Dime’s Dozen (The Saint’s Outlaws MC: Laurel Springs, AL Chapter #2)

Chapter 1

One

Allison

Things have been slightly tense the last few weeks since Dani told me about Devil and Dime. It's not as if Dime and I have been able to seriously discuss it. I haven't wanted to rock the boat too much with Dime. He's the best man I know, and I don't want to lose him.

But to say it hasn't knocked us all slightly sideways would be a lie too.

Which is why I'm not necessarily paying attention as I'm trying to prepare my room for the next class. It's been a long day, and we're just right after lunch, not close enough to be almost the end of the day. I haven't seen Dime in three days, and I miss him.

"Miss Roberts, can I talk to you?" I close my eyes, before I lift my head. Logan. The kid who has been making me feel so uncomfortable lately. Sighing as quietly as possible, I lift my eyes and smile slightly. "Sure, what's going on?"

That's when I notice he's not looking like he normally does. His skin is clammy, and his hands are shaking.

"You've been ignoring me." He bites the words out.

The accusation hits me like a slap. I set down my lesson plans and really look at him.

Logan Matthews has always been one of my more challenging students – not academically, but behaviorally.

He's eighteen, a senior who should have graduated last year but got held back.

There's something about the way he looks at me sometimes that makes my skin crawl, but I've always told myself I was overreacting.

"Logan, I haven't been ignoring you. I treat all my students equally." I keep my voice calm and professional, but my instincts are screaming that something is very wrong here. His pupils are dilated, and there's a wild energy radiating off him that makes me want to step back.

"That's bullshit!" His voice cracks, and he takes a step closer to my desk. "You used to smile at me. Really smile. Now you barely look at me. You're always helping other kids, always paying attention to everyone else."

I stand up slowly, trying to put more distance between us without being obvious about it. "Logan, I care about all my students. If you're struggling with something in class, we can set up a time to…"

"I don't want to talk about fucking class!" The curse word explodes out of him, and I flinch. He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "I saw you, you know. Last weekend. Downtown."

My blood runs cold. Last weekend, Dime took me to dinner at that little Italian place on Main Street. We'd been careful, or so I thought. Small towns have big eyes, and dating a member of the Saint's Outlaws MC wasn't exactly going to win me any points with the school board.

"Logan, what I do in my personal time…"

"With him." His voice drops to a whisper, but it's somehow more terrifying than when he was shouting. "That guy with the motorcycle. The leather jacket. I watched you two for almost an hour."

The bottom drops out of my stomach. "You watched us?"

"You were laughing. Really laughing. The way you used to laugh with me when I'd tell jokes in class. And he was touching you." Logan's face twists with an emotion I can't quite identify, but it makes every alarm bell in my head start ringing. "His hands were all over you. And you liked it."

I need to end this conversation. Now. I take another step back, but my hip hits the corner of my desk. "Logan, I think you should go back to your class. We can discuss this with Principal Harrison if…"

"No!" He lurches forward, and I see his hands are shaking worse now. That's when I notice his eyes, not just dilated, but twitchy. Moving too fast, not focusing on anything for more than a second. "You don't get to dismiss me. Not anymore."

"What did you take?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His laugh is harsh and bitter. "What didn't I take? Started with some pills I found in my mom's medicine cabinet. But that wasn't enough. Not when I kept thinking about you with him."

My mouth goes dry. This is so much worse than I thought. "Logan, you need help. Let me call someone…"

"I don't need help." His voice rises to a shout again. "I need you to stop pretending like what we have doesn't matter."

"We don't have anything, Logan. I'm your teacher. You're my student. That's it."

The words seem to hit him like a physical blow. He staggers back a step, his face going pale except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. "That's not true. You know it's not true. The way you look at me sometimes…"

"You're barely eighteen years old." I don't mean to shout, but the words tear out of me. "I'm your teacher. There is nothing between us, there never has been, and there never will be."

For a moment, the room is completely silent except for the sound of our breathing. Logan's face cycles through a dozen different expressions – hurt, rage, confusion, and something that looks almost like heartbreak.

"But you'll be with him," he says finally, his voice small and lost. "That biker trash. You'll let him touch you, kiss you, fuck you…"

"Stop." I hold up a hand, my voice deadly quiet. "Don't you dare talk about my boyfriend like that."

The word boyfriend seems to hit him like a punch. His whole body goes rigid, and when he looks at me again, there's something in his eyes that makes my blood freeze in my veins.

"Boyfriend?" He repeats the word like it's poison on his tongue. "That's what he is to you? Your boyfriend?"

I lift my chin, even though everything in me is screaming to run. "Yes. Dime is my boyfriend. We're together. And what you're feeling; it's not real, Logan. It's not healthy. You need to talk to someone…"

"Shut up." His scream echoes off the classroom walls, and I jump backward, my hip hitting the desk hard enough to send a spike of pain through my side. "You think I don't know what's real? You think I'm some stupid kid who doesn't understand what love is?"

"This isn't love, Logan. This is an obsession. This is…"

"This is your fault." He's pacing now, back and forth in front of my desk like a caged animal. "You made me feel this way. You smiled at me, you were nice to me, you made me think…" His voice breaks. "I thought you cared about me."

My heart actually aches for him in that moment, because I can see the lost, broken kid underneath all the rage and whatever drugs are coursing through his system. But I also know I'm in serious danger here.

"I do care about you, Logan. I care about all my students. But the way you're feeling…"

"Stop talking about my feelings like you're some kind of expert." He whirls around to face me, and that's when I see it. The way his jacket hangs oddly on one side. The bulge that's too big and too heavy to be a phone or wallet.

Oh God. He has a weapon.

My training kicks in. Stay calm. Don't escalate. Try to de-escalate. But also, get help. I need to get help.

"You're right," I say quietly, moving my hand slowly toward my purse on the desk. "I'm not an expert on feelings. I'm just a teacher."

"Don't." His voice is suddenly deadly quiet. "Don't move."

I freeze, my hand inches from my purse. From my phone.

"I saw you reach for something. What's in the bag?"

"Just... just my phone. And some makeup. Girl stuff." I try to keep my voice light, conversational. "Logan, whatever you took, it's making you paranoid. Let me help you."

"I said don't move!" He reaches into his jacket, and my world narrows to a single point of terror.

But instead of pulling out whatever weapon I know is there, he just holds his hand against it. A threat. A promise.

"I've been watching you for months," he says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather.

"Did you know that? Since the end of the last school year.

I know what time you get here in the morning.

I know what you eat for lunch. I know that you always grade papers in your car before you go home because you like the quiet. "

The casual tone makes it somehow worse than the shouting. I feel like I'm going to be sick.

"I know you live in that little blue house on Maple Street. I know you have a cat named Whiskers. I know you order Chinese food every Friday night and you always get too much and eat the leftovers for breakfast Saturday morning."

"Logan…"

"I know you've been sleeping with him." The words come out flat and emotionless. "The biker. I followed you to his place last Tuesday night. You didn't come home until Wednesday morning."

The blood drains from my face. He's been stalking me. For months.

"You wore that little black dress," he continues in that same dead voice. "The one that shows off your legs. You never dress like that for school. You never dress like that for me."

I have to get my phone. I have to call for help. But he's watching me like a hawk, and I know the second I make a move toward my purse, he's going to snap completely.

"What do you want, Logan?" I ask quietly.

"I want you to admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you feel something for me too. That all those times you smiled at me, all those times you stayed after class to help me, all those times you touched my hand when you were helping me with my work – I want you to admit that meant something."

My heart breaks a little because I can see how desperately he needs this to be true. How much he's built up these normal, professional interactions into something they never were.

"Logan, I was being a good teacher. That's what teachers do. We care about our students, we help them, we…"

"Stop lying to me." The scream tears out of him, and his hand moves inside his jacket. "I can't take any more lies."

That's when I make my move. While he's distracted by his own rage, I lunge for my purse. My fingers close around my phone just as his hand comes out of his jacket.

The gun looks enormous in the fluorescent lighting of the classroom. Black and deadly and pointed right at my chest.

"Put the phone down." His voice is calm again, which is somehow more terrifying than the screaming.