Page 14 of Manhattan Secret

It falls on deaf ears.

Several pairs of entitled eyes look my way, laugh and go right back to talking like I’m not an authority figure in the front of the room waiting to begin. Eighteen-year-old kids, dressed in their designer jeans and dangly earrings, holding phones I probably can’t afford even if I save for six months, acting like little punks.

Trying to test out the new teacher’s boundaries, no doubt.

Well stuff that in a taco shell and eat it for dinner.

I refuse to show fear or my frustration.

Not on my first day, not in front of these kids and not at all, in fact.

The moment you show weakness it’s a free for all to fuck around.

Yanking out my chair, the legs scraping against the tiled floor, I’m once again thankful for my Vans when I climb up on top, and stick two fingers in my mouth, giving the loudest, most piercing shrill whistle.

Every head turns around. Every person stops what they are doing to look my way. “Right, now I have everyone’s attention. Kindly take your seats or I’ll assume you just want me to fail you. I’m good with either.”

My voice holds firm, meeting each set of challenging eyes. A few butts hit seats but most… especially a group of three, two girls and a boy remain standing, glaring their pushback.

I’m fresh meat and these affluent a-holes are testing me or trying to. I might look small, but I’m not a fucking pushover. I lift an eyebrow, waiting.

This is all I need for my first day, a freaking turf war with bitchy teens.

“Who does she think she is,” I hear muttered among the crowd, a few snickers and then out of the corner of my eye, while up on my chair mountain, I see the door swinging open with a late arrival. “You heard Miss Sloan. Sit the fuck down.” The deep gravel voice commands from the left and makes butts hit seats so fast it might have been comical.

Only, I’m paralyzed.

Up there on my chair, my legs suddenly quaking, my belly rolling all that yummy coffee around causing a swirl of acid to accumulate in my lower intestines because…

Because… no, I can’t be looking down at the bathroom guy.

It’s impossible.

An hallucination. I’m practically touching the ceiling standing on the chair, maybe it’s altitude dizziness. Yeah, that sounds plausible.

Clipped, short blond hair, a light dusting of facial hair along his jawline and chin, over six feet tall with twinkling blue eyes and an air of superiority pouring off him and a mouth I know how it tastes.

Yeah, it’s the bathroom guy alright.

Oh.

My.

Freaking.

God.

I can’t.

This isn’t.

That’s about as far as words go in my brain.

I don’t think I’ve blinked in thirty seconds. And breathing? Not sure.

My eyes though, they take in everything about this new nightmare.

Really ripped body encased in faded denim jeans.

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