Chapter 1 #2
Instead of turning into the faculty lot, Loren takes us to the access road that winds around the back side of campus.
We pass the two-story red brick humanities building where Loren and I both teach.
All her classes are held there, but I spend at least half my day teaching and rehearsing in the theater.
Next up is the math building. Then science, and finally, social science. They’re all two-story buildings, too. Red brick. Shaded by lots of oak trees and connected by winding walkways. As we come around the last bend, my stomach plummets.
The world’s worst car is parked in the stretch of gravel between the theater and the gym.
More specifically, a truck. Most specifically, a midnight-blue Ford F-150.
“Ah!” I let out a strangled huff. “That space is supposed to be reserved for district cars. Or for emergency vehicles. He should know better.”
Loren eases her car up behind Dexter’s truck. “In his defense, school doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes,” she says. “He probably figured there wouldn’t be any district people here yet. Or emergencies, for that matter.”
“Still.” My pulse picks up. “Rules are rules.”
“Right.” Loren’s mouth slips into a smirk. “I guess you really have no choice but to go tell him off then. For the safety of the entire school.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Go get ’em, Tiger,” she says. “Just remember to keep that dislike wee.”
I climb from her car and stalk over to the side entrance of the gym.
As our school’s performing arts director, I have a master key that unlocks all the doors on campus.
When I haul this one open, a sharp screech pierces the air, and I make a mental note to tell Gordon, our head custodian, that he should probably get some WD-40 on those hinges.
I can add that to my to-do list later. But first things first, I have to find Dexter.
Inside, the gym is mostly dark. The courts are deserted, and rows of stands are collapsed against the wall. The only light comes from the front of the building, shining weakly through the glass doors of the lobby. No Dexter.
Hmmm.
If he’s not here, he must be down in his classroom.
He teaches health first period, so I’ll bet Mr. Everybody-Loves-Me parked up here because it’s closer to the science building than the faculty lot is.
And for the record, I only memorized his schedule so I can avoid him as much as possible.
Unfortunately, I can’t avoid him today. I owe it to our school’s rules to find the man and make him move his truck. Now.
I’m about to head off to search for him in the science building when a crash sounds from inside a room on the other side of the gym, almost like someone dropped a barbell.
Aha!
Dexter must be in the weight room using the school’s equipment off hours. I don’t know much about Stony Peak’s liability policy, but insurance companies have regulations, and this could be a violation. Either way, he’s parked illegally, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.
No matter how perfect everyone else at the school thinks he is.
Squaring my shoulders, I cross the squeaky basketball courts, then head down the hall off the gym’s lobby. When I come to the door of the weight room, I throw it open, blinking rapidly in the fluorescent lights. As my eyes adjust, the truth is just as I suspected.
Dexter is facing away from me, gripping a pair of dumbbells and counting out reps.
He’s got his earbuds in and he’s huffing and puffing to whatever man-music is on his playlist. The fabric of his dark gray shirt clings to his back, pulled taut by a cornucopia of muscles.
I got an A in AP Physiology, and my list-loving brain automatically takes a quick inventory:
Trapezius.
Latissimus Dorsi.
Rhomboids.
Delts.
Stupid lists.
My mouth falls open, and something stirs low in my stomach, a tightening of my abdomen. Probably from the breakfast burrito. I hate that my heart is racing from indigestion.
And I really hate that Dexter Michaels is hot.
His skin is beaded with sweat, and a thatch of almost-black hair is damp at the base of his neck. With a final grunt, he returns the weights to their rack and reaches for a towel.
I could slip out the door now and pretend I didn’t just get an eyeful of his workout, but this man already gets away with everything. I need to call out the golden boy for what he’s done wrong.
While I debate my options, he rolls his shoulders, head tilting back as he exhales. Then something terrible happens.
A no-good, very bad, horrible thing.
Dexter Michaels turns, mid-stretch, and catches me gaping at him.
He slings his towel over one shoulder, and a smile stretches across his face, slow and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to humiliate me. Meanwhile, a single bead of sweat breaks free at the top of his throat, trickling down his thick, corded neck to—
“Morning, Kroft,” he drawls. “Enjoying the view?”
“NO!” I blurt, choking on my spit. The old Sayla from last spring would dig a metaphorical hole straight through the mats to bury herself in the center of the earth. But the new Sayla from this fall has done nothing wrong.
I’ve done nothing wrong.
So I stomp toward him, my blood pumping and my eyes on fire. I’m Shakespeare’s King Henry, preparing to engage the enemy on the battlefield, and this time, I will not lose to Dexter.
Once more into the breach.
Unfortunately, the closer I get, the more the energy between us crackles.
Like wool socks rubbed over carpet during an electrical storm.
He watches my approach, dragging a hand along his beard.
The same beard that’s been the source of much ooh-ing and ahh-ing among the female population of Stony Peak High.
When I’m inches from him, I come to a halt and level my gaze. He’s glistening with fresh sweat, and he smells like salt mixed with cedar. His lips slope into a full-blown cocky grin, and a pulse of laughter comes from his throat, deep and low.
“You didn’t have to do that on my account, Kroft.”
“Do what?” I huff.
“Your button’s undone.” His eyes dip to my blouse, the one I’m wearing under my second-luckiest cardigan. “But you already had my attention.”
Wow.
Loren’s right.
I freaking hate this man.