Secret Lucidity(49)

“Tell me what happened,” he demands under his breath with a classroom full of students a few feet away from us.

I glance over his shoulder, and when I see no one is paying attention, I pull my arm out of his hold. “Someone could see us,” I whisper before walking into the room and taking a seat at my desk.

He remains in the hall for a solid minute before walking in, shrouded in frustration. Whatever lesson he had planned today is cancelled when he tells us to pull out our current book and read for the hour. Everyone groans. Everyone but me. Because I’m too troubled by the mood I caused him, hating that I’m caught in the time warp of school that imprisons me from the privacy we need to talk. God only knows what he’s thinking right now, but whatever it is, he’s visibly upset.

He wrings his hands, and when his eyes touch mine, I shrug my shoulders and mouth I’m sorry. I pull out my book from my backpack, and when I glance his way, he’s got the lid to his laptop open. As I find the spot where I last left off, my cell vibrates from the bottom of my bag.

David: Stay after class.

Fear strikes a chord in me, and I turn the phone facedown the instant I read his text. Looking around, terrified that someone might have seen, I bring it down to my lap so it’s hidden under the desk and text him back.

Me: I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.

My eyes drift up as I watch him type his response from his laptop.

David: Of course I’m worried about you. I’m going fucking crazy right now.

Me: I promise you, I’m fine. I’ll stay behind to talk, but we can’t text anymore. Someone might see.

I shove my phone into my pocket and pick up my book, tuning out the voices in my head that are urging me to look up at him. I read, but don’t retain as panic torments me with thoughts of what would happen if someone were to have seen me texting him.

Would they even know it was him I was texting?

It isn’t like kids don’t text beneath their desks. They do all the time, and I’m sure nothing looked out of the ordinary, but I can’t help stressing. What if it did look suspicious? What if they can see right through me? My God, it was just yesterday morning that I was having sex with the teacher who now sits at the head of the class.

How do they not feel the tension in this room?

How do they not see it?

How do they not taste it?

Because I do. I still wear him on my skin. His touch, his scent—he’s all over me.

I spend the rest of the class with my stomach in knots, trying to talk myself down from the freak out I’m feeling within.

Time tiptoes along one agonizing second after another until they accumulate into the minutes needed to empty the classroom. As casually as I can manage, I sling my bag over my shoulder and trail slowly behind the last person, stopping just short of the door where David stands. He waits a beat, and then surprises me when he shuts the door and locks it.

“What are you doing?” I fret.

He steps toward me, just outside the view of the slender window so no one can see us.

“What happened?” he asks, wasting no time. With his hands on my face, he examines the bruise. “Who did this?”

My heart races in an uneven tempo that doesn’t feel quite right in my chest. “David, stop. What if someone sees us?”

“Tell me who did this,” he persists.

“My mom.”

“Did she notice you hadn’t been home?”

“She doesn’t notice anyone but herself,” I say. “When I got home, she had a guy at the house. Everything spiraled out of control, and we wound up in a nasty fight.”

“And he was there?”

“No. He was leaving when I walked in. It was just my mom and I fighting. But I’m fine.”

“This isn’t fucking fine, Cam,” he fumes in a harsh whisper I know he wishes were a scream. “She hit you hard enough to leave a bruise across your face.”

We stare at each other, knowing we’re both powerless in this situation, threatened by the law we have to hide from. There’s nothing he can do, and we both know it.

His arms, hard and tense, circle around me. “I fucking hate this,” he sighs. “You’re hurt, and I’m worthless to you. I can’t even protect you.”

“You’re not worthless. You’re the only good thing I have.”

He kisses the top of my head, and when I crane my neck back to look into eyes that harbor helplessness, all sensibility fades.

I kiss him.

I kiss him even though the world would tell you I have no right to.

But I do.

Because I love him. And because he loves me. Call it virility, I don’t care. I know how I feel, and I know he feels it too as his lips caress mine, expressing so much with so little. We know better than to be doing this here, but logic dissipates the moment I have his taste back in my mouth.

This is anything but wrong in a world blinded by the fear of love when it doesn’t look the way they assume it should.

“God, this is torture,” he murmurs against my lips.

I return his tenderness when I lift on my toes and kiss his forehead.

He takes my face back into his hands and grinds his teeth before professing, “I can’t get you out of my head. It’s all I can do not to think about you. And to know that when you leave me, this is what happens to you.” He kisses my bruise. “It fucking kills me. It kills me to know I can’t protect you and take care of you.”