All's Fair in Love and Lion (2 page)

Chapter 2: Sasha

The sign for St. James Senior High School glints in the sun. Squinting in the brilliant sunlight, I drive through the open gates into the teachers’ parking lot behind the school.

Inside the main entrance, I stop by the secretary’s desk. “Busy already?”

“You have no idea. Got big plans for the weekend?”

“Not really.”
Please don’t ask for details.
She has a date almost every weekend while the best I can hope for is a carton of chocolate ice cream and a novel. My watch beeps, warning me of the time. “Uh oh! I gotta run, lots to do.”

Relieved to escape a rundown on a weekend I just recently got the guts to imagine, I walk through the empty main hallway past blue and gold spirit posters and step into the Teachers’ Lounge. I weave around a few folding chairs, a couple of square tables, and a four-year-old refrigerator.
I guess a limited budget means less ambiance
. I rub my arms in attempt to warm up from the forty-degree weather and make my way to a wooden box full of cubbyholes. Inside my cubbyhole, a stack of mail waits for me. Under the memos, a red and white piece of paper pokes out.

Oh no. Not the Valentine’s Day Dance.
Is it already that time of year? I check the wall calendar. Sure enough, in a few days it’ll be February fourteenth. My most dreaded day of the year.

Anyone who’s as unlucky in love as I am knows the disappointment of another lonely Valentine’s Day spent at home eating grocery store bought candy and avoiding all those romantic TV shows. The one bright spot is I won’t have to chaperone the dance. Still, I can’t help thinking,
If only I had a Prince Charming, then I wouldn’t mind the holiday.

What about Monroe?
Surprised, I consider the hero from my dreams. I can almost feel his arms around me and his white-hot kisses. Longing fills me.
If he was real . . .

Stop! Don’t go there.

Years ago, during my parents’ funeral, I learned you can’t change reality. No matter how badly I’ve often wished I could. The truth is, Monroe is a figment of my imagination.
So why can’t I quit thinking about him?
Why does my heart race whenever he comes to mind?

I leave the Lounge and sweep past the lobby. Jogging up a staircase, I make my way down a long blue and brick corridor to my classroom.

The scent of chalk dust and cleaning fluid hangs in the air. I turn on the lights. A sense of purpose washes over me. The neat rows of desks remind me how far I’ve come in my life. Here I don’t worry about blushing, or how tongue-tied I get around men. I’m even confident around my male colleagues. Perhaps it’s because I don’t view them as anything more than friends.

Bits of the previous night’s dream flit back into my mind. I sit behind my desk while the image of those deep hazel eyes flash before me. So tempting. They promise to fulfill all my romantic fantasies. Someone who would chase away the blues and make me feel like I belonged everywhere, not just in front of a chalkboard.

A shrill ring draws me back into reality. I blink and pick up my copy of Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
. As I prepare for my lecture, I shove the silly dreams out of my head. Reality may not be as enticing as my fantasies, but my life isn’t a novel. Despite what my heart might desire.

After the morning announcements, I stand at my podium. “Okay, settle down! I know, today’s Friday and we’re all excited, but let’s get down to business.” Shoulders back, I begin.

The morning passes with the usual end-of-the-week chaos. I’m sure I’ll be exhausted when 3 p.m. arrives.

It could be worse. I could spend the whole thinking about and enticing voice and muscular shoulders
. No, I won’t think about Monroe!
Lunch . . . a safer subject. I open my brown paper sack and make a resolution.
No more daydreaming
.

A knock breaks my reverie.
Good, a distraction.
“Come in!”

Carl Darrenmore, the other eleventh grade English teacher, strolls in carrying a soda. His demeanor radiates confidence. He brushes back the bangs of his sandy-colored hair, and his kind brown eyes meet mine. He’s a man single females drool over. Except me. Maybe it’s silly, but nobody else quite measures up to Monroe.

“Do you have time to discuss the upcoming essay contest?” He flashes a smile.

Nope, not as sexy as Monroe.
No more! You must focus.
I gesture to an empty desk and struggle to remain poised. “Sure, have a seat.”

He settles into a desk and props his chin in his hand. “This group doesn’t strike me as excited about the contest. Last year’s class couldn’t wait for it.”

“You’re right, I don’t think they are.” I tap my fingers against my desktop. “However, at least a few of my students want to enter. There’s no reason to cancel.”

“No, we won’t cancel. Simply my observation.” He pops open his drink. “On a different note, how’s
Pride and Prejudice
coming along?”

“We’re making progress.”

“I wish more of them loved the classics.”

“Part of the reason I’m a teacher.” I shuffle some papers. “Have you been roped into chaperoning the Junior-Senior Prom?”

“Yep. Are you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Are you going alone?”

“Probably. Will you go by yourself?”

He studies my face. “If you turn me down, I will.”

My shoulders slump. “Carl—”

He leans forward. “Come on, Sasha, we both have to be there. Why don’t we go together?”

I recall all the other times he’s asked me out. Maybe if Monroe hadn’t come into my life and I wasn’t so ethical I’d say yes.
We could always go as friends.
“Okay. But, please, don’t read anything into it.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t presume.”

Shame washes over me. Even if I don’t feel anything for the guy doesn’t mean I have to be rude. “I’m sorry, that was harsh.”

“No harm done.” He resumes a serious expression. “I believe we’re set for the beginning of March to start the essay contest and then announce a winner in April.”

I nod and mentally review my checklist. We’ll have to run things by the principal. “Did Marjorie approve the dates?”

“I spoke with her earlier this week. We’re set.”

“I’ll make the announcement to my classes in the coming weeks. Then we can judge the entries.”

“Sounds good.” He gathers his things. “I better get back to my room.”

After Carl leaves I search for an excuse to attend the dance with him. I can’t think of a single one. Why did he have to make sense? I pray he didn’t say what I wanted to hear and secretly hoped to change my mind.

Sudden jealousy overwhelms me. Where did that come from?

“How can you,”
a voice in my head says,
“prefer him to me?”
A cold chill runs down my back at the menace in the tone.

“What?” I ask, aloud.

Silence.

“Who said that?” I scan the room. Empty. “I’m imagining things.”

“What you need,”
the voice resumes,
“is a man who satisfies your heart.”

My nerves prickle. “I can’t be hearing things. Someone else is here.”

A vague chuckle echoes in my brain.
“A slip on my part. Don’t fret, I won’t hurt you.”

Dizziness disorients me. I lean on the chalkboard for support. “This isn’t happening,” I moan. “I’m a rational, controlled person.”

Thankfully, no more sounds come from the voice.

I slide back into the chair, trembling. The loneliness I keep at bay breaks over me and my eyes sting. I grab a tissue and make a beeline for the nearest ladies’ room.

Locking the stall door, I take several deep breaths.
I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

Students’ voices fill the air. I compose myself and step out of the stall.

“Miss Brighton,” a girl I taught last year says, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You enjoying senior year?”

“Mostly,” she says. “Except I can’t stand my French teacher,
Monsieur
Beauvais. He’s
tres
boring.”

Poor Armand.
“The bell is about to ring. You better go before you’re tardy.”

She shrugs. “I suppose.”

We exit the restroom and go our separate ways.

“Be quiet, she’s coming!”

Do they honestly think they can fool me? I roll my eyes and suppress my amusement. I’ll give them five seconds. Let them believe it worked . . . for a little bit, anyway. Reaching five, I open the classroom door. Despite the leeway, a flurry of activity greets me.

One boy hurries into his seat. In the row to his left, a girl guiltily puts away a makeup compact. In the back of the room, another boy kicks his football under a desk.

“If you all are quite finished,” I say, entering the room, “we can start the lesson. Has anyone finished reading
Pride and Prejudice
?” I raise an eyebrow. “One person? Good job, Cara. The rest of you make sure you finish within the next few days. Now, take out your notebooks.”

Groans fill the air as I turn on the overhead projector. I ignore them and begin the lecture.

When the bell rings, the students scramble for their backpacks. I flick off the projector and sink into my chair behind my desk to enjoy my free period and take the opportunity to review Monday’s plans. Half an hour later, I shut down my laptop. A knock on the door startles me.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Carl says, as he comes in. “Do you have some extra chalk? Or dry erase markers? I forgot to get new markers and I ran out of chalk.”

“Maintenance still hasn’t installed my new dry-erase board. So I do have chalk.” I open a package. “How much do you need?”

“A couple of sticks should do. Thanks.” He gives me a salute and leaves the room.

“A salute isn’t how you say farewell to a woman. A bow, or a kiss on the hand. The man has no manners.”
I cringe as the voice returns.

My hands shake. “What’s going on?”

“Like I said, I won’t hurt you. Relax. I want to make all your dreams come true.”

“Go away,” I say aloud.

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

“Leave me alone!”

Mercifully there’s silence. Turning off the lights, I close the door behind me, lock it, and head for the Teachers’ Lounge. A brief glance at my mailbox, then I head for the door, hoping I don’t hear the voice again.
Does insanity run in my family? Mom and Dad didn’t mention it.

“Why the hurry?” Elena Cortez, the ninth grade Spanish teacher stops me.

“I’m eager to get home,” I say, without stopping.

“Wish I could leave early,” Elena says as I race by.

Out in the parking lot, I get into the driver’s seat of my car and throw my stuff into the back. I gun the engine and fasten my seatbelt. The car lurches as I speed out of the parking lot. At home I’ll figure out what’s happening.

Then a thought occurs to me.

No way . . . simply impossible!

Chapter 3: Monroe

Not good. She has her guard up. I can feel her senses on alert.

Quietly, I slip out of her mind and pace the expanse of my den in the Third Realm. “Concentrate,” I murmur, striding over the plush Oriental carpet.

What can I do?
I snap my fingers. “It could work.”

When night arrives, I’m ready.

From my chair in the den I watch Sasha walk through her bedroom into the adjoining bathroom. She fills the tub with warm water then dumps in jasmine-scented bubble bath. Honor forces me to turn my head while she undresses and enjoys her bath. To occupy myself, I begin a chess game. I imagine Sasha is glorious with her smooth skin, her soft curls falling over her shoulders. My pulse races. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers over her silky skin.
So much for my chess game.

I dare a peek into the First Realm. She’s dressed in a nightgown and lying in bed. Sleep overtakes her and I step through the entrance into the Second Realm—the world of dreams.

Sasha’s usual tropical beach greets me. The sand between my toes a fine, white powder.

Cautiously, I approach her.

“Monroe?”

“Expecting someone else?”

She stares down at the lapping waves. The palm trees rustle gently in the breeze. “No.”

I hold out my hand. “Come with me?”

She regards it warily.

“What are you afraid of, my dear?”

“I . . .”

I let my hand drop. “No reason you should fear me. This is your place. I’m merely a visitor.”

“Like all dreams, it’s not real.”

“It is to you.” I reach again for her hand. “May I show you something?”

She hesitates.

“Please?”

She moves forward and places a quivering hand in mine. Our feet churn the sand as we make our way up the beach until we reach the shade of the palm trees.

“What did you want to show me?”

I gesture at a hammock strung between two trees. She sits. “I love hammocks!”

I join her. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

She rubs her arms, moving the straps of her pink sundress up and down her shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Believe it.”

“I think you’re just saying things I want to hear.”

“I may say things you want to hear. But I am
as real as you are. I exist in another realm, outside your reality. You must believe in me and decide to be mine. I’m already yours.”

“You speak in riddles. I don’t care. This is my fantasy and I’m going to enjoy it.”

“Unless you cast aside doubts, I won’t exist in your world.” My blood warms and I struggle to keep myself in check. “Don’t keep us apart. Be my wife.” Catching her lips with mine, I tenderly kiss her.

My senses are filled with her. Her touch, the light floral scent from her skin, the feel of her heart thumping against mine. Ecstasy travels white-hot through my veins. The joy is almost painful.

“Will you be my Valentine?” she whispers while I leave feathery kisses down her neck.

“Pardon?”

She ducks her head with an embarrassed laugh. “Nothing.”

“Believe in me, Sasha. When you do, marry me. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

“Wait!” Her shout echoes as everything fades and I’m sent back home. She cries out again, but it’s too late.

For a moment I’m too dazed to realize what happened. With a groan, recognition seeps into me. I’m back in the Third Realm. Separated from the one woman I desire.

How much more time must I wait? How do I make her understand?
Time is running out.
Goosebumps pucker up on my arms.
Is it the rift?
If it closes I’ll lose my one chance for happiness.
There’s something else.
I don’t sense anything.
Someone.
Who? What? How long before the threat manifests itself?

The images from nights during the previous month play before me. She wasn’t aware of me then. But I had heard her heart wishing for love. Resolution seeps into me. I will win Sasha before whatever lurks in the background can do anything.

Through the open curtains, rays of orange, red, and purple pour into the room. Soon daytime creatures will be stirring. I can’t pass up the opportunity. Briefly, my attention turns toward the pile of papers on a side table. No matter how often I’ve tried telling him the servants can handle the castle effectively, Ayres won’t do anything without my approval.

“Ayres!” I roar.

His figure materializes. “You have finally found the paperwork, sir.”

“My parents were hardly around and the castle survived. What’s the meaning of this?”

“The consent for the modernizations.”

“I gave you permission days ago.”

“A formality, my lord.”

Sighing, I grab a pen. “Bathrooms, kitchen, living room . . . I thought your magic took care of these.”

“Partially. My magic wasn’t enough.”

“These are contracted sprites? Since when did we need them?”

Ayres remains placid. “Your parents didn’t do any of the updates.”

I whip my signature across the bottom of the final page. “Are there any others?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good. I’m going to the Adon Forest. I’ll return in a few hours.” Perhaps during the hunt I can clear my head and determine who my enemy is.