Bed Chemistry

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Ashleigh Hutchinson, please report to the principal’s office.”

The voice summoning me over the intercom crackles through the dull murmur of the chemistry lab. Students abandon their Bunsen burners and beakers—some clear, others filled with orange bubbling liquid, a couple with radioactive green—in favor of staring at me.

One beaker goes up in smoke. That’ll be fun to clean up later. Or should I say, throw out? Not even acetone can save that beaker. And I refuse to use beakers that have been compromised by organic matter in my classroom. I do have standards.

The air is so thick with bitter smoke that I cough.

The entire room smells like the burned coffee you get from the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop near the Metro station, the kind you know only makes a profit because caffeine is an addiction and a severe hangover can make you pay five dollars for a cup of literal garbage that’s been baking on the sidewalk during a record heat wave in summer.

Which I did, coincidentally, just this morning.

“Oooooohhh, what’d you do, Miss Ash?” Jonah calls out from the back of the class, setting off a chain of gossipy whispers.

Other teachers have dubbed him the “class clown”—his mission, to disrupt the class.

But the way I see it, he’s a natural leader.

And funny as fuck, too, though I’ll never tell him that—he can figure it out when he inevitably becomes the CEO of a start-up in Silicon Valley.

I touch my nose and point at Jonah, implying I know what I did to get sent to the principal’s office and I’m not telling.

The truth is, I have no idea why I’m being summoned right now.

Then I direct my attention to the entire class.

“Turn off your burners, bottle up your concoctions, and finish your lab reports.”

I launch myself out of the chair and crack a window to diffuse the smell. “Aaron, you’re in charge,” I say to the smartest thirteen-and-a-half-year-old I’ve ever met. “And don’t forget to label your bottles. I need your name, today’s date, and your blend.” I close the door behind me.

The truth is, the lab report means nothing. It’s the last day of school. They all passed with flying colors. But why waste one final opportunity to practice? Plus, I now have ten bottles of simple syrup just in time for the summer break. Okay, make that nine. They can’t all be winners.

This year I went for a combination of orange-infused, lime-infused, and straight-up sugar water. I can’t wait to try Aaron’s tonight, hair of the dog and all. Which appears to be the only way to cure the kind of pounding headache I currently have. Believe me, I’ve tried everything else.

I turn the corner and nearly bump into Miss Clare, Sherman Oaks Private School’s biology teacher and my personal hype woman.

“Ash,” she says, placing her hand gently on my arm as we do the hallway tango of walking around each other while fitting in as much interaction as we possibly can before our feet take us our separate ways. She tilts her head toward the intercom in the hall with a smile. “Promotion?”

“On the last day of school? Hardly,” I say, laughing. I wish. But maybe someday. Principal Holland will need to retire sooner or later, and I know I’m the right person to replace him.

“Another award, then,” she says, getting excited.

“Maybe,” I say, a little coy, like it’s nothing when in fact, every award I win is another step closer to proving I’m capable of running the school.

I resume my march toward the office, but not before clamping down on the smile that’s creeping across my face. Shit, maybe I am getting promoted.

Connie, the school administration manager, waves me through without looking up from her extremely loud and ASMR-porn worthy keyboard.

She’s always typing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not type.

Which is weird, right? Like how many school newsletters can she send out in a week?

And how many times can she ask the parents for more money for even more “state-of-the-art” facilities?

I have a theory that Connie is secretly like Allison Janney’s character in 10 Things I Hate About You—an erotica author who goes by a pen name, something like Mike Hunt, and she writes all day about his “throbbing member” entering her “slit.”

Now Connie gives me a small nod of permission and I head into Principal Holland’s office.

I’m immediately assaulted by a barrage of participation awards hanging from the walls.

You know, “Best Dressed School of 1984” and “Healthiest Lunch Menu in the County.” I search for the “Biggest Asshole” certificate for Principal Holland but come up short.

I don’t even know how he gets these awards.

Is there a principal awards night where sad people go to feel validated?

Don’t get me wrong. I love teaching. I love my students.

But I loathe Principal Holland. If I were to profile him like I was on Criminal Minds, my binge-watching show of choice, he’d be a serial killer, no question.

Male, midforties, mother issues—which is why he obviously hates strong women. He thinks the world owes him.

Hearing me, the man himself swivels around on his vintage oxblood leather chesterfield chair and gestures for me to sit.

“Ashleigh,” he says in such a slimy way I almost vomit in my mouth.

How can someone make you hate the sound of your own name?

“Do you know the reason I’ve called you out of your class today? ”

Guess we’re skipping the small talk. Thank God.

I’m about to straight-up ask where my latest award is but decide to play it cool.

“Is it about the simple syrup? Brilliant, right? The kids love learning about hydrolysis,” I say, explaining how lessons in chemistry can double as lessons in useful life skills.

He shakes his head. “We’ve had complaints.”

Wait, what? Complaints? That’s unexpected. I care for my students. I take them from flailing preteens who can’t even tell you that hydrogen is the first element on the periodic table to having the top grades in the state. And they can whip up a mean simple syrup.

“What are you talking about? If I’m not mistaken, one of those awards on your wall states I’m the best chemistry teacher in the state.

” I point to the wall where, in fact, a plaque with my name on it is displayed.

Granted the school’s name is even bigger.

And Principal Hollandfuck’s name is on it too. But still, it’s there. Proof.

The smallest smirk rests in the corner of Principal Holland’s mouth. He’s totally getting off on this. The Criminal Minds profile stands. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a basement full of body parts. Wheels up in twenty.

“It is not about your classroom, Ashleigh.” Again, with the name.

I shiver. “I’ve had numerous reports about your out-of-school activities,” he goes on, emphasizing the out-of-school part so forcefully I can smell the stale tobacco from the not-so-secret cigarette he smokes at lunch.

“Our reputation is important, and your … promiscuous behavior is leaving a bad taste in the mouth of the parents, the faculty, and the school community.”

And suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.

Mrs. Kelly. The fucking PE teacher. She ratted me out.

Okay, here’s the deal. Not that I need to justify myself to anyone, but this is what I know to be true.

There’s oxytocin. That’s the love drug. And then there’s lust. That’s the pure sex hormone.

And they are polar opposites. I’m talking smokin’ hot and frigid cold.

Pleasure and pain in the ass. Soaking wet and very, very dry.

Love and sex: never the two shall meet. You can fall in love, or you can have great sex. But love and chemistry can’t coexist.

That’s why the Bone It app was invented.

No dating. No love. Just hookups. For one night only.

Now imagine, if you will, the kind of men who use said app.

Yep. Those kind of men. Which, admittedly, makes meeting one of them after work an oversight on my part. But after two duds in a row, the horny inside was desperate.

Last week, app in hand, I found a dude who lived around the corner.

I swiped right on my lunch break. He insisted he meet me at the end of my workday and walk me back to his place.

Add in the handful of my ass he grabbed as I barely crossed the school gates, and to be honest, I’m lucky only Mrs. Kelly saw.

The man in question? I don’t remember his name, but I remember he had a curve to it. And he reached places not even my vibrator could.

I was content with my rule. It hadn’t failed me.

Until now.

Principal Holland’s corner smirk has grown into a full-blown one. I want to punch it off his face. Instead, I take a breath. He’s waiting for my response.

There are two ways this can go down from here. The first: he’ll try to control my private life and, in that case, blessed be the fucking fruit. Or: he’ll use this as grounds to fire me.

I note his smug expression. Holy shit. He’s going to fire me. No. No way. Impossible.

But apparently, it is quite possible.

“We’re letting you go, effective immediately,” he says, looking oh-so-very-pleased with himself, as if he gets off on ruining a person’s life. Which, let’s be honest, he probably does.

I pick my jaw up off my floor. I can’t believe this is happening.

A part of my brain is questioning the legality of this—can he actually fire me for my social behavior?

What will happen to my students who are taking advanced chem with me next year?

Who’s going to make sure the supply cupboard is properly labeled?

I glance at my watch. It’s 3:11 PM. The bell is about to ring.

“What the f—?” I stop myself, knowing if I let out one little fuck, I’m gone for sure. I clear my throat. “You can’t fire me over the people I date.” I use the term loosely because there is nothing date-like about my one-night stands. He doesn’t need to know that, though.

He stands, making himself look bigger. A move I’m sure he read in How to Lose Friends and Intimidate People.

I think we all know from experience that the kind of man—scratch that, the kind of asshat—that needs to make himself look bigger is lacking in the pants department.

I vomit in my mouth a little for thinking about his crotchal region.

He bares his nicotine-stained teeth, like a junkyard dog going in for the kill. “As you may recall,” he says, his voice oozing, “your contract has an ethics clause which states that no sexual interactions may occur on school premises. You violated that last week.”

And just like that, the first wave feminists roll over in their grave.

I do some quick arithmetic. Can I sue the school for wrongful termination?

Nope. This school has one of the top lawyers in the state on retainer, thanks to the sense of entitlement these rich kids have inherited.

There’s no way I’d be able to afford to sue them and win.

“You already filled my position for next year?” I say, hating how soft and sad my voice sounds even to myself. These kids are my world. I may pretend to be tough and snarky, but I really do love that I help them love chemistry.

And now I can’t do that anymore. Not here, at least. And maybe not anywhere close.

All the open teaching gigs for the following school year have probably been taken at this point. This is a sadistic blow. He could have told me a week ago when all the new positions were being filled. And, coincidentally, when Mrs. Kelly saw my ass being manhandled.

“Do you understand what ‘effective immediately’ means?” he says.

The bell rings.

My stomach bottoms out as reality crashes down.

Holy shit. I just got fired for being the best chemistry teacher in the state who also happens to have a healthy sex life.

What the actual fuck?