HATE CRUSH Page 3

  “That bad, huh?” I swallow a mouthful of macaroni and cheese and wish I’d chosen a salad instead.

  “He’s harsh,” Sybil answers. “His classes are challenging, but that’s why everyone takes them. They look good on applications, but if you want to do communications at Cornell, they are a must. Just make sure you’re always prepared and never late. In his class, I’d say it’s better to blend in than stand out.”

  “Duly noted.” I glance at the papers I stuffed into my binder to see what I need for the class and then check the time on my watch. “Crap. I still have to grab my book. We only have ten minutes left.”

  “Meet you there?” Sybil asks, shoveling as much salad as she can into her mouth.

  “Yep, save a seat for me.”

  She nods, and I fly out of the cafeteria and onto the quad. It’s going to take me some time to get used to planning for the whole day. Without one central location, that means I’ll need to carry my books with me or manage my time better. Which, admittedly, I’m not great at. I’m disorganized on my best day, and I tend to lose track of the hour. I take notes on whatever’s handy at the moment and then often have to dig around for ages before I find them again. I’ve always had my own way of doing things. My mother says I’m flighty, and she doesn’t mean it in a good way. But I know if I’m going to survive this year, I have to do better.

  Entering Lawrence Hall, a few girls are touching up their makeup in the common room, and it doesn’t escape my attention that Louisa and her drones are here. Ignoring their jabs as I walk by, I dart into my room and start searching around the scattered mess of my things for my research textbook. I’ve only got five minutes to grab it and get all the way to the other side of campus, and right now, things aren’t looking good. But they start to look even worse when I hear the unmistakable snickering outside my door, followed by the sound of a loud thunk.

  “What the hell?” I grumble as I jiggle the handle and discover that they’ve managed to lock me in somehow. “You’ve got to be kidding me! This isn’t funny. Let me out now.”

  There is no answer from the other side. It’s clear they’ve already left, reveling in my misery as panic rises in my chest. Sybil said I can’t be late to this class, and I still haven’t found my textbook. There isn’t time now, and no matter how hard I try at the doorknob, it won’t budge.

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  I glance at the window, realizing it’s my only option, and then stupidly berate myself for not thinking of that right away. I’m on the ground level, so the only thing I have to lose is my pride as I fling myself out the wooden frame onto solid ground. With no time to adjust my rumpled clothing, I dart toward the Franklin building, only to realize I mixed up my directions and have to backtrack, adding another two minutes to my journey. Today is not my day.

  I bluster inside the building and into the classroom without giving it any real thought, silently crashing right into the teacher as he’s heading to shut the door. Mr. Lucifer Hot Teacher of Doom Carter.

  “Oh my God.” The words fall helplessly from my mouth as I look up at him and try to right myself. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Carter.”

  Deep green eyes fringed with dark lashes gaze down at me, brows pinched together, lips in a flat line. Sybil wasn’t joking. He really is the hot teacher of doom. My heart beats faster as I study him, unable to stop this slow-motion train wreck from happening. He isn’t like any teacher I’ve ever seen before. The man is at least six feet tall with the body of an athlete. A body wrapped up like a GQ model in black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a black waistcoat. His cologne has notes of what I think are cardamom and sandalwood, but I drag in a deep breath just to be sure.

  My God, this man is beautiful, and I can’t seem to stop staring at him. He’s older than me, but young enough that I know he isn’t quite in his thirties. Silky chocolate locks of hair soften his caustic expression and sharp, angular cheekbones. My eyes blaze over his coppery skin down to the beating pulse of his throat.

  This must be what it feels like. That chemistry thing Sybil is always rambling on about. My hormones are firing on all cylinders, and I don’t know how to stop this roller coaster of emotions as his eyes cut over my face. That is until he speaks, reminding me we have an audience, and I’ve just humiliated myself for the third time today.

  “You’re late, Miss LeClaire.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SEBASTIAN

  THE FIRST DAY of school is as monotonous as the blur that has been the past three years. One by one, the students parade into the classroom, showing off the latest designer handbags while they humblebrag about their summers on the French Riviera. The endless cacophony of giggling schoolgirls born with Tiffany spoons in their mouth is a long-suffering death. Briefly, my thoughts drift to Katie, grateful that she never succumbed to the peer pressure to be just like them.

  I scan the sea of faces, taking note of moods, new haircuts, casual attempts at cool conversation. There aren’t any who stand out. Not a single one. Already, I’m convinced that it’s hopeless. Finding someone who can think for themselves in this monochrome environment will suck the last of my soul from me.

  The steady unfailing tick of my Tag Heuer timepiece alerts me to the hour, and I move on autopilot to seal my fate inside the classroom. It’s just another Monday. Just another school year. Another group of students I will forget as soon as they leave. Until it isn’t. Until a flash of red crashes into me, making this day one for the books.

  Stella LeClaire. I know it must be her when she looks up and stuns me with those kohl-lined eyes the color of honey. I would have remembered those eyes if I’d ever seen them before. Vaguely, I recall glancing at her name amongst the others on my list, acknowledging that I had a new student this year. But after that, I never thought of it again. And now here she is. A banging drum solo in a world full of symphonies. Right away, I know she is the outlier in this group with her red wine-stained hair and ivory skin and her hundred thousand-megawatt face.

  “Oh my God.” The words stumble from her crimson red lips. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Carter.”

  Christ, those lips. I can’t tear my eyes away from them, and the limp dick in my trousers has taken notice too. My dick hasn’t seen any action for far too long, and now is an inopportune moment to remember that. This is new, and it’s a fucking problem, but that doesn’t stop me from taking stock of this mysterious new creature in front of me. Leggy with a body of a pinup fantasy, she has the figure of a model with none of the grace and only half of the confidence. There is something unapologetically genuine about her, and I am drawn to it like a goddamn moth. Soft lines and retro sex kitten lashes are all I can see. Unspoiled territory demanding to be explored.

  Fuck. I’m staring at her, and the entire class is watching. How long have we been here like this? What fucking day is it? It’s time to rectify this situation. My eyes cut over her, and my voice turns menacing as I establish dominance. “You’re late, Miss LeClaire.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes dart to Louisa and her gaggling pack of hyenas in the back of the classroom. “I had some trouble finding my way here.”

  She’s lying, and it’s evident that she’s become the latest target of the self-proclaimed mean girls at Loyola. But regardless of her excuses, I have an example to set.

  “Congratulations,” I reply flatly. “You’ve earned the award of fastest detention ever given on the first day of school. Now find a seat, Miss LeClaire, and get here on time from now on or don’t bother showing up at all.”

  Her lips slam shut, and she stares at me in disbelief for a second before she swallows down her humiliation. Slinking to her seat, she leaves me standing at the front of the class alone with an unfamiliar shadow of frustration. I shut the door and take a moment to gather myself before I point out the rules I scrawled on the whiteboard earlier this morning.

  “Welcome to AP Research. Those of you who have made it this far are second year students of the Capstone program, so I assume you will understand t
his is not an easy college credit for your application. If you are ready to put your mind to use, then I will be your guide this year. My name is Mr. Carter, and I expect you to address me as such. Now, let’s go over the rules, shall we?”

  The class falls dead silent as I begin to ramble off the structure that is better suited for toddlers than teenagers.

  No texting. No snapchatting. No selfies. No phones, period.

  No eye rolling. No whining.

  If I’m talking, you’re not.

  If you plan to show up late, don’t bother coming at all.

  My eyes inadvertently move to Stella as I read this line. To my satisfaction, she sucks in a breath, and I continue down the list.

  If you’re passing notes, be prepared to share them with the entire class.

  No gossiping. No food or drinks.

  No shirt, no shoes, no classroom. This is not a hippie commune, nor is it your sofa. Come to class in compliance with the dress code and remain that way. Nobody wants to smell your feet when you kick off your shoes.

  Do your homework and don’t make excuses.

  If you are coughing, sneezing, shivering, or otherwise showing signs of an impending plague, you will be sent directly to the school nurse.

  There are no participation medals in this class. Grades are earned through sweat and tears.

  * * *

  “NOW THAT WE have that out of the way, are there any questions?”

  A horde of blank faces stare back at me, but the one I find myself drifting to is hers. The girl who will undoubtedly be a problem this year. She’s chosen a seat next to Sybil, which displeases me more than I expect. While Sybil is a decent student, she is also a party girl. They aren’t the most likely of friends, but I can see Stella getting caught up in things she shouldn’t be with Sybil’s influence. Regardless, I remind myself it isn’t my concern.

  “If there are no questions, then let’s proceed. You will note on your desk there is a course syllabus in front of you. Today, we will cover the schedule, course materials, and expectations for this semester. In the likely event that you decide this class isn’t what you anticipated, you can elect to opt out this week. Now open your AP Research Workbooks and turn to page twenty-seven. You have ten minutes to read the Getting Started section on your own.”

  The class shuffles around, removing books and pencils from their Prada bags. Everyone except for Stella, who has slunk even lower into her seat, failing to go unnoticed as she refuses to follow through on this very basic command.

  “Miss LeClaire, do we have a problem?” My voice echoes off the walls, and every student turns to look at her.

  “I don’t have my textbook,” she says, her voice unwavering even though her face betrays the nerves she doesn’t want anyone to see. “I’m sorry. I had trouble finding it, and then I was late—”

  “You seem to be under the impression that I care about your excuses.” I lean against my desk and pin her with my gaze. “Next time, come prepared or don’t bother. A sloth catches on quicker than you, Miss LeClaire.”

  The classroom erupts into soft snickers while red blooms across her cheeks, just as I predicted. Her fists curl at her sides, and it appears that Stella does have some fire in her after all.

  “Hey, Mr. Carter,” Ethan pipes up, waggling his eyebrows in Stella’s direction. “She can share with me. I won’t bite.”

  The muscles in my throat tighten as I swivel my attention in his direction. “Did I ask for your assistance, Mr. Dupree?”

  “No.” He scratches at his eyebrow with the end of his pencil. “I just figured—”

  “You just figured your raging hormones would be a benefit to Miss LeClaire in some way, but they won’t. Not today. Not ever. So, think twice before you open your mouth in my class again.”

  Ethan shuts his trap, and I take a seat at my desk, confounded by my annoyance over something so juvenile. My body is rigid with tension, and I can’t dispel this odd sensation in my gut. Every jock in class is staring at her, and my reaction is beyond visceral. What the fuck is this? I haven’t been this wound up… ever. Stella has captured the attention of everyone in class, the girls included. They know she’s competition, and they want to squash her like a bug beneath their Jimmy Choos.

  We all need to get a fucking grip. Scrapping my initial plan of discussing the material together, I rattle off instructions for the class to read an additional two chapters on their own. In that time, I take the opportunity to study Stella as she and Sybil share a textbook, quietly flipping through the pages without distraction. She can do that much, but is she capable of more? The fact that she’s friends with Sybil makes me question her background. What brought her here? What secrets is she hiding behind those expressive eyes? And why does she keep glancing up at me like she’s seeking out my approval?

  She is a curious dichotomy of fire and fragility if ever I saw one. But when I glance at her file, I’m not surprised to find that at least in one regard, there is nothing different about her. She’s on track to be a communications major, courtesy of the courses picked out by her mother. Her class schedule is nearly a carbon copy of every other Loyola student before her. This is the recipe for the Ivy Leagues. But is it Stella’s desire, or is she merely a good little soldier? The answer to that question becomes painfully obvious when I read the administration’s note about photography classes being strictly forbidden, per Stella’s parents.

  She likes to take photos. Yet here she is, doubling down on college level courses like a daughter who wants nothing more than to please her parents. There’s something about Stella that makes me believe she will always go the extra mile to seek approval from those with authority. I can see it every time she looks at me. And before the end of the hour, I’ve made up my mind. In the past, I picked easy, obvious targets for my projects. Without fail, they failed me. They couldn’t withstand the expectations of their peers and their family and the machine that is Loyola Academy.

  But Stella won’t fail. I feel it deep in my gut. A spark of hope that I haven’t had with any of the others. A want I haven’t experienced since my own college days. I will push her harder than I’ve pushed anyone else before her, and she will cling to hold onto herself in the face of any storm I might bring her way. I will open her eyes to the realities of this world. And in the end, she will despise me for my ruthlessness, but she will be grateful.

  Stella LeClaire, welcome to my final project.

  CHAPTER SIX

  STELLA

  FOURTH PERIOD Creative Writing passes in a blur as I am yet again saddled near the Loyola mean girls and their scornful gazes. After my first run-in with them, I have since learned their names are Louisa, Libby, and Leah. Just a guess, but it seems like there’s a pretty basic requirement for their club, and it has everything to do with their names. It probably doesn’t hurt that they all come from wealthy families and have matching wardrobes too. Through the entirety of the class, I can feel their gazes boring into the back of my head while they whisper amongst each other.

  The one silver lining is that Ms. Hargrave seems like a decent teacher, and so far, I haven’t earned myself a reprimand from her. She commends me several times for my correct answers as she asks questions to gauge our knowledge, and it dissolves some of my first day jitters. Loyola Academy isn’t going to be a walk in the park, but if I stay focused, I think I can do well here. I can uphold my grade point average and maintain the course laid out for me.

  I’m putting everything on the line to send you here, Stella.

  As Ms. Hargrave dismisses us, I release a celebratory breath for surviving the first day. Well, almost. There’s still the matter of detention. Something I hope my parents won’t be hearing about. I only have ten minutes to get there, and I’m determined not to screw this up. But before I can even make it onto the quad, I’m stopped by Louisa and her crew of cardigan clones.

  “We have a message for you,” Louisa says.

  “Another one?” I roll my eyes. “Well, in that case, why
don’t you write a letter and send it to someone who cares?”

  I attempt to step around the trio, but Libby stops me with a pink clawed hand on my chest. “The message is stay away from Ethan. He’s off-limits.”

  I pry her fingers off me and examine the scowl on Louisa’s face, and suddenly, it all becomes so clear. I can’t even help the laughter that bursts from my lips. Could she be any more transparent?

  “I don’t want your dumb jock boyfriend,” I assure her. “He’s all yours. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

  I successfully manage to maneuver around them this time, but it doesn’t stop Louisa from calling out after me anyway. “You better watch your back, Cherrybitch. That’s the only warning you’ll get.”

  I throw a hand up and wave as I pick up the pace, heading down the hill toward the student center. Sybil was kind enough to let me know where detention was since Mr. Carter failed to inform me. He did arch an eyebrow at me before I left, and I almost asked, but it felt like he was challenging me. I think he has me pegged for another run of the mill rich kid with entitlement issues, but I’m here to prove him wrong. While I was undeniably flustered in his presence at first, his abrasive personality was enough to douse me in cold water. The man might be hot as sin, but he’s also completely detached from human emotion. Briefly, I wonder how he came to be that way, but I try to forget it as I stride through the student center and find room 206.

  Stupidly, I had anticipated I wouldn’t be the only one in detention today, but one glance at the empty classroom has dashed that hope. Worse yet, when I see the dark figure lurking at the desk inside, my heart jumps into my throat. Mr. Prince of Darkness, aka Satan, isn’t just my research teacher. He’s also my warden.

  “Are you going to stand there all day, Miss LeClaire, or do I need to give you permission to take a seat?”

  Crap.

  I’m staring at him again. Why do I keep doing that, and how do I make it stop? Moving my leaden feet, I traipse across the room and sit down at one of the tables in the second row. At least now there’s some distance between us, and I can pretend I’m working on something while I doodle in my journal. Even though I have homework, there’s no way I can concentrate in his presence.