Page 178 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 1

Stealing Summer by Nicolina Martin

Chapter One

Stephan

This is not the man I was, but it’s the man I’ve become, and I’m too fucking long gone to change back. I was never a good boy, but I used to have an ounce of decency. After causing the death of someone I considered my almost-sister, I discarded all pretenses. So here I am.

Like a pervy stalker, I sit perched sideways on my bike, my legs crossed at my ankles, a joint between my fingers. I wiggle it and listen to the clacks as the thick silver rings grind against each other. The occasional, slight gusts of wind whirl up the dust before it settles again. I’m hot as hell in my leather jacket, but I expect to hit the road any second, so it stays on.

The school bell rings. An annoying, persistent sound designed to wake the dead.

I pull on the joint, lower it, and wait as I exhale a light-gray cloud of smoke.

Any minute now.

The double front doors slam open, and she comes running. The vision, as always, makes my heart skip a beat.

Summer Jones.

She moved here last year. Like me.

Long, dirty-blonde hair, micro-braided and adorned with little beads of all colors. Long pink or purple skirts, torn, used-to-be-white Converse that have seen their best days, wide Gypsy blouses that never seem to fit properly. She looks like she stepped out of a thrift store. Between her and her hippie mom, the little family sticks out like fuck.

Summer Jones reminds me of the girl I lost all those years ago.

Savannah Wilder was so young, too young, and too good for me. Even our platonic friendship would have caused an uproar, had people known. Hers was the only true kindness I’d ever felt, non-judgmental and pure. She didn’t see me as a fuckup.

After her death, it’s all I’ve had left—being an asshole, loathing the whole world as much as it hates me.

This girl is also young, but perfectly legal. In a world of cynicism and greed, this nature’s child is a breath of fresh air. She awakens every protective instinct in me, which is a conundrum since I’m probably the biggest, baddest around.

The last decade, I’ve fucked and drunk my way across the continent, rarely sleeping at one place more than a few weeks. I’ve threatened, bribed, or stolen places to rest my head, but I’ve never owned one.

Until now.

I passed through this little bump on the road on my way north, my Harley and my worn bag with some clothes and a toothbrush my only possessions. I take the odd job here and there and I have money. I never have any use for it, though.

Until now.

I saw her on the first day. The first hour on the first day. Tall and skinny, a little awkward, not even trying to fit in, an outcast, a pariah. How doesn’t anyone else see what a stunning beauty she is?

No one looks past the surface, and to be honest, the surface is a mess. A cute-as-pie mess, but still. She could use a firm hand and some discipline in her life. And she needs to get far away from that mom of hers. I long to see this girl reach her true potential, and that ain’t gonna be in this little narrow-minded hell of a town.

I might be a perv for hanging outside a high school dying to get a glimpse of a young woman eleven years my junior, but I can’t stay away. Fuck knows I’ve tried, but I keep returning.

One day, I’ll have her. It’s fate.

Summer

I can’t focus on math for shit. Right outside my window hovers a hummingbird, its wings flapping so fast they’re invisible. The long, narrow beak is sometimes a mere dot as the little black pepper eyes seem to stare directly at me. The throat is a deep red, and the back shimmers green. It’s a ‘Tiny Dynamo’, an adorable nickname for the ruby-throated little being.

Indoors, the classroom smells of old books, too much cologne and sweat. In my mind, I instead inhale the fresh scents of earth and leaves.

The bird becomes a blur as I squint and focus my gaze on the road. The man. Again. Him. There’s no reason to think he’s there for me, but still I do. It’s my imagination trying to come up with ways to make my life more interesting.

“Miss Jones. Anything in particular you’d care to share with the rest of the class?”

I flinch and look up, disoriented. I’m not trekking the barely-there path on the forest floor, the green light from the redwoods’ crowns sifting through the foliage high above my head. I flick back a few braids and I tuck them behind my ear as I glance around me. A few of my classmates snigger. My cheeks turn hot, like they do all too often. I always do stupid shit like this, pull the wrong kind of attention to myself when I’d rather have none. Just turned nineteen, I’m an outcast among my one-year younger peers. Homeschooled until I was fourteen, by a mother barely able to manage her own self, I was severely behind in all subjects when I finally set foot in a public school. Except English. I wasn’t behind in English. I read constantly. It helps.

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