The odds of the sexiest high school teacher in Swift Rapids walking into the restaurant where I worked on Valentine's Day weren't as astronomical as you might think, mostly because it was a tiny town and we were one of about five options for couples that night. She and her man were dressed for the holiday, him in a blazer, slacks, and button down, none of which fit him quite right thanks to a little extra weight, and her in a sleeveless red dress that was sexy without being so daring that she'd draw the ire of bitchy parents if they were seen out, and they would be.
Ms. Regan saw me, brightened, and waved enthusiastically. I finished clearing the table in front of me and hurried over, my big plastic bin of dirty dishes under one arm. It was crazy busy that night, as it always was on holidays, but this was Ms. Regan, and she was definitely worth a little ass-chewing from my boss.
"Mr. Morrow! I forgot you worked here!" she said. Fuck, but she was beautiful. Long black hair that hung halfway down her back, done that night in waves, but usually held back in class in a ponytail or a braid. I liked the waves. That was fuck-me hair if I'd ever seen it before, hair that made you think about grabbing a fistful of it while she stared up at you with those dark, sparkling eyes and wide lips wrapped around you. Fuuuck. And the rest of her was killer too, a heart-shaped face, killer boobs I don't think I'd ever seen on such fine display as that night, and an athletic figure that nonetheless had some serious holy shit factor when it came to her ass and thighs. She was maybe thirty, or thereabouts, putting her twelve years older than me.
Let me put it to you another way. When you think of a teacher, you might think of frizzy-haired women in dowdy clothes your great-grandmother would have approved of, maybe with some big glasses thrown into the mix. Or you might think of porn stars wearing tight skirts and open blouses with deep cleavage, again, probably with glasses. Ms. Regan was neither of those things. She had an Instagram model's face and the body to go with it, but most days dressed down enough that you'd never guess she was as busty as she actually was. Not that night, though. That night she was elegant and sexy, both at once.
"Hey, Ms. Regan," I said, grinning. My ex-girlfriend Dana told me my smile was my best feature, apart from a certain other part of my anatomy. I don't know if she was right or not about the smile, but she sure seemed to appreciate the other thing. "I'm usually just here on the weekends but hey, great tips tonight. Happy Valentine's Day. And to you too, Mr. Miller."
Aaron Miller wasn't a bad looking guy, not really, just a little overweight and starting to go bald. He had piercing eyes and a face that used to be handsome in a craggy sort of way, but now his soft chin dominated it. He'd also shaven his usual beard that night, not a great look for him. I noticed he missed a tiny patch at the base of his neck and wondered if I could slip him a discreet message about it somehow. Eh, not my problem, I supposed.
I wonder what would have happened if I tried, because almost certainly he would have looked at me in a better light. But I didn't. My guilt in the proceedings I leave to your judgment, but I don't feel bad about it in the slightest.
"Parker, right?" Mr. Miller asked.
"Yes, sir," I said. My dad served back in the day, so addressing people as "sir" or "ma'am" was about as natural to me as blinking.
"Great to see you. We have reservations but I wanted to ask, does it come with a drink or are those extra?"
I was taken aback by the cold shoulder when I was just trying to be friendly, and I saw in the sharp way Ms. Regan looked at him that she was too. Neither of us said anything about his attitude, and I recovered fast. "Ah, drinks are extra. Only the meal is included. But that prime rib looks amazing."
"Then I'll just have water. Octavia?"
"A glass of chardonnay," Ms. Regan said. "Thank you so much. If you get a little break, come say hi again!"
I was young but I could recognize an unspoken apology when I heard one, and gave her a warm smile. When I hurried away back towards the kitchen, I gave their drink orders to their waitress and got back to work bussing tables.
Like I mentioned, we were slammed that night, and the flow of people kept my attention. But I found plenty of time to sneak looks over at Ms. Regan. I'd have her in English class the next day, and I was going to have a hell of a time not thinking about her in that dress. I didn't mean anything by the looks, I really didn't. She was a fantasy, yeah, but never in a million years did I believe I actually had a shot with her. But my dick held the reins that night and I enjoyed my stolen glances.
She glanced in my direction too a few times, and on the last, the one that triggered everything, I winked at her. It was a harmless playful moment, and I was out of eyesight of her boyfriend. I didn't think anything of it and I don't think she would have either, except she grinned. And Mr. Miller went fucking nuclear.
There could be no question where the bang emanated from, but it still shocked me into stillness for a couple seconds. "Will you pay attention to me for one fucking minute?" Mr. Miller shouted.
Everyone went quiet as a mouse in that restaurant. Everyone. On my grave, I'd swear to you, even the prime rib on people's plates and in the kitchen sat back and mentally thought, "Whoa, bruh, overreact much?"
"Aaron, I-" Ms. Regan started, but he cut her off.
"Enough! You think I don't see your eyes wandering? You think I don't know what you're doing?"
Whatever she meant to say never left her lips. He shot to his feet, and with him came their plates, glasses, and silverware, the plates and glasses shattering. He started to say something else, but I was there, getting between them.
"Enough," I said.
"You little shit," he growled, and shoved me.
Here's a thing I couldn't work into this little tale until this point. I'm not a small guy. I played football for three years until my dad caught the brown bag bug and lost his job and my mom needed extra help making bills. I still worked out in my free time, and growing up the poorest kid in a school full of poor kids meant I had been in a lot of fights. So when his hands connected with me, I sent him to yip-yap with the Sandman with one hell of a hard right to his temple.
The whole place erupted into cheers. I stared down at him and said, "Holy crap. Oh shit. Oh shit!"
I thought I'd killed Mr. Miller. I hadn't -- he would be out for a minute, but he was far from dead, something a customer, a nurse, confirmed when she leaned down to check on him. By that point, the cops had been called and I was still staring down at the man I'd punched out, in complete shock and wondering in the back of my mind if I was going to jail or something.
I wasn't. I'd just become a local legend.
* * * * *
Legend or not, I still had to go to school in the morning. I didn't usually see my mom in the mornings before she went off to work at the gas station, but she was there that day, taking a couple hours off to make me breakfast and lavish me with praise.
"Helen Vaskova said you got applause for a minute straight," Mom said, beaming at me. I loved seeing her happy. It was a pretty rare sight those days now that Dad spent his time in front of a computer playing video games and drinking. I don't hate my dad, but for a few years there, he was pretty utterly useless until Mom divorced him and he got his shit together a few months past the scope of this story. I only mention all this so that you can kind of see where I was coming from. I felt protective of the women in my life.
"Aw, I don't know about that," I said, forking up a bite of triple-stacked pancakes. There was bacon too, but I'd already eaten four pieces and Mom, in typical Mom fashion, hadn't taken any for herself, knowing how much I loved it.
"You're a good boy. A good man, now, I guess."
It was the best compliment she'd ever given me. Shit, it might have been the best compliment I'd ever received, period, except for my ex-girlfriend's "Holy shit, you fuck like a porn star or something."
