Page 22 of Sol
Dani -- Army of one
Blood pulsedthrough my veins like a bullet train to Seville. I didn’t know where the kid who used to hang out with my brother went, but the guy here now was so hot I forgot my lessonplans.
I was so turned on by Trent I thought of nothingelse.
It didn’t help that the classroom was sweltering. He made it worse. At least a dozen students cooled themselves with traditional Spanish fans. I needed one fast before I passed out. Using a syllabus to fan myself, I managed to stayupright.
Somehow, on autopilot, drawing on the muscle memory of past lessons, words came out of my mouth in an order that made sense. “Your grade is based primarily on class participation. I want active conversation from each and every one of you in class.” I leaned on the teacher’s desk for support, ignoring the two dozen pairs of eyes on me and mindlessly recited my spiel to an empty desk in the back. “And I encourage each of you to pair up, meet after class, and practice yourtranslation.”
I couldn’t help but want to pair up with him afterclass.
Goddammit, no, Danika. He’s officially astudent.
“This is not the study of nuance,” I continued, not knowing how much the students were paying attention to me, just wanting to survive the class. “Not yet, at least. You will get the nuance, but it takes time. Right now, with this introductory-level class, we are learning the basics. Subtlety will comelater.”
I hoped I’d comelater.
Fuck, no. Keep it together,Dani.
Trent hadn’t changed in any subtle way. He’d transformeddrastically.
The last time I saw him, years ago, his shaggy hair had framed features too big for his face. Too-big eyes. A too-bigsmile.
He’d grown into them. His light brown hair flopped into his eyes, long on top and shaved on the sides, soft and touchable. Wrinkles around his eyes made him rugged and weather-beaten. But his eyes stayed the same—the most gorgeous blue I’d ever seen, like the Mediterranean Sea near Cádiz or the sky over the Indian Ocean right after sunset, when it was dark but not yetnight.
And hisbody?
He’d hulked out and looked all the better for it. While I liked him before, Ilovedthe way he looked now. Same height, but before where he was lanky and lean, now he’d developed muscles. Shoulders that were so broad they overshadowed the width of the wooden seatback of his desk. Thighs that filled out his tight jeans. Arms like they had softballs implanted in his biceps—and a new “Army of One” tattoo inked down the inside, along with a bunch of other designs I wanted toinspect.
My God, he was beautiful. So much so that he utterly distracted me. I saw nothing but him, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. Because, soldier. Because,fighter.
Because his world tore apart the peaceful, harmonious utopia I wanted to livein.
Having taught this class before saved me. Otherwise I would’ve stood up there mute—or just left the room—unable to be in the same place as him. Relying on those reserve lessons stored in my brain, I kept talking, dividing up the class into partners and handing them an article to translate from Spanish intoEnglish.
“The point of this class is to be able to understand each other. We may come from different worlds, and we speak different languages. But we can learn where the other person is coming from. And we can learn how to write their language from their point ofview.”
As I darted between the students, who were working on translating a simple article I copied off theEl Paíswebsite about a current event in Madrid, a transportation strike, I kept glancing at him. I tried not to. With every time our eyes met, I felt like I was gonna burn up like afalla de encendio—a Spanish papier-mâché caricature. I’d seen them burned in Valencia during a festival earlier thisyear.
Hisfire.
The heat of theclassroom.
My searing thoughts about all the parts of his body I wanted tosee.
Combustible.
For two hours, I taught, delivering my lesson, walking among the students to check their work, listening to them read sentences they translated, gently correcting them, and feeling absolutelyuncomfortable.
Mostly because of the sergeant in the back row, who drew my attention no matter what he did—slouch, stick a pencil behind his ear, tilt his head to listen to his partner. Give me the raciest stare back, like he was imagining what I looked like with my clothesoff.
All the while lounging in a desk chair with his legs spread like he ruled theplace.
He’d pick up a paper and his arm muscles would flex, straining his T-shirt. He’d turn to listen to his partner and a vein would rise in his sinewy neck. He’d speak to his partner, and while I didn’t hover over him, I could imagine the provocative timbre of hisvoice.
Yum.
He kept his distance, though, not talking to anyone except his partner, and seeming a bit…off. My memories of Trent were those of a happy-go-lucky guy, cheerful and laidback. Now, he seemed impassioned, like something was consuming him from theinside.
