Lord Have Mercy (The Southern Gentleman #2)(14)

Flint looked at me pointedly, and I got the hint rather quickly.

Grabbing up my shit, I walked out without looking back, a small smile on my face as I did.

That smile fell off my face when Nivea bounced out the door right behind me.

“I fucking hate you,” she hissed at my back.

I ignored her, or tried to, but her angry stomps at my back had my eyes twitching.

“I knew from the moment that I started seeing him that he had a thing for you,” she continued her tirade. “Should’ve known he would cheat with you.”

I stopped, turned, and regarded her with barely contained ire. “I did not sleep with him. We are not together. I literally don’t even like him. Whatever you think is going on, isn’t. Trust me on that.”

“Why would I trust the word of a slut?” she asked. “And good luck trying to keep your job. I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

I had no doubt that she would try. But I’d been there throughout my entire teaching career. I’d been there four months longer than Nivea—who was teaching Spanish and German for literally three periods a day and then nothing else—she could be spared. I, on the other hand, could not. It wasn’t boasting or anything.

I was the lead science teacher at the high school. I was over chemistry, but also physics and biology, as well as sixth through eighth grade science. How that had happened, I had no clue. I was the one who rounded up all my fellow science teachers and made things mesh. I could cover where others could not thanks to my dual degrees in not just teaching, but biology and chemistry as well.

Though, once upon a time, Nivea had been a biology teacher. Her children had gotten bad grades on their state testing, however, and the administration had decided to replace her. They’d kept her in her elective classes, though, meaning she wasn’t completely kicked to the curb.

So yes, she was still very bitter about the whole experience.

That wasn’t my fault, though. None of this was my fault.

But instead of stooping to her level and telling her all the things that were currently running through my mind—such as you’re a big bitch and I hope you catch your clit in your zipper—I turned back around and went back to my car.

I even ignored her when she stood behind my car for two long minutes hoping to get a rise out of me.

Funny enough, I was plugging my phone in and trying to find a good radio station, so who knows how long she was actually standing there before I noticed. Instead, I checked my Facebook, sent back a few emails that I’d been neglecting to do all day, and paid a few bills.

By the time that I was finished paying my electric, she was huffing her way to her car.

I waited another two minutes for her to actually get into her car and leave before I pulled out.

Except, I once again didn’t pay attention to Flint and nearly backed over him.

His hard hand slamming on the trunk of my car caused my heart to nearly stall out in my chest.

When I looked at him in my rearview mirror, he wasn’t too pleased.

I waved at him in a universal ‘I’m sorry!’ sign, and he flipped me off.

Biting my lip, I looked down at the picture that had caught my attention as I was backing out.

Saving it to my phone and putting it as my background picture as well as my lock screen photo, I closed down my phone and tucked it into my cup holder before driving away—this time making sure to look behind me thoroughly before doing so.

And, later that night, I might or might not have done some other stuff to that picture, too.

Let’s just say Flintstone was a distraction that I definitely didn’t need.





Chapter 5


It’s like winter’s really mad, and it keeps slamming the door, then reopening it and sayin, “Another thing!”

-Text from Flint to his sister

Flint

“Do you usually check the teachers’ cars, too?” The principal looked at me worriedly.

“Yes,” I answered. “Every single time. It’s school property.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

Then she went inside, and I was left wondering what that was all about.

Every single Monday and Friday I did a sweep of the parking lot with Dooley, and every single week the woman asked me questions that she likely knew the answers to.

As I passed with Dooley past a certain teacher’s car that I couldn’t stop fucking thinking about, I hurried faster, not wanting to look at the laundry basket in the backseat that had a hot pink thong on top. Nor the lacy black bra that probably made her breasts look magnificent.

I also didn’t notice the bag of Doritos open on her front seat as if she’d been eating them on the way to school.

I grinned, thinking that I was going to get her for that later during boot camp, and stalled out when Dooley hit on the car beside Camryn’s.

Fuck.

Sixty minutes later, I was filling out a police report and the new track teacher, who’d literally been hired just a week ago, was meeting with the principal, likely about to be fired.

A crowd had gathered, and it wasn’t a surprise to see Camryn in the crowd of onlookers.

Her eyes narrowed on the car I was standing at—which was hers—when she started to stomp forward.

I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking that Dooley had a hit on her car, not the one beside it. I could practically see the fire as it lit inside of her.