Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
KADE
"Kade!"
The voice grates across my skull like nails on a chalkboard. I ignore it. Pointless—Jules never takes a fucking hint—but I keep my attention on James anyway.
"I can get you more tomorrow."
"No rush, man." James shifts his backpack, casual, nobody watching would know we're talking business. "If I can just get more before the weekend, that's cool. Oh, and maybe some K?"
"I don't fuck with that shit." Ketamine's messy, unpredictable, the kind of drug that gets people hurt and brings attention I don't need. "But I can hook you up with someone—"
Claws sink into my arm. Fucking Christ.
"Kade, didn't you hear me calling you?" Jules's whine could strip paint. She presses against my side like she has rights to be there.
"No, I was having a conversation."
I turn back to James, extracting my arm from her grip without being gentle about it. "I'll get you the rest tomorrow and set you up with my guy."
"Cool. See you tomorrow." James fist bumps me and disappears into the cafeteria crowd, smart enough to make himself scarce before Jules starts her shit.
I walk into the cafeteria, heading straight for the table where Brad and Jacob are already posted up.
Jules follows like a fucking shadow. She doesn't take hints.
Never has. I let her suck my dick one time because she was always all over me anyway and figured maybe she'd get it out of her system.
Wrong. Dead fucking wrong. Now she acts like we're dating or something, always by my side when we're not in class, texting me constantly even though I never answer. Ever.
I drop into the chair across from the guys.
These two are the only people in this whole school I can stand.
Everyone else is a fucking idiot. But at least I make good money off them—selling weed to rich kids with daddy issues pays for my bike maintenance and then some.
After graduation I'll have to figure out how to replace that income. A problem for future me.
"Kade." Brad grins. "What's up, bro?"
I nod.
"I see you brought a friend." Jacob's eyes slide to Jules with barely concealed amusement.
"'Brought' is not the right word."
"Hey!" Jules's whine kicks up another notch.
"Bro, have you seen the new lit teacher?" Brad leans forward, conspiratorial.
"Fuck yeah I have." Jacob's whole face lights up. "She's hot. Even in that modest clothing. Just imagine if she wore shorter skirts and tighter shirts—"
"I'm getting a boner." Brad says it with a shit-eating grin.
"Eww!" Jules wrinkles her nose like she's never heard the word before. "I've seen her and she's pretty plain if you ask me."
"Well it's a good thing nobody did." Brad doesn't even look at her.
Jules turns to me, expectant, waiting for me to defend her or some shit.
Instead I turn to the guys. "How hot we talking?"
Jules huffs, grabs her bag, stomps off across the cafeteria like she's in a fucking musical.
I smile. "Fucking finally."
"Damn, that chick is annoying as hell." Jacob watches her retreat with obvious relief.
"I know." I stretch out in my chair, finally able to breathe without perfume choking me. "You guys are welcome to take her off my hands."
"Fuck, I'll hit it," Brad says, "but I don't want her trying to hang on me like she does with you."
"Good luck with that."
"So." I lean forward. "About this new teacher?"
When lunch ends, I'm actually looking forward to class.
First fucking time in—ever? Probably ever.
If I'm right, the cute girl from the parking lot this morning is the new lit teacher.
Has to be. Brad and Jacob's description matches perfectly—hot but hiding it, like she's actively trying to downplay whatever she's got going on.
Makes sense if she's a teacher, even if she did park in the seniors lot and looks barely older than us.
The hallway's packed with the usual chaos—lockers slamming, people shouting across the corridor, the smell of cheap body spray mixing with cafeteria grease. I push through it all, mind already where my body's headed.
I walk into class and spot her immediately.
She's sitting behind the desk, pair of glasses perched on her nose that she definitely wasn't wearing this morning.
My dick perks up. Fuck. I adjust myself discreetly and head straight for the front row.
Never sit up front—why would I when I can sleep in the back?
—but today's different. I want an up-close view.
Need to see if those eyes are really as interesting as I remember, if that nervous energy she had in the parking lot translates into the classroom.
The desk chair scrapes against linoleum as I drop into it. A few people look over—probably wondering why Kade Stone suddenly gives a shit about literature—but I ignore them. My attention stays locked on her.
She doesn't look up from her phone until the bell rings.
Takes a look around the room, scanning faces like she's cataloging threats or allies.
Smart. When her eyes land on mine, confusion flashes across her face for a second before she smooths it away.
Recognition. She remembers the parking lot too.
"Alright." She scans the room again, deliberately skipping over me this time. Professional distance already. "I'm Mrs. Reid, and I'll be filling in for the rest of the year."
Mrs. Reid. Married. Disappointing. Though the lack of ring on her finger tells a different story than the title suggests. Separated? Divorced? Or maybe just keeping her maiden name off the table?
"Where's Mrs. Peterson?" Some girl in the back asks, genuine concern in her voice.
"I'm not sure." Mrs. Reid—Fallon, my brain supplies the name from the parking lot conversation—shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Nervous tell. "I was just told they needed someone to cover her class."
"I heard she got knocked up," one guy says, voice carrying that asshole edge that makes me want to knock his teeth in.
"I heard she had plastic surgery that went wrong." Another girl, this one relishing the gossip.
"Let's not try to guess—" Fallon starts, but everyone keeps throwing out theories, voices overlapping, getting louder. Building on each other's bullshit like a pack of hyenas. She looks exhausted already. First day and these idiots are testing her, seeing how far they can push before she breaks.
"Enough."
The room goes silent. Everyone knows better than to keep talking when I shut shit down. That's what happens when you're Walker Stone's son—your voice carries weight even when you're barely using it.
Fallon gives me a small smile—grateful, maybe?
Or just surprised that someone bothered to help—then redirects her attention around the room.
"So. I want to get started with genre exploration.
See what level everyone's on while we learn about different genres in the process.
" She moves to her desk with those careful, measured steps.
Graceful. Grabs a stack of papers, perfectly aligned like she spent time making sure everything looked professional.
"I have a handout of genres to choose from.
Pick one and write a short story in that genre.
All the details are on the handout, including word count. "
She starts passing them out, moving down the aisles with that same careful energy from the parking lot.
I watch her hands. Delicate fingers, small wrists.
No wedding ring despite the "Mrs." title.
Definitely interesting. The paper lands on my desk and I catch a whiff of her perfume—something light, floral.
Completely at odds with the leather and motor oil I'm used to.
"We'll spend the week discussing genres in class," she continues, voice gaining confidence as she settles into teacher mode, "and Monday we'll start reading our stories out loud. Let's start today with poetry."
She launches into the lesson and I just... watch her.
Can't help it. She's sexy as hell in this understated way that makes me want to figure out what she's hiding.
Hair pulled back in a ponytail, really showing off her features—delicate, almost fragile.
Cute. I actually laugh under my breath at myself.
Since when is "cute" in my fucking vocabulary?
But that's the word that fits. She's tiny, maybe five-two, five-three max.
Nothing more. Moves with this graceful, almost seductive quality that has me shifting in my seat, adjusting myself again because my jeans are getting tight.
The way she gestures when she talks, hands painting pictures in the air. The slight flush on her cheeks when she gets excited about whatever poet she's discussing. The way her teeth catch her bottom lip when she pauses to think.
Fuck. I'm in trouble here.
She writes something on the board—types of poetry, categories I couldn't care less about but suddenly seem fascinating—and I notice the way her skirt hugs her ass when she reaches up.
Modest clothing my ass. Brad and Jacob were right.
There's a body under there worth imagining.
The fabric pulls just tight enough to show curves she's clearly trying to hide.
"Poetry is often dismissed as overly emotional or feminine," she's saying, turning back to face us with that teacher authority that somehow makes her hotter.
"But some of the most brutal, honest writing exists in poetic form.
It strips away all the bullshit—" She pauses, eyes widening slightly like she just realized she swore in front of students.
Amateur mistake. "Sorry. Strips away everything unnecessary and forces you to feel something raw. "
Raw. Yeah. That's one word for what I'm feeling right now.
My brain's already going places it shouldn't—imagining what she'd look like without the professional armor, without the careful distance she's maintaining between herself and this room full of horny teenagers.
Without whatever weight she's carrying that shows in the tightness around her eyes when she thinks no one's watching.
I lean back in my chair, studying her like she's a puzzle I need to solve. And maybe she is.