Author's Note: If you've read my series "The Boys Next Door," know that this story is all about lust and crossing boundaries, not romance -- though there's a definite emotional charge. Enjoy!
Tuesday
Liz Kowalski was exhausted. Usually, she hopped out of her car once she pulled into the high school parking lot, whether the sky was bright with early morning sunshine or still dark and sleeping. But today, she turned off the ignition, leaned her head against the open door, and closed her eyes, just for a minute, remembering how warm her bed had been.
Running the band program at a large public high school was sucking the life out of her. She'd known when she'd signed on to the job eight years ago that it would take work, a lot of work. She hadn't bargained for just how much, or that her own desire to make the program bigger and better every year, her excitement at seeing it grow, made her job harder, not easier, because she just didn't know when to back off.
Summers weren't a time to recharge; they were a time to plan and run band camp. Spring break, already a very long two weeks ago, hadn't seen her relaxing on the beach with a giant margarita in her hand, the little bikini she hadn't worn in much too long, and a stack of inexcusably trashy novels at her side; instead, she'd spent the week with eighty kids, eight chaperones, and a busload of instruments, touring Disneyland.
Every morning, she rolled out of bed at four-thirty to stumble to the gym, take a shower, and squeeze in a round of never-ending email before leaving for work at six; every night, she went to bed at nine. Sometimes she thought the only reason she and her boyfriend, Rob, were still together after a lackluster year was that, as a trader, he kept the same damn hours, and they were both too exhausted to go out and meet anyone else.
Stretching her legs, Liz slung her bag over her shoulder and ordered herself out of the car. The April sky was deep blue, streaked with the first threads of sunlight. A light breeze ruffled her hair, but the day would be warm later. Her feet carried her across the wide parking lot, close to empty. She was always one of the first teachers at school, and she liked it that way.
Past the big front entrance, next to the stadium, Liz tugged open the door to the far wing of the school building. Her room lay at the end, soundproofed and safely away from disrupting classes with honking horns and crashing drums. Tucked inside that room was her office — private, lockable, and a place she'd considered sleeping more than once to get out of dealing with her commute.
Liz sighed and brushed her hair off her face. Once in awhile, she made an effort to get a life. But last Friday night, out with friends, had found her asleep in her gin and tonic at ten pm. The weekend before, Rob had poked her awake at some too-mellow concert a friend had given him tickets for, and she realized she'd been snoring. And the week before spring break, which was — Jesus — the last time she and Rob had had sex, it had taken an hour. Not a hot, lust-drenched, bed-banging hour, but an hour during which they'd both kept drifting off. It almost hadn't seemed worthwhile to finish.
It was probably her own damn fault, she thought, as her teacher shoes — sensible and low enough to stand in for eight hours a day — clicked down the familiar hall to the band room. Here she was at 6:30 in the morning, ready to give her all to the day, because she didn't know how to dial it down. Find a work-life balance. Whatever the hell that meant. Maybe she buried herself in her teaching so she wouldn't have to look at her own life — 31, dating a guy who made her snore, bored with her friends' gossip, ignoring the dust-covered case of her alto sax under her desk. She was supposed to inspire kids to musical heights; when was the last time she'd been on a stage? Taken a risk? Played her heart out? Or even gone to a concert that actually fit her tastes? She couldn't picture Rob sweaty and dancing at the kind of rock shows she'd loved in college, or swigging beer in a dive bar soaked in dirty blues, or hunkered down at a table in a dim jazz lounge where the music was the point, not the background.
She stepped inside the empty band room, surveying her domain — chairs neatly set up, instruments in their lockers, awards plastering the walls — and paused by the mirror next to her office to check her lipstick. She'd be in front of kids all day; better smooth the wrinkles out of her grey pencil skirt and make sure her tailored white blouse was still tucked in. And shit — that would be an open button on her shirt, popped free right over her full breasts. Quickly, she fastened it. Get in front of a high school class like that, and no learning would happen that day, guaranteed.
Liz shook her head. The woman in the mirror looked polished, even pretty, but she barely thought about her appearance these days. The treadmill in the morning was a habit; her long, toned body was a byproduct. Makeup was for looking more awake than she felt, not for amping up her large brown eyes or full lips. Five near-identical knee-length skirts, five pairs of business casual slacks, and twelve conservative button-down shirts — that summed up her work closet. At least it made getting dressed a fast proposition in the morning. She could — and pretty much did — do it in her sleep at this point: stumble out of the shower and into her clothes, blow-dry and curl her long dark hair, and run through the same makeup routine she'd done since college, all in fifteen minutes flat.
She was burnt out, no question about it, and everything had come to a head yesterday. Since spring break, the kids had been bouncing off the walls. Hormones, spring fever — she thought she'd seen it all, but this year was special. And as she'd gotten grumpier, they'd gotten crazier.
Finally, in symphonic band rehearsal yesterday, she'd stepped aside to take some pointless call from the office. When she'd turned around thirty seconds later and saw the percussionists shoving the marimba back and forth across the waxed linoleum, the trumpet section snickering over what had to be an explicit photo on someone's phone, then looking at her blankly, like someone over thirty didn't know what sex was, and the flutists literally falling off their chairs in hysterical giggles over who the hell knows what — she'd spun out of control. Lost her temper. Pounded the music stand in front of her and yelled that if anyone said one more word — made a single sound — for the rest of rehearsal, they'd get an automatic detention. And on top of that, they could all count on serious repercussions for their fourth quarter grades.
Her outburst had shut the students up, but she'd hated seeing the looks on their faces — some cowed, others defiant and angry. Most of them wouldn't meet her eyes, but she'd noticed Ryan Sullivan, one of the seniors, watching her coolly from the trombone section. His blue-green gaze had caught her off-guard, but she shrugged it away. He was probably pissed about the grades; she'd seen his name on the honor roll before. Afterward, she'd massaged her temples in her office, trying to get a hold of herself in the four minutes before concert band started next period. It had not been a good day.
An envelope met her now as she walked into her office, sticking out from the endless pile of papers on her desk. Curious, she pulled it out.
The white rectangle was blank, except for her name typed across the front:
Elizabeth
. Not Ms. Kowalski, not Liz; Elizabeth. A faculty member must have left it for her, while the room was unlocked yesterday. Why didn't they just use her office mailbox? Quickly, she slit the envelope, pulled out the folded paper and skimmed the opening lines.
I take you in your office. It's where we want to fuck.
Blood rushed to her face. She snapped the paper shut and sat down hard in her chair. No. Someone — some student — had left an obscene note on her desk. She should open up her laptop, email the assistant principal immediately, bring the note down to the office, and have this situation dealt with before first period. Every so often something like this happened — Mr. Stack the history teacher got an ode to his back hair, written in bad rhyme; Mrs. Kelly the bio teacher found a pair of handcuffs in her desk with a suggestive post-it about her dominatrix abilities — and this was just another flare-up. Another kid — or group of kids — making a stupid joke, or doing it on a dare.
Slowly, she unclenched her fingers around the paper and smoothed it out on her lap.
You've had a long day, and you don't think anyone else is around. You kick off your heels and roll your stockings down your long sexy legs. You don't know I'm behind you, watching your every move, until I reach around you and start unbuttoning your shirt. You gasp, but you don't stop me from undoing every single button, my hands brushing your full tits, until your nice tailored shirt falls on the floor. You need this right now. I know you do.
Rob? Had Rob left her a hot letter as a surprise, in what would be the sexiest move he'd made in a long time — or ever? Rolling her chair to the door, she shut it. While she was at it, she closed the blinds on her office window. Then she leaned back in her chair and began to read again.
When I unzip your tight skirt that shows every curve, you feel my hard cock pressed against your ass. I pull your lace panties down, inch by inch, over your smooth thighs. You're moaning now, but you don't turn around. Not even when I unhook your bra and run my hands all over your incredible tits.
Breathe. She told herself to remember to breathe. The office was suddenly twenty degrees hotter.
