HATE CRUSH Page 5

  “If that’s the road you want to take, so be it.” He holds the whiskey bottle up. “I’ll be confiscating this, and I expect you to report to the groundskeepers at six a.m. tomorrow for your punishment. Work hours and detention after school for the next week.”

  “But what about Ethan?” I demand childishly. “What will his punishment be?”

  “That will be all, Miss LeClaire.” He turns on his heel and exits just as quickly as he arrived, sealing me into my room with the faint trace of his scent. A glance at the clock confirms it’s already one in the morning, and tomorrow is officially going to suck.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SEBASTIAN

  BACK AT MY HOUSE, I drain the bottle of whiskey into the sink and throw the remnants into the trash, taking satisfaction in the sound of it shattering. Leaning over the counter, I close my eyes and try to gather my thoughts, concentrating on what I need to do this week. But instead, all I can see is her. Standing there in soft cotton shorts and a wet tank top with her pink nipples poking through.

  Irrational thoughts flood my mind about what happened in that room. Did she let that entitled prick touch her? Kiss her? Did her lips touch that bottle after he did?

  It’s not fucking logical or sane, but the uncertainties continue to plague me as I sit down at the kitchen table and stare at the wall. This girl is getting inside my head, and I can’t focus on what I’m supposed to be doing because my dick is so goddamn engorged, I can’t think straight. She’s a temptation straight from the devil’s toy factory. I’ve survived years of celibacy without issue, but after two days of Stella LeClaire in my life, I’m ready to fuck anything in sight.

  It would be tempting to walk across the campus right now and hate fuck Misty Hargrave. I know she’d let me do anything I wanted to her. Maybe it would even purge these fucked-up thoughts playing on repeat inside my head. But it wouldn’t satisfy me. Not like Stella would.

  Christ.

  I close my eyes, and all I can think about is spreading her thighs apart and stuffing her full of my cock while she screams my name from those blood red lips. Teachers aren’t supposed to have these thoughts. It goes against every moral fiber I’ve ever tried to hold on to. But morality is a blurred line when I wrap my fist around my cock and allow my imagination to run wild. I want her to be a virgin. I want to be the first to ruin her. I want to debase her and torment her and call her every filthy thing I can think of while I fuck her and fill her with my come.

  She will be my ruination if I don’t get a fucking grip. I suck in a breath and think about her tight pussy wrapped around me, milking me dry. I bet she tastes like honey between her thighs. I bet she would feel so goddamned good I’d never want to let her go. And for that, I hate her.

  The fantasy in my head takes a dark turn as I bend her over my desk and beat her ass with the palm of my hand until it’s so red, she will think of me every time she has to sit down. She’d let me too. I know she’d let me do anything I wanted, and she’d follow my every command, so desperate for my attention and approval. She’d kneel before me and pant at my feet, begging me with those gold eyes as she looked up at me in worship. She’d call me sir and let me grab her by the throat and shove my cock into her mouth. She’d kiss my body and touch me with her soft, delicate hands.

  Fuck, I want her. I want her so much it makes me violent with need. And no matter how many times I stroke myself or what I imagine her doing, it won’t be the same. I know this when I finally come, shooting my release across my knuckles, and my dick refuses to fall limp.

  Stella. Stella. Stella.

  Her name is a mantra in my thoughts. She’s supposed to be my project for this year. I want to break her but not like this. Not by corrupting her.

  Yet I fear that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  UNSURPRISINGLY, Stella arrives on time today, making a show of placing her textbook neatly on the desk in front of her. See, Mr. Carter, I can be good.

  It’s almost too fucking easy. When she offers me a secret smile, she may as well be whispering that she’s mine. Briefly, I consider how fucked up it is that she’s so eager to please me. And then I remember that I don’t care. I’m here to make this year hell for her and wear her down until I get to the core of her emotions. Her desires.

  What does Stella LeClaire really want? And how far will she go to get it? Despite her resolve to put her head down and do her best at Loyola Academy, we both know she doesn’t really belong here. She is too free spirited to be just another cog in the machine. She isn’t chasing her dreams; she’s chasing a feather in the wind. And I’m not here to teach Stella. I’m here to open her fucking eyes and wake her up. This path she’s headed down is a collision course with misery, and until she sees that, I will take pleasure in reminding her every day that she isn’t one of these trust fund brats. Starting right now.

  She’s obviously exhausted and tense as she waits quietly for class to begin. A girl like Stella has been deprived of her parents' attention for so long that she will look for it everywhere else. And as long as I set the bar higher, she will keep jumping to reach it.

  “Let’s get started.” I rap my knuckles against the desk, drawing everyone’s attention to the front of the class. “Stella, shut the door for us, will you?”

  Her eyes flare as her name rolls from my lips with a cadence that lulls her into a false sense of comfort. She doesn’t hesitate to get up from her seat. Today, she’s wearing a crushed red velvet skirt, antique white blouse, and a pussy bow tie. I’m not the only one watching her as she crosses the room. Every pair of eyes is on the exotic creature cloaked in red. She shuts the door with a softness befitting of a mouse and returns to her seat, eagerly waiting for the next set of instructions.

  “Today’s class will be free form discussion as noted in the syllabus,” I begin. “Every second period of the week, you will seek out academic papers on a chosen group topic to discuss. Today’s umbrella term is ancient philosophies. Now, who would care to throw some ideas into the ring?”

  A few hands go up around the classroom, and I scan the crowd as they wait to be called on. But it’s Louisa who speaks first. “I have an idea, Mr. Carter.”

  “What is your suggestion, Louisa?”

  She smirks in Stella’s direction before returning her gaze to me. “The curse of the red hair gene throughout history.”

  Her friends snicker behind her, and Ethan decides to chime in too as he sneers in Stella’s direction. “Yeah, we could answer that age-old question. Do gingers really have souls?”

  Stella frowns at his newfound animosity toward her, but it’s apparent I’ve made my stance clear. He won’t be bothering her anymore. At least not while he’s doing dishes in the cafeteria for the next two months.

  “There’s no need to waste precious time in class on that answer,” Stella bites back. “I can already tell you… I sold mine to the devil.”

  My gaze returns to Stella, and despite her bravado, I can tell she doesn’t like this. And why would she, being the only redhead in the class? Louisa’s suggestion is designed to make her feel small, and admittedly, I want to see how she responds to the pressure. So even if it is utterly bullshit, I decide to roll with it.

  “The curse of red hair throughout history. You have twenty minutes to do your research, and then we will discuss as a group.”

  Stella’s mouth falls open, and Sybil foolishly tries to make her feel better about the situation. Perhaps it is cruel, but Stella will learn. My God will she learn.

  CHAPTER NINE

  STELLA

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS,” Sybil whispers beside me. “This isn’t fair.”

  “It’s okay.” I maintain my attempt at stoicism even though I feel anything but.

  “It’s not okay,” she hisses. “This is basically a roast. You’re the only redhead in here, and Mr. Carter knows it. He seriously has it out for you.”

  “I know.” I choke back the awful feeling in my throat. Stupidly, I came here this afternoon hoping to make a better impression. But instead, he chose to put a target on my back. I don’t get it. I really don’t understand how he can be so cruel.

  “Just don’t let anything they say upset you,” Sybil advises. “That’s what they want. A reaction. And besides, I wrote down all the good things about redheads. I promise it won’t be one-sided.”

  “Don’t get yourself in trouble on my behalf,” I whisper. “I’ll be fine, I swear.”

  But as Mr. Carter calls time on our research, I don’t exactly believe that myself. He stands in front of his desk, expressionless with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Who would like to go first?”

  “I will.” Louisa flips her hair over her shoulder.

  He nods to her and gives her the floor, and I glare at him like the traitor he is. I can’t believe I ever thought he was hot. He’s an asshole. The biggest asshole ever.

  “Aristotle is rumored to have said that redheads are of baddish character,” Louisa reports gleefully. “And they were often thought to be witches or vampires in certain cultures, which resulted in them being sacrificed, burned, or buried alive. A practice some believe should be resurrected.”

  “I got one, Mr. Carter,” Ethan adds. “In Jewish mythology, Lilith was believed to be a redheaded sexualized demon who wreaked havoc on men.”

  “The Thracians worshipped gods with red hair,” Sybil interjects. “And they have a special gene that gives them a higher pain threshold. Just under two percent of the population have red hair, so that makes them pretty unique.”

  “Don’t tell that to the ancient Greeks,” Louisa bites back.

  Libby adds, “Yeah, I read that they were thought to be conceived through unclean sex in some religions. Usually with the devil.”

  “Hitler banned redh
eads from reproducing,” someone else chimes in.

  “Mark Twain thought they evolved from cats.”

  “In one of Michelangelo’s pieces, Eve is depicted as a redhead after luring Adam to damnation.”

  “There are many notable redheads throughout history.” Sybil raises her voice, counting off on her fingers as she speaks. “Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, Venus, Emily Dickinson. They don’t ever go gray, and they can make their own vitamin D.”

  “I found a German study that says redheads really do like to have more fun, if you know what I mean.” Ethan chuckles.

  And so, the list goes on. For twenty minutes, I doodle in my journal while I listen to my classmates throw out every possible form of ammunition they can against a single hair color. Sybil is the only one who seems to find anything positive, and eventually, even she runs out of things to say. Silence is my only defense, until it isn’t.

  “Are we boring you, Stella?” A shadow falls over my desk, and I look up, horrified to see Mr. Carter studying the sketch in my journal.

  “No.”

  “You don’t have anything to add to the discussion?” he clips out.

  “Not really, no. I think it’s all been said.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to share what you’ve deemed to be more important during class.” He snatches the journal from my hands and holds it up for the class to see. “Great likeness of me, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Nobody agrees, of course. The devil with Mr. Carter’s eyes and facial structure is undeniably him, and I don’t have the will to argue otherwise.

  “That will buy you one more week of detention, Miss LeClaire. Now put it away.”

  He tosses it back onto my desk and returns to the front of the class. “Your assignment for this evening is to articulate what approach and method of research you employed for today’s topic. Cite your evidence, detail your own conclusions, and acknowledge any implications of your message. Class dismissed.”

  I take a breath and look at Sybil, who’s glaring at Mr. Carter like she’s tempted to say something she’ll regret.

  “Don’t bother.” I nudge her in the side. “It isn’t worth it.”

  “We need to do something,” she whispers.

  I wait until we file out of the doorway and onto the quad before I respond. “I think I should just withdraw from his class. It’s clear he doesn’t like me, and if I stay, he’s probably going to fail me.”

  “Ugh, I hate him.” Sybil pouts. “It’s so unfair. That’s the only class we have together. But I think you’re right. Maybe you should go to the office now and talk to an advisor. They can give you a late pass for the next class.”

  I nod in agreement, and we hug our goodbyes, going in separate directions. The administration building always has at least one student advisor hanging around during the day to chat with, and though it’s typically by appointment, I’m hoping they will make an exception in my case. When I arrive, the woman at the front desk greets me and checks the schedule upon my request.

  “I think Mrs. Hart can speak with you for a few minutes. Come with me and we’ll see.”

  I follow her around the counter and into the office where Mrs. Hart resides at her desk, tapping away at her keyboard.

  “Cacey, do you have a moment to speak with Miss LeClaire regarding her schedule?”

  Mrs. Hart checks the time on her watch and nods, gesturing for me to sit down. “Sure.”

  The other woman leaves, and the door remains open while Mrs. Hart stares at me in question. “What can I help you with, Stella?”

  “I wanted to see if it was possible to withdraw from my AP Research class and transfer to something comparable.”

  “Hmm.” She adjusts her glasses. “Let me check.”

  I wait quietly while she clicks around my file and studies the class schedules.

  “I’m afraid all the other AP classes are full. And I would highly advise that you stick with it if you can, since it looks like your career path is noted as a communications major. Is that still your plan for college?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I’m trying to get into Cornell.”

  Or at least, that’s what I’m supposed to do.

  “Well, you’ll need all the help you can get. Every detail makes a difference on an application. Can I ask why you want to withdraw from Research? It looks like you’ve already completed the first year of Seminar for the Capstone program. It might not work in your favor to quit halfway, as colleges are likely to notice.”

  I bite my lip and squeeze my hands together in my lap, fighting my reluctance to betray Mr. Carter, even though he’s an ass.

  “It’s nothing,” I assure her. “I think I’m just overreacting. It’s all a little overwhelming for me.”

  “Okay.” She tilts her head to the side, studying me. “I know Mr. Carter can be tough on his students, but I assure you he’s an excellent teacher. He does have office hours too, if you need extra help. You’ll be well educated in his class if you can hang in there.”

  “I’m sure I will.” I swallow and stand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hart.”

  She smiles, and I move for the door, only to have my heart sink into my stomach when I see Mr. Carter standing in the office. And judging by the scowl on his face, he heard everything.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SEBASTIAN

  AS FRIDAY DRAWS TO AN END, my irritation increases by the second. My father has called me an additional six times this week, which is unusual, even for him. I still haven’t responded, but I am questioning his sudden urgency to speak with me. Three of his latest letters rest in the bottom of the garbage can, and I have no desire to open those either.

  In addition to that annoyance, Stella LeClaire is challenging my last nerve. I have to give her credit, she’s more resilient than I anticipated. Every day, she shows up on time for class, and every day, I find new ways to humiliate her. On Wednesday, I threw her sorry excuse for notes in the trash and told her to try again. On Thursday, I taped her assignment to the whiteboard as an example of what not to do. I gave her extra homework. I asked her impossible questions and challenged her at every turn. And still, she has not cracked. She remains as stoic as the day she walked out of the office after the little traitor tried to escape me.

  In detention, she doesn’t bother to doodle in her journal anymore. She does her homework in silence and leaves. She only speaks when spoken to and never asks to use the restroom. Her devotion to perfectionism is getting on my last nerve, and it’s written all over my face as I glare at her from across the room.

  This week, I took the time to dig a little deeper and do some research on her parents. As I suspected, Stella doesn’t hail from the typical wealth and privilege. Her father married above his station and crawled his way to the top in an effort to appease his model trophy wife. Now he works himself to death in the city while she spends her days socializing back in Greenwich. Interestingly enough, Stella has always maintained excellent grades, and her transcripts are proof of that. But regardless, Brady LeClaire had to call in a lot of favors to get Stella in the door of Loyola Academy, which explains her drive to do well here. The enormous cloud of pressure hanging over her head would be motivation enough for any young, attention-starved woman.

  My investigation served its purpose, but it had not cured my growing appetite for all things Stella LeClaire. So I did something this week that I’ve never done before. I snuck into her dorm like a hormonal teenage boy and swiped her journal, proceeding to read through every page, front to back. All of her innermost thoughts. Her drawings. Her photos. And now I understand the thing that makes Stella tick. She has a knack for taking pictures of people. The little creep even snapped photos of me on the soccer field. When I found them on her camera, my dick became unreasonably hard as I considered her spying on me. The little deviant had zoomed in on my face, snapping away as I remained unaware. She captured something in me that I didn’t expect to see. A rare moment of passion. Passion for something in this uninspiring world.