One Wild Night (Hollywood Chronicles #1)(17)

“Fuck!” I yell, jumping from the couch, hurrying down the hall to my bedroom in search of my phone. Tossing clothes left and right, I finally find my pants. Reaching into the pocket, I find my phone and a slew of texts and calls from Kendall, Philip, and even my sister.

I scroll through my contacts, hoping like hell I was gentleman enough to at least get Kaylee's contact information before sticking my dick in her—but nope.

“Fuck!” I yell again in frustration. It's about all I can conjure up right now. Slamming my bedroom door closed, I drop the sheet I have tied around my waist and head to the shower. Some hot water and peace and quiet is exactly what I need to figure out what in the hell I need to do.

Kendall can't save me from this one—hell, I don't want her too. I don't need saving, I need to find Kaylee. I need to make this right. I step into the glass encased shower, allowing the steam to fill my lungs and the hot water to prick my skin.

Water stings the light scratches on my back from Kaylee and every muscle is gloriously sore from last night's marathon of sex. No woman has ever had me tied up in knots like this, and I almost chuckle as I think about how one wild night turned into one fucking nightmare.





Chapter 9





Kaylee





I didn’t sleep.

How could I?

Exhaustion warred with the paranoia, a dueling duo that churned in the pit of my stomach. Clutching the steering wheel, I peered out at the small private school in front of me from where I was parked in the staff lot.

You can do this.

It was the same pep talk I’d been giving myself since I’d finally dragged myself from the fitful tossing of my bed and into the shower.

Yesterday I’d decided to ignore all the calls and texts that had come in from my co-workers, demanding to know what happened.

I figured it was all just morbid curiosity, anyway. Fodder for water cooler gossip. None of their business. So, when my phone continued to ding and ring throughout the day, I’d switched it off and opted for a day on the couch with my best friend and a bottle of wine.

Okay, two.

Could anyone blame me?

Of course, my own morbid curiosity had set in the second Elle had left me for the night with the promise it would blow over. Quick to be forgotten. But as soon as the quiet had set in, all the implications had come barreling back. The things the reporters had said and the insinuations they had made.

So, what did I do? Because I’m just that much of a masochist, I went and typed #PaxtonMyles into my Twitter search.

That was the worst thing I could have done.

The cruel, vicious things complete strangers had said about me had haunted me all night. You could call it jealousy. The rabid fangirls who had so many nasty things to say about me.

Just mean.

Not to mention hypocritical.

Because there was no doubt in my mind every single one of them would have jumped at the chance to kick me out of that spot.

I took one last glance in the rear-view mirror.

And cringed.

This morning, I had to look worse off than the pictures had proclaimed when I’d been hopping Paxton’s gate.

Nothing I could do about it now, and I needed to get into my classroom to get things set up for the beginning of the week.

Sucking in a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the warm day, the California sun bright and way cheerier than I felt. I tucked my head and stared at my feet as I made a beeline for my classroom.

I’d give it a good go to just hide until all of this blew over.

I gasped when the large figure stepped out in front of me, shadow eclipsing me, my body coming to a jilted stop the flash of a second before I’d have barreled right into him.

Steven Washington.

My boss.

The headmaster of Kensington Palisades.

That war that was going on in my stomach? It plummeted right to the ground.

Swallowing around the huge knot in my throat, I warily glanced up. His face was tight and grim, his stance harsh.

“Ms. Burton, would you please come with me to my office.”

I hesitated, stuttered over the words. “Uh…I need to get to my classroom to get things—”

“It wasn’t a question, Ms. Burton.”

He didn’t wait for me to answer. He spun on his heel without further word and headed toward the front of the building. He moved through the side door and into his big office filled with heavy dark brown leather chairs and even darker furniture.

He gestured to a chair facing his desk as he sank into his leather office rocker. “Have a seat.”

Unsteadily, I lowered myself to the seat, sitting just on the edge, clutching my bag to my chest. I couldn’t even meet his eye.

“Ms. Burton.”

He said it like a warning.

An omen.

And I just knew.

“I’m so sorry.” It came out on a strained gush of apologetic air.

I could almost see him shaking his head, resigned. “You know what a wonderful job you’ve done for this school…”

No. No. No.

Don’t say it.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you saw, but I can assure you—”

“And I can assure you I saw enough.” Once again, he cut me off.

Panicked, I turned tactic. “What I do with my personal life doesn’t reflect on my ability as a teacher.”