“I wasn’t mauling your mother.”
I give him a deadpan look. “You had your hand up her shirt and your tongue down her throat. If that’s not mauling, I don’t know what is.”
His eyes narrow. “You best hope you never know what mauling is.”
Before he and Mom can notice the color of my cheeks turning pink, I turn away from them and grab a glass from the cabinet.
I definitely know what mauling is. Mr. Monroe did enough of it two nights ago to sear the experience in my brain. I’ve got a couple of light bruises on my thighs and a mark on the side of my neck as proof.
My stomach flutters at the reminder and unconsciously, I lift my hand and graze my fingers over the side of my neck. It took a lot of make-up to cover that mark.
The clank of a plate being set down on the counter pulls me from my naughty thoughts.
Mom sidles up next to me. “You okay?” she asks.
I drop my hand, hoping she doesn’t notice it shaking, and plaster on a smile. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? You looked like you were a million miles away. Everything okay at school?”
“Yep.” I chirp. “Everything’s great at school. I was just thinking about an assignment that’s due soon.” I hold up the carton of orange juice. “Would you like some?”
Mom looks at me for a moment, and it takes a lot of effort to hold her eyes. I’ve never been a very good liar—probably because I hate doing it, especially to my parents—and something tells me, I’m doing a crap job of it right now.
Thankfully, Mom doesn’t call me out on it.
She lifts her coffee cup between us. “I’m good, but thank you.”
I nod, letting out an inaudible sigh of relief, and pour some juice in the glass. I lift it to my lips and take a sip just as Mom leans over and whispers in my ear.
“You might want to put a bit more make-up on that spot on your neck before your father sees it.”
Of course, her words have me choking on my juice. Luckily, I’m standing by the sink, so most of what spews out of my mouth goes there. I cough and sputter as Mom rubs my back.
Once I catch my breath, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Mom’s concerned eyes meet mine and she mouths the words, “I’m sorry.” Dad, who’s standing behind her, has his brows lifted.
“Drink went down the wrong pipe?”
“Yes,” I wheeze out, then clear my throat.
“It looks like you spilled some on your shirt,” Mom says, her eyes big and round. “Why don’t you go change it while I make you a cream cheese bagel.”
Because Mom and I have always been in sync, what she’s really telling me is to go fix my neck. Embarrassment coats my cheeks as I give her a nod. “Yeah, good idea.”
I thank my lucky stars that the side of my neck with the mark is facing away from Dad.
I’m a foot away from the door when Dad calls my name.
“Luna.” I turn around, finding his eyes and noticing a barely visible tic in his temple. “Tell the boy who left that mark on you if I find another, I’ll break his jaw.”
* * *
I’m nervous as I walk into Mr. Monroe’s room later that afternoon. I stop just inside the doorway and look around. Half of the room is already full with students taking their seats and pulling out their notebooks. Mr. Monroe is at his desk, bent over as he shuffles through some papers.
As if he senses my presence, his head lifts and his eyes meet mine. For a split second, something dark and dirty flashes across his face, and I know he’s remembering our time together. It’s all I thought about over the weekend. It’s still hard to get my head around the fact that it actually happened. But the tenderness between my legs is a constant reminder that it did.
The look fades from his face in the next second and the scowl I’m used to seeing replaces it. Unbidden, a sharp pain pierces my chest. I don’t like that look. I want back the one he was giving me Friday night. I’ll even take the one he gave me right after he saved me from Aaron. Anything but the dislike currently pulling down his brows.
A tap on my shoulder has my eyes jerking away from my teacher. “Can you get out of the way?”