, looking me up and down for signs that some affection still exists in my heart. It’s…sweet, comforting, if I’m honest. It makes me feel like I should be patient and give him the benefit of the doubt. So, come Wednesday morning of the following week, imagine my surprise when Jamie appears in my doorway. She’s barely said a word to me since our outing, and her’s isn’t exactly a face I’m happy to see. The smug, satisfied aura that’s been wrapped about her like a gold-spun shawl is gone. She isn’t her usual, high-maintenance self.
Her eyes are downcast, weighted with the baggage of a sleepless night, and her hair is in the process of drying naturally from a last-minute shower. No makeup, and an outfit much less flattering than usual. She’s wearing crocs, for God’s sake. She clears her throat. “Mr. Powell, could I…have a quick word?”
I mean, how could I turn her down? Did her cat die last night? I’m not heartless.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
She approaches my desk, but stops short, keeping a respectful distance of three feet. She clasps her hands in front of her navel, grinding the bones in her wrist together. “In regards to what we discussed last week, I…just wanted to apologize. It seems like I was mistaken, and you…won’t have to worry about any unfounded accusations from me. That’s all, have a great rest of your day.”
She rushes the last bit out in one breath, then leaves without awaiting a reply from me. I blink at the empty space she stood in, and my brain races to catch up to her words. What…the fuck?
What did Dean do to that poor woman?
For some reason, I’m stuck on the cat thing, and I picture him murdering the little creature and leaving it in on her doorstep with a crayon-scribbled note: “UR NEXT”
I can’t swallow the laugh down, and it’s…the first time I’ve laughed like this in almost three weeks. It feels good. I have no idea what he actually did, but I feel confident in assuming he didn’t sleep with her. That’s not the reaction of someone who’s coming down off a night of intense, fulfilling sex. If he didn’t sleep with Jamie, I suppose it’s safe to say…he’s not slept with anyone but me, right? Jamie’s a gorgeous woman, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to shoot her down, but continue sleeping around with others.
The implications of that are staggering. His tirade from last week, in the middle of my kitchen-breakdown, is something I’ve tried very, very hard to ignore: “…there’s no ‘until graduation’ or ‘until summer’ in my mind, there’s no finish line.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Does he…actually want to…date?
Oh my fucking God.
How do I handle this? I told him I liked him! I do like him! Oh, shit, shit, fuck.
He’s going to be so, so cocky about this whole thing, too. He cleaned it up just like he said he would. As the day wore on, that flirtatious behavior with Ms. Rosenthal was nowhere to be seen. They act as if the other doesn’t exist, and while Jamie shuffles about like a shell of herself, like she’s had the worst night of her life, Dean is practically glowing. He’s radiant, as if reborn in a deity’s image. True to what I’d imagined, Dean is the first one to saunter into my room after the bell signaling lunch’s end. He’s wearing those ridiculously tiny, loose athletic shorts and a billowy tank with arm-holes that descend to his hips. I’ve unofficially dubbed it his ‘slut’ fit.
God, is it effective. He’s such a massive, well-proportioned guy–no muscle looks like it’s received any less attention than another, and they all play a grand part in every movement he makes. His calves and thighs flex with each step, carved out from beach-warmed sunstone. He grins at me with rows of neat, pearly teeth, deliberately lifting his shirt over his stomach to ‘scratch’ it [sure, buddy]. His abs are so goddamn tight and defined, they might as well be named a geographical landmark: the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachian Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and Dean’s insane abs. My mouth dries up as I trace that particular vein, the one that travels his stomach and dips beneath the waistband of his shorts.
His hair has grown a bit since the start of the semester, and it’s like liquid sunshine rolling across his head. He generally keeps it swept back from his face, but a few strands stubbornly lick around his temples. Those eyes, like a lagoon, and they’re shining with his usual brand of self-assuredness.
He’s so stupidly good looking, and it’s so unfair. I can’t teach my class with a fucking erection.
“Hey, Mr. Powell!” He sings, and instead of crowding around my desk like I expect him to, he drops into his own desk. “Get any good news this morning?”
I roll my eyes, but it’s impossible to keep the little smile from spreading across my face. He grins even bigger, brighter, at the sight of it. He’s so, so smug, and already half-hard, Jesus Christ.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
He leans forward, dropping his forearms across his desk. After a quick glance at the door, he asks in a low, gritty voice: “So, can I come over tonight?”
I cut my own cursory glance at the door. “Six.”
“Fuck yeah.”
I’ll do you the courtesy of a fast forward, because as curious as I am about what exactly happened between Dean and Jamie, it seems we’re both more pent up than I realized. I’m sticking with the dog analogy, because he attacks me like an excited labrador as soon as he’s through the front door. Like I’m his beloved owner that dropped him off at doggy daycare for a week. It’s…incredibly flattering, and again, a huge turn on.
I’m standing in front of the stove, eyeballing my kettle because I know it’ll start screeching and hissing steam any second. He calls my name when he comes in, and I call back: “Kitchen!”
I hear him coming around, but damnit, I know this kettle is on the verge–
“Gah, holy shit!”
He scoops me up, and I have to snap my arms and legs around him like a koala clinging to a tree. He peppers my face and throat with kisses, and the dog analogy is feeling more and more accurate. “Oh my fucking God, I missed you so much.” He groans, and the raw emotion in it takes my breath away. He says it like he’s been deprived of oxygen, and I’m his first breath of fresh air before suffocation gets him. I bury my face in the junction of his neck and shoulder, because it’s on fire.
“We…saw each other every day!”
“It’s not the same!”
I know he’s walking somewhere, but my stomach suddenly drops out as he flops onto the couch. “Sammy, come on, let me kiss you.” He urges.
I pull my face back, but it’s too difficult to meet his eyes. Blood is pounding through my face and my heart is ramming splinters out of my ribs. I’m anticipating this kiss in the same way I’d anticipate an orgasm, my entire fucking body is thrumming with excitement. My toes are practically curling over it, a simple kiss. He leans up and sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, and I couldn’t even begin to describe the sound that escapes me. It’s nothing dignified, but Dean groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard in his life.
Then, his tongue is in my mouth, tasting everything he’s missed in the past seven days. It’s breathless, sloppy, and desperate. His hands are everywhere at first, so I’m not sure at what point he decides to refocus all of that attention on my ass. He’s squeezing hard, almost to a point of pain, before digging against my hole through the seam of my shirts. I spasm into his chest, breaking the kiss to hitch a gasp.
“Wait, wait, nngh–!”
“Did you stretch yourself, or did you want me to do it?” He seems way too eager at the prospect. “Fuck, feels wet. You did it already?”
“Hah, God, yes, I-I did it…alread-y! Hngh!”
“Havin’ too much fun by yourself, Sammy, should’a let me do it for you.”
“I just…wanted to–to be ready, fuck, Dean!”
He’s wasted no time in slipping beneath my shorts, sinking his middle and ring finger into me. The butt of his palm is flush against the swell of my ass, and I literally can’t stop myself from sitting back into it. His arm is a tight band around my waist, and he brings the hem of my T-shirt to my mouth. “Bite it for me, baby.”
I take the material between my teeth, and he sets to work replacing imprints of his own in the places they’ve healed. His fingers curl just right, because I swear he’s got a map of my body at this point, and I choke a noise into the cotton in my mouth. “Hah, that’s it, fuck, fuck, I missed you so much, Sammy–”
He’s about to make me cum in my goddamn shorts, like I’m fifteen. With how thin the material of his own shorts are, his cock is a hot, hard imprint between my thighs.
“D-Dean, don’t! I don’t…wanna cum yet, wait!”
“‘s okay, baby, you’re gonna cum lots of times.” He murmurs against my throat, raking his teeth up and down my jugular. I can tell it’s killing him not to bite down, leave a mark there too. His voice, in moments like this, shoots a physical thrill up my spine, into my scalp. It’s low, dark, and full of gravel. He has me pinned so tightly to his chest, bumping his hips up to grind into the warmth between my legs, and working his wrist in something like a fast, hard circular motion that puts constant pressure on that buzzing knot of nerves.
I’m losing my fucking mind, and it’s barely been fifteen minutes since he got here. It could’ve been hours, but the little clock on my end table laughs at me: 6:15pm. Moments later, it’s official, he’s actually trying to kill me. He fishes our cocks out of the front of our shorts, gripping them together in the broad expanse of his hand. He really is bigger than me in every capacity, and fuck, why is that so hot?
“Sammy, your hands, grab ’em–”
I do, and I have to use both hands. The dual sensation of us slipping through the channel of my hands, his length rubbing against mine, is way, way too much in combination with his fingers [three now, Christ] working my ass open. I can feel the strong bass of his pulse in at least ten places. As intense as it is, as good as I feel, I want more. I don’t feel full enough, I need more of him. I want that gouging pressure in my stomach, I want his cock punching so deep through me, it’ll come up through my throat. I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want him, and while that should terrify me, there’s no capacity for such a feeling right now.
“Dean, please, it’s…it’s enough–! Nngh, fuck me, please!”
“You’re gonna cum like this first, then I’ll fuck you.” He mutters, serious as a heart attack. He’s a man on a mission, and I hate him for it, just a little. The pressure is mounting though, because he’s goddamn good at it. I can barely keep half a mind on my hands wrapping our dicks, but if I’m going down, so is he. I drop my head and spit on our conjoined erections, then tighten my grip and set the sliding, twisting motion of a professional. Dean hisses through his teeth.
“Holy shit, Sammy, fuck–nngh! That’s…fuck, that’s so hot, you’re–”
When I cum, more than seeing stars, I can almost taste them. I scream through my teeth, dropping my hips back into Dean’s hand with uncontrollable, jerky movements. I know I’ve probably cut the circulation off to Dean’s fingers, but it’s what he asked for. I’m strangling the life out of our cocks at this point, but I can barely feel it. My body’s like static. Dean’s head thunks back against the cushion, his body tightening up and hips lifting of their own accord. Our combined orgasm hits hard enough to spray us up to the jawline, no man goes unscathed.
“I missed you…” He whispers, kissing me again, softly this time.
Instead of saying something snarky, like ‘you said that already’ or ‘I can tell’, I decide to just be honest:
“I missed you, too.”