Page 6 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

Suzanne Kenkel is a petite woman who I’d guess to be in her mid to late forties. She’s wearing a dark blue pantsuit, and once again I regret coming straight from the job site.

“Mr. Anderson, thank you for getting here so quickly,” she says, holding out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I wipe mine on the front of my cargo pants before shaking hers. “You as well, ma’am. I’m sorry it has to be under less than ideal circumstances. ”

Her eyes widen slightly, nostrils flaring.

Okay, something weird is happening, because she isn’t looking at me like she’s judging the fact that I’m a mess. She’s staring as if she wants to take me into her office and rip off my grimy clothes and not because she’s interested in laundering them.

I pull back my hand. “Can I see my nephew?” I ask, wanting to keep this interaction short and sweet.

It’s not that I have anything against older women, and she’s not wearing a wedding ring, but like I said, my manwhore status is a thing of the past. Plus, I know enough not to dip my pen in the high school ink.

Rhett’s got enough to deal with, and I’m hardly a sure bet in the romance department. More like a disaster waiting to happen.

She squares her shoulders and nods. “I’ve asked the two staff members to meet us in the conference room. Rhett’s there now.”

“I’d like to see him,” I repeat, not sure of the protocol, but hell, this isn’t a police station. And for the moment, I’m the boy’s legal guardian.

“Of course.”

She leads me down a hall with offices on either side, but I don’t look in any of them. I’m hoping this is the only time I’ll be in the administrative wing of the high school, and I don’t plan on committing any of it to memory.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Rhett says as soon as I walk into the room. Color stains his cheeks, and his eyes flash with defiance.

“Buddy, I don’t have a clue what’s going on, so before pleading your case, how about you back up and start from the beginning.”

“The incident occurred in the library,” Assistant Principal Kenkel begins.

“Was it Colonel Mustard with a candlestick?” I ask, then immediately want to smack myself upside the head because there’s nothing funny about this situation. The assistant principal probably thinks I have no business looking after a teenage boy, and she ain’t wrong .

Before she can respond, there’s a sound behind me—laughter, clear and sparkling like one of the bubbling streams in the mountains that border this town. Did I just think the word tinkling? I turn and…what the actual fuck is happening right now?

“Taylor, this is serious,” another voice says, but I barely register the insignificant speck of a man who enters the room behind Taylor Maxwell.

Taylor Maxwell—Tink of the tinkling laugh—who looks as shocked to see me as I am her. I’m guessing she wouldn’t have appreciated my Clue joke if she knew I was the one making it.

“What are you doing here?” The question comes out harsher than I mean it to.

“I work here.” She looks as surprised as I feel.

My brain’s discombobulated, like I’m the one who took a candlestick to the head. Which maybe explains why it takes me a second to register the ice pack she’s holding in one hand, and the fact that there’s a spot of dried blood at the outside corner of her eye. In fact, her whole cheek is pink.

I whirl back toward my nephew and take a step forward. So that I don’t curl them into fists, I place my palms flat on the table. Rhett scooches back in his chair as I lean forward.

“Did you hit a woman?” I demand.

His mouth forms an “O” but he shakes his head.

“No,” Taylor says from behind me, and I feel her hand on my arm.

The touch has all the weight of a damn butterfly, but the shock and pleasure that reverberates through my body feels like gulping down a cold glass of water after years in the desert.

“Yes,” the dude says, sounding irritated. “He hit her with a book.”

“It was an accident,” Taylor and Rhett say at the same time, and Rhett flicks a grateful glance her way.

“It was assault. She could press charges,” the guy insists .

Suzanne Kenkel shakes her head. “Let’s have a seat and discuss this calmly.”

Taylor removes her hand from my arm, and I push my palms into the table so hard, I’m surprised the wood doesn’t splinter. I want to feel that butterfly touch again almost as much as I want my next breath.

I close my eyes and count to five in my mind, then open them again.

Rhett is still staring at me, and he’s somehow made himself smaller in the black office chair.

He doesn’t look like a moody, snarky-ass teenager anymore.

He looks like a boy who’s trying to gauge whether the adult looming over him is going to tear into him with words or backhand him across the face.

Shit.

I straighten and cross my arms over my chest. I never want the kid to think I’d hurt him, no matter how mad he makes me. Yeah, I got in my share of fights on the ice, but I would never touch a child—or anyone—in anger.

I’m guessing the same can’t be said for at least one of my sister’s trail of walking red-flag boyfriends.

“Do you two know each other?” The administrator addresses the question to Taylor.

“Eric and my brother went to college together,” Taylor says, her voice not giving anything away—like the fact that she thinks I’m a manwhore and doesn’t give a damn whether or not I have a heart.

I walk around the table and lower myself into the chair next to Rhett.

“I need you to explain to me what happened.” I try to sound calm and reasonable despite the maelstrom of emotions rioting through me. Calm and reasonable don’t come naturally to me.

“ I’ll tell you what happened.” This from the guy who couldn’t be less helpful if he tried.

I hold up a hand. “I’d like to hear from my nephew. ”

“I threw a book,” Rhett mutters. “I didn’t mean for it to hit Ms. Maxwell.”

“He meant for it to hit me ,” the man says.

Rhett’s eyes narrow slightly. “I didn’t mean for it to hit anybody. I just got mad.”

I’m not sure he’s telling the truth, but I can almost understand the urge.

The dude’s chin is tilted up at an angle that suggests he’s perpetually looking down his nose at the world.

His lips are puckered as if it’s painful to speak to me or my nephew when he clearly considers both of us beneath his intellectual station.

His hair is styled in that deliberately tousled way that no doubt takes a lot of time and expensive product to achieve.

Everything about him radiates the kind of pretentious superiority that makes me want to knock him down a peg or two.

I give myself a mental head shake. Nope, I’m the adult. The responsible one. The role model. I’m not going to kick Mr. Sphinctimonious’s ass.

Suzanne Kenkel clears her throat and gestures for Taylor and the guy to take a seat across the table from us.

“Mr. Anderson, this is Bryan Connor, one of our English teachers.”

The Connor guy smirks. “Advanced Placement English is my specialty, particularly world literature and language.”

“He’s also teaching freshman English this semester, and Rhett is in his second period class. There was a bit of an…” Suzanne clears her throat. “…altercation in the library during the first lunch bell. Things escalated and?—”

“He threw a book at my head. A hardback of Beowulf .” Bryan Connor gives me a dismissive once-over. “You might not be aware, but it’s a classic work of literature.”

“Grendel and his mother,” I say slowly, matching his smirk with one of my own. “I’m familiar.”

His brows draw down over turd-brown eyes even as Taylor’s delicate brows lift in obvious surprise .

I should be offended that she’d think I’m more Beavis & Butthead than Beowulf . But she isn’t wrong and shocking Taylor Maxwell is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I’d enjoy shocking her in a lot of ways, most of which are unfit for polite conversation.

Being versed in medieval literature is one of the most benign ways I can surprise her.

“The mom monster got a raw deal,” I tell Bryan, and his lips thin.

I don’t think I imagine Taylor’s lips twitching, and it feels like we’re on the same team, at least for the moment.

I’ve spent the past decade surrounded by friends and teammates. I’ve dated, partied, gone on holidays and adventures. Very rarely have I spent a day or evening alone. Still, the saddest kind of lonely is being with people and still feeling like you have no one.

This invisible string of connection with the woman sitting on the other side of the table hits me hard, my heart defying logic by flinging itself against my rib cage.

This whole business of caring for my nephew is making me soft. Why else am I thinking about roads I didn’t travel and who I’d want at my side for the journey?

One person I wouldn’t choose to have anywhere near me is Bryan Connor, world literature and language teacher.

The way he’s staring at me—like I’m a shit skid mark on the bottom of his fake leather shoe—reminds me of all the teachers who wrote me off when I was younger.

Who ignored me, dismissing the dysfunction in our family home.

Adults who labeled my sister a slut and me a punk-ass kid with a chip on his shoulder.

My slut days came later. Compared to Jen, I was a late bloomer in the promiscuity department. But true to everyone’s expectations, I got there eventually.

“Why did you throw the book, Rhett?”

I keep my death glare laser-focused on Bryan, who visibly fidgets. Oh yeah, there’s guilt flashing in those turd colored eyes. He did something to provoke the kid. I’d bet my favorite skates on it.

Suzanne Kenkel clears her throat. “According to Mr. Connor, they were discussing Rhett’s lack of class participation this week and a missing assignment.”

I turn and look at my nephew. He’s staring down, fists clenched in his lap, but there’s no response to my question.

“What did he say to you?” I ask quietly.

Bryan raps his knuckles on the table to get my attention. “Principal Kenkel has already explained?—”