Page 34

Rich Girl

A fter a weekend filled with overprotective guys and an absent Seer, I thought coming back to school would take my mind off of the results from the bloodwork Prez took. Instead, I walked into a fretting Bobbi Jo, who had to sit me down to talk to me about my ‘inappropriate curriculum’.

That turned out to be a rumor spread by unidentified staff members about the sculpture unit we’re working on. It seems they ‘mistook’ the statue of David for some kind of crazy ‘avant garde, NEA funded pornography’.

Mmm-hmmm.

Once I settled that nonsense, I headed for my room to find that the entrance to the art room mysteriously had a new lock on the door. There wasn’t a janitor in sight, and I’m sure that was on purpose. I had to go find Hugo to teach me his secret entrance through the back room, which he wasn’t ecstatic about giving up. I guess it’s been a way for him to disappear before I came along, and after meeting our colleagues, I don’t blame him.

Apparently, the boys don’t have control over the mean girls now that some of them married or date them as adults. I’ve also learned that Bobbi Jo is beyond oblivious and has zero control over anything in the school because of a suspiciously worded school board law put in place thirteen years ago.

That doesn’t seem weird or anything—it went into effect right about the time where the events of my famous catastrophe took place, the rich assholes in this town made it so they were the only ones who could vote to suspend, expel, or fire students and staff from WHFS.

Color me amazed that this wasn’t in the staff code of conduct, nor is it in the student handbook.

Sighing as I clean up the classroom from a day full of beginning sculpting, I consider the lessons I have tonight. The boys know I’ll be late, so we’re ordering takeout Chinese. I haven’t gotten to discuss the weird crush-y vibe I got from Wolfie when he saw Julia was in town, nor have I been able to talk to Seer about her ‘friends’. It’s left me unsettled, and this bullying nonsense doesn’t help my frazzled nerves.

Once I put the last piece in the cabinet to ensure no one ‘accidentally’ destroys a student’s project, I gather my bag and my glasses to head out to the companion area.

Kali and Hecate insisted on joining my guys this morning, so I whistled for Eury as I herd the crew of canines and felines from their spots. They don’t seem to like the other animals, instead choosing to perch on a craggy rock fixture like they rule the roost as they glare at the assorted companions belonging to students and staff alike. I’m not a fan of the bigger predators that some folks kennel there for the day, so I hope they never get into a rumble.

I don’t think two King Danes and two servals can take a fucking mountain Lion and a lowland gorilla, even with the help of a pissed off harpy eagle.

“Have fun today, dudes?” I ask, adjusting my sunglasses before I start the engine. An indignant ‘mow!’ and matching growls echo out of the backseat. Hyde looks at me sheepishly from the front, as if explaining that she can’t control the others, and I frown.

I wonder if my companions are being bullied as well. Teddy might know who some of the more aggressive animals belong to. If so, a conversation might be in order. I’ll end up in the principal's office again if some asswipe is having their companions try to hurt mine.

Shaking my head at the sheer lunacy of my colleagues or students ordering fights like we’re at a palenque rather than a damned school is over my fucking line. I’ll have their guts for garters and them some.

This fucking town is a snake pit, I swear.

* * *

My studio is dark when I arrive, and I’m glad to see the motion sensor lights on the front wall work when I walk by. It’s not dark out yet, but after the events at the club, the guys are certain the stalker is a bigger threat than we assumed.

I still believe the movement outside my house was wildlife, and whatever happened to us at the club was coincidental—college areas are rife with assholes trying to score with chicks in bars. Chemical help in that effort has become a one in five statistic in the U.S. and we simply ran afoul of a would-be date rapist.

That doesn’t make it less disgusting, but it’s not as scary as assuming that I have a stalker obsessed enough to follow me for an hour to the city, poison me, and lug five people home instead of harming us. Tharin’s size alone would take a goddamned Hulk or a team, and I’m not ready to concede I’ve got an entire crew of motherfuckers trying to hurt me.

Besides, if it was the asshole from Thailand, they wouldn’t bother with Julia and her guys. They would have killed Seer and me, maybe posted some revenge video, and gotten the hell out of Dodge. The General doesn’t have a beef with them, and I can’t see why he’d risk leaving any of us alive and relatively unharmed.

Psychological games are way above his IQ and his pay grade.

Impatient yips from Hecate draw me out of my musings and I open the back door, letting all the furry folk in before I flip on the lights. Kali comes rocketing in—followed by Jekyll, Hyde, and shrieking Eury—and barrels past us into the studio like her ass is on fire. Dropping my bag, I run after her to find her in the main gallery, snarling at a large chest.

A chest that was not there when we left the gallery after the event last week.

I approach the ancient-looking thing carefully, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Pressing the speed dial for Teddy, I wait for his voice to come out of my AirPods before I speak. “Teddy, where are you?”

“I’m in Burkettsville meeting with clients, drugar. Don’t you have lessons this evening?”

“Yes, but the kids and I just arrived at my studio to set up and there’s a mysterious-looking pirate chest in the middle of the fucking floor!” I hiss, moving closer to the small pack of angry animals as they make threatening noises at it.

The panic in his voice is clear as day, though I’m sure he’s trying to hide it. “I can’t be there in a reasonable time frame, Tilly. The doc went to the city to meet the lab techs about the tests, and the pup was on the farm with that fancy pants Sheikh. None of us are available. Do you have a weapon?”

I roll my eyes inward. Of course, he thinks I need someone to ride to the rescue. What I really wanted was to make sure none of them left this thing and once I verified it wasn’t, ask if they’d come open it with me. “Teddy, I’m always armed, even if it’s my fists. I don’t need you idiots to save me; I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t some big surprise. Now that I know it isn’t, I’ll leave the pack in here to guard it and open the side door for the kids. We can deal with it after I’m done.”

“What if it’s set to explode? Get out of there!” he shouts, his voice clanging in my head like a bass drum.

I walk a little closer, taking one pod out to listen. “Doesn’t seem to tick, Captain Hook. I think we’re okay.”

“For fuck’s sake, Tilly, they trained you for the FBI. You know bombs don’t tick anymore!”

This shouldn’t be funny, and I shouldn’t start laughing, but his exasperation is tickling me. Edgar Olivier Boone III is like a hysterical chick in a hostage situation, and I’m standing three feet from a metaphorical dead man’s chest. Also, my eagle is swooping around like it’s going to land on my head to protect me.

The whole thing is out of a Mel Brooks movie.

“Teddy… I… I… don’t think… it’s dangerous,” I wheeze.

“You have lost your mind, drugar , and I don’t have time to argue. Get the animals out of the room and post them by the door to keep people from going in. Teach your lessons, and when we arrive, we’re having a serious conversation about your cavalier attitude about your safety.”

“Yes, Dad,” I deadpan, glaring at the picture of him on my phone as if he can feel my irritation.

“I told you I prefer Daddy, Tilly. We can’t play that game if you don’t say it right,” he practically purrs.

I snort, shaking my head as I walk away from the chest. “I’ll slit my own wrists first, Boone. Get bent, you perv.”

Clicking the end button before he can respond, I grin to myself. I’m playing a dangerous game, taunting him like that, but it makes the muscles in my abdomen clench, so I’ll keep doing it.

Maybe I am a brat, after all.

* * *

“My mother says you were a loser in high school. How are you qualified to teach me?”

Sucking in a deep, calming breath, I look at the petite blond middle schooler with a fake smile. “Britannia, it’s not appropriate to speak to me like that, nor is it good manners to repeat rumors.”

She pops her gum for the fiftieth time, her eyes sharp behind her ridiculously oversized glasses. I’m certain they’re not real, and that she wears them when she doesn’t need them to see tests my ability to control my eye roll.

Ophelia Jane Longworth’s eldest daughter is a carbon copy of her mother in everything but looks. Her expensive hipster clothing, top of the line supplies, and shitty attitude scream privileged teen, but her talent is real. I could help her advance her innate skill more than any student I’ve encountered in the Hollow, but her mother has filled her head with garbage.

“I asked a question. I’m not looking for crappy Dr. Phil witticisms. My therapist bills four hundred dollars an hour and her degree is from Stanford. Just tell me what I want to know,” she replies as she turns back to her easel with a shrug.

Christ, I want to punch this little shit in the mouth.

“My BAs in illustration and business are from State U, but my masters in education is from Cornell. However, if you’re fishing for higher status, it will please you to know that my doctorate in abnormal psychology is from Harvard. I also took a year of painting at the Sorbonne, and a year of sculpting at Sapienza in Rome. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” I can’t help but grin when her facade drops a bit, clearly impressed by the credentials I worked so hard to attain over the years.

Her shoulder lifts nonchalantly, and she sighs. “I suppose so. Beggars can’t be choosers in this backwater hell hole.”

I’ve never been so glad I don’t teach middle school in my entire life. The split between the Formative and Finishing schools cuts off after seventh grade and this darling witch is a seventh grader. It doesn’t help me for next year, but by then, I hope she’s convinced her parents to send her to some rich bitch boarding school like Miyako or Swallowtail.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, Niecy would say.

“Glad you feel comfortable settling. Now, it’s almost time to end our session. You need to clean up your supplies and put your work on the rack for next week. After that, you can go find your companions.”

“It’s bullshit that they have to stay in that room with your mangy bird and those raggedy cats. At least they have Coach Edgar’s purebreds to keep them company.”

I take another calming breath, willing myself not to give in and snap at the snarky Ophelia clone. That was OJ’s favorite schtick in high school—anyone not as rich as the elites were trashy and beneath her. Low bred was the term she preferred, and it takes as much effort not to smack her kid as it did her.

“I don’t allow companions in the lesson rooms, Britannia. I kicked them out of my space and I had every right to do so. Why I choose that rule is not something I have to explain to you, no matter what you think you’re owed in life.”

Ha! Eat that, you rude pre-pubescent Regina in training.

She sniffs and packs up her supplies before standing with her drawing. I open the door to allow her access to the back room, rubbing my shoulder when she bumps into me like a fucking pro. Goddamnit, did OJ teach her ALL of her assholery or is it in their DNA?

“Hey! That hurt Britannia. You can’t just attack people you don’t like because someone told you they were bad.”

Her expression is one of pure disdain as she looks over her shoulder. “Clean up the mess. Employees should be seen and not heard.”

White rage floods my entire body and I feel the worst possible thing coming over me—it’s going to go black and I’m alone with a weird box and bitchy teenager. This can’t happen right now; it just can’t.

“ Britannia ! That behavior is unacceptable for a young lady from your family. Apologize to Miss Whitley immediately !”

The voice that booms out from the doorway is familiar and the mere knowledge that he’s here seems to push the blackness from my mind a little. “Teddy?”

Britannia shoots me a look full of venom as my sharply dressed lover comes rushing across the room. He cups my face in his hands, murmuring low as he looks into my eyes. “You were going to go down; I could feel it. Hell, Tilly, I could see it on your face.”

I nod, putting my hands on his chest as I murmur, “Too much in one day. Just tired, I think.”

His growl is an argument, and I dip my chin. He’s not wrong, but I can’t show weakness to Britannia anymore than I could her mother. It would diminish what little authority I have left and I have an entire year of this girl to contend with. Edgar drops his hands, tucks me against his side, and gives her the same fierce glare he used on his players that first day.

“You will take your companions and leave once you’ve apologized. Your mother is waiting outside, and if you think I won’t be addressing this outrageous behavior with her, you’re delusional. Now go !”

My thighs clench as he orders the tween around like she’s not worth his time, and I realize I might have a wee damsel fantasy that I’ve never allowed myself to voice. Every time one of these guys steps in and tells people to fuck off, my vagina flutters like butterfly wings. It’s baffling and hot at the same time.

Not that I’m ever going to tell them that.

“Whatever, Coach. Sorry, Jolene,” the girl mutters as she hangs up her artwork. She scoops up her supplies with a sneer at me, and heads for the hills, not bothering to do the cleanup needed in the lesson room.

I sigh, knowing it was on purpose and now I’m stuck being her maid, just like she wanted. “You didn’t have to do that, Teddy.”

He grins and leans down to give me a soft kiss. “Of course I did, Tilly. Kids need boundaries and she was way the fuck over hers. Let me help you clean up the mess she left while we wait for Prez and the pup. They can’t wait to figure out if you’ve been teaching in a building rigged to blow.”

“Christ. You guys need to stop watching so many crime shows. It’s just a creepy box, and it probably doesn’t even have a head in it.”

His laugh rumbles over me like a big cat. “You say that now, but when it leaks rancid people juice on your new floor, don’t expect me not to say I told you so.”

Who would ever expect that?