Page 5 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

After all these years, my gut reaction when something goes wrong is still to wonder how Alex’s domineering father will hear about it. How he’ll react. And what the repercussions might be.

The years I spent with various counselors after Alex went away provide tools to protect myself when these moments of insecurity resurface. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself a little for it. Or that I don’t hate my swindling asshat of an ex-husband a whole lot for leaving me in this position.

I sit beside my son, Dylan, in the headmaster’s office.

Natalie and her parents are late to arrive for our appointment, and Bryan Grady has been forcing small talk from behind his executive desk.

We’ve already delved into the scintillating topics of the recent parking lot resurfacing and an elite housing development that’s under construction nearby.

I can tell he’s getting frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm.

His conversation takes a different tack.

“Class assessments are going well, I hear.”

Yes. Yes, they are. I spent a good deal of spring break making sure that’s the case. I merely nod, however, and offer a noncommittal hmm because I am not entertaining a conversation about my classroom activity while I’m dragged in here on a disciplinary matter regarding my son.

Said son is currently slouched in his seat and tossing glares my way since his phone is still confiscated, and he needs to knock that shit off . We all have somewhere better to be. In the meantime, I prop myself up by focusing on external forces.

My back is to Bryan’s door that leads to his assistant’s office—left slightly ajar based on the quiet sounds bleeding through.

But when the outer door swings open and a moment later, footsteps and the murmur of lowered voices fill the outer chamber, the sounds are distinguishable.

Hazel Bradford, Bryan’s administrative assistant, rolls her ergonomic chair out from under her desk, and her arguably too-high stilettos clack against the industrial linoleum.

“Mr. Murphy. Natalie. Welcome. Everyone is waiting for you in the headmaster’s office. I will show you the way.”

The clickety-clack of her heels nears, followed closely by the heavy tread of a man’s casual shoe and then lighter steps that echo an oh-so-familiar slap slap on the floor. Crocs.

Hazel is new to the school this year and exactly the opposite of a stereotypical plump, middle-aged school secretary. But those low, breathy tones are unusual, even for her. Someone needs to sit her down with two simple words of advice. Girl, don’t.

“Thank you.” The words are uttered in a deep, male voice which instantly morphs to a gentler tone as the group crosses the outer room. “All right, bug, this meeting will be over in just a few minutes and then we can get back to?—”

“It’s fine, Daddy.” This is Natalie.

I recognize the tone of voice, this impatient, exasperated attitude common with the entitled girls of Oak Point Academy, though I don’t remember hearing it from her.

This is my first time in any kind of contact with the man who deserves every bit of insolence she throws at him.

To date, he hasn’t deigned to participate in her education; my dealings have all been with her grandmother.

“Here we are.” Hazel’s voice has blessedly returned to her natural pitch.

She opens the office door wide and ushers in first Natalie, and then . . . oh, fuck .

I do know her dad. His stride hitches as he crosses into Bryan’s office, and this man is not wearing the lazy, dimpled smile I glimpsed only last night.

Um, no, this guy is pissed .

Dylan likes to think he’s a grown-ass man, but right now, he’s oblivious to any undercurrents in the room, and suddenly alert in his seat next to me, enough excitement vibrating from him, you’d think his favorite big league ballplayer had incarnated in his presence.

His elbow jabs me in the side repeatedly and I flap my hand at him to make him stop.

Natalie’s absent father is my smoking hot bad boy, and while I’m not at all happy to be here, I want to know why he’s spitting mad.

Before I glean any information about Murph’s attitude, Bryan interrupts the silence with, “Miss Murphy, take a seat, please?”

It seems he is establishing his authority early—and in his signature rigid, inflexible tone— because what? Did he think she’d stand throughout this ordeal without his instruction?

Natalie slips into the chair on the other side of Dylan—as far from her father as possible—and I give her an encouraging smile.

These two broke the school’s honor code but they’re good students, and good kids.

They’re my kids. I want to know what’s behind their behavior before I agree to anybody’s harsh penalties.

Bryan stands and sticks out his hand to welcome the hothead. “Thank you for coming down, Mr. Murphy. You know Ms. Sloan? She happens to be the teacher who brought this incident to light.”

Murph doesn’t acknowledge the introduction, but shoves out his arm and grips Bryan’s hand by what must be habit, as his irritated gaze hasn’t left me since he stepped inside this room.

How do I know that? Mine hasn’t left him either.

I’m generally pretty even-keeled—we’ll call it self-defense in working with teenagers all day—but this man’s snarl is sitting on my last nerve.

And now . . . Now, his attention swivels to Bryan and his gaze is blistering . The man has gone from aggravated to livid in the space of a handshake.

“Look, I don’t know this boy or what he’s done to cause trouble for Natalie here, but whatever she’s being accused of is totally off-base.”

I bristle and barely refrain from flying out of my seat and meeting him nose to nose. Or nose to chest, as it were. Bryan escapes back into his chair, and Murph swivels that steely-eyed glare in my direction. I’m actually surprised the room doesn’t combust. But he’s not finished with his tirade.

“I was forced to rearrange my entire morning so we can discuss this . . . misunderstanding . . . and I was told the parents for both kids would be here, not just the teacher. If his folks couldn’t be bothered to show up”—Murph flings a hand in the air and turns as if to leave—“I have better?—”

Dylan surges to his feet beside me, wearing an awestruck grin.

“Dude, you’re Max Murphy! ” He straightens and sticks out his chest and then sputters a few incomprehensible syllables, all while jabbing a finger toward my head from his superior height.

“This is my mom, Max. Right here.” He whips an accusatory gaze on Natalie. “Did you know he’s Max Murphy?”

Right about now, I want to slide down and hide under my seat. Because of course I know that name—I don’t live under a rock. I don’t watch baseball twenty-four seven, but I’m a fan. And my son lives for it.

“Duh, Dyl. He’s my dad.” Natalie shrugs with that wide-eyed head wobble, classic teenage shorthand for dude, keep up.

Dylan waves from one to the other as if frantically attempting just that.

“Nat, you know The Max Murphy and you didn’t even tell me? He’s your dad? ”

His words hold a tone of betrayal, and no lie, I totally feel what both these kids are experiencing. Because what kind of fool did I make of myself last night? And what the fuck?

Murph’s—er, Max’s —forehead creases and he raises an index finger as if clarifying a salient point. “ Mom? I thought she’s the teacher.”

“Daddy, pay attention! She’s Dylan’s mom and she’s the teacher.”

Bryan gets to his feet again, and he looks perplexed . Poor guy, who can blame him? He raises one palm as though he finally decided someone should take charge of this shit show and, oh yeah, that’s him.

“Mr. Murphy, please take your seat so we can move forward. As you see, both parents are present. I apologize for any confusion.”

With a grumble, Max folds himself into the remaining unoccupied seat, one of the wooden hardback chairs Hazel dragged in from .

. . somewhere, and placed directly at my right.

I glare at him because he’s being a dick, and scoot my chair as far from his as possible—which is approximately the two inches separating me from my son.

Dylan frowns and drags his chair away from me to regain that all-important buffer from the enemy camp.

“Now that we’re all comfortable ”—Bryan’s been watching the exchanges with quiet impatience, but now resumes his seat and leans into the upholstered back—“let’s move on to the matter at hand.”

He levels a hard stare at Dylan, and then at Natalie, and both squirm.

“You students have been accused of cheating on your algebra assignment on Monday of this week. As you know, this is a serious violation of school policy, and therefore”—he divides his pointed gaze between all four of us and I force myself not to shuffle in my chair—“a three-day suspension for both of you will be imposed.”

Dylan is not one to go down without a fight. I anticipate his objection and lay my hand on his arm before he can make a peep.

Bryan again lets his gaze sweep over us as a group and then continues. “As we are so near the end of the school year, you will not be allowed to make up any assignments you miss during that time.”

Murph scowls. “Now, wait a?—”

“But she didn’t do anything!” Dylan cuts in and my head slow-swivels in his direction.

Does he forget I was in the room, too? That I witnessed their actions? I vacillate between responding in my mad mom voice or my disappointed teacher voice, but who am I kidding? They’re pretty much the same.

“What are you talking about?” I’m wrong; this was definitely the teacher voice. The mom response would have been more along the lines of, “The fuck are you talking about?”

But then Natalie cuts in with, “Dylan, no!”

“Natalie, quiet, honey. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”