Schooled (2 page)

I turned around to see who was calling me and my jaw dropped to the floor. Briggs Alexander. Briggs was a senior in my class my first year teaching. He was good-looking back then, but time had been fine to him, very fine. If I recalled correctly, he was quite the “playa” in high school. He was one of those students who was always touching me, offering to rub my back, anything for close contact. Oh, he was a trip. He’d say things in class, like “I’m not hittin’ up Homecoming unless Miss G’s the lady on my arm. Whaddya say Miss G.?” Back then, no female was off limits. That first year, I felt like I was fighting him off every day in class. It was exhausting, yet flattering too.

Briggs was an all-star running back who signed with Ohio State early during his senior year. That spring break, he went with his buddies to California where he was convinced that he could surf if “that one-armed white bitch could.” Apparently, he was so stoned that none of his friends could stop him. He actually rode a few big waves until one wave rode him straight into the rocks. He hit the crags badly, splitting his head open, and severely fracturing his skull in three places. He was unconscious for a few days; the concussion and damage were so severe, no doctor anywhere would clear him for football again. It was tragic; he had a future in football, pretty much his only future. Academically, he barely got by. I’m pretty sure that I inflated a few of his grades just so he could graduate. Once he knew OSU was never going to happen, he gave up. It was awful to see.

“Briggs Alexander, oh my God, how are you hon?” He hugged me. He was still as solid as a rock. He had a beautifully built body. His skin was a dark mocha color, a stunning lighter-skinned black man. His muscles rippled in his Under Armor tight-fitting shirt. His thighs were chiseled and firm. Briggs was no longer a boy; I was standing looking at a man, a gorgeous specimen of a man.

“Damn Garrity looks like you’re still the hottest teacher in school, lady. Looking sharp,” he said as he gave me a once-over and an all-knowing wink. He was still as cocky as ever. He told me that after a few years of getting drunk and drifting around, he pulled his life together, taking large course loads, bound and determined to finish school. He was actually going to graduate in December with a psychology degree. He planned to counsel athletes whose lives took a turn for the worse, ending their careers. He was going to work for ESPN. ESPN wanted to get on the bandwagon of reality television and Briggs Alexander was going to counsel these athletes right on camera, exposing their raw emotions about leaving the sport that was their only livelihood, only passion.

I couldn’t believe my ears or eyes. Briggs Alexander was articulate, healthy, and had a future ahead of him. But was still the player I knew him to be. He was cocky with confidence oozing out of every ounce of his being. He knew where he was going and had success written all over his future. My future was just thrown out in a condom in my own house! That bastard! Forget going home. I needed another drink. Now. I slowed it down and ordered a Tangueray and tonic. As I was retrieving my money from my wallet, Briggs placed his hand on mine, and said, “Put that away Miss Garrity, I got this. I owe you a lot more than one drink. I wouldn’t have finished high school without you.”

I laughed and told him that he would’ve. He asked me if I would join him at a table for a drink, so we could catch up. Briggs said he had known I had gotten married, but didn’t know my new last name. I wanted to tell him that my name would be going back to “Garrity” soon enough, but knew that I could not tell one of my students, an old student, something so personal and devastating.

“It’s ‘Flowers; I’m Mrs. Flowers now.” I cringed at the name and all that it meant now—nothing. Janelle Flowers was a broken-hearted, embarrassed, horny woman. Miss Garrity had her whole life ahead of her. She was going to change the world, one student at a time. Now, I didn’t know what I was going to do tomorrow, let alone for the rest of my life. “But honestly Briggs, I need to get going. I can’t sit and chat with ya.” I took a long drink of my cocktail, and said, “I’m just gonna finish this and get outta here. Good luck to you though, hon.”

“Whoa, wait a second Miss Garr—Mrs. Flowers, just give me a few minutes.” He looked so sweet sitting there, begging me to have a drink with him. Hell, I didn’t have anywhere to go.

“Alright, but drop the Mrs. Flowers business, I’ll always be Miss Garrity to you.” I couldn’t bear to sit listening to “Mrs. Mrs. Mrs.” all night, knowing that I would not be married much longer.

Yeah, I couldn’t stay married to him. Right? Of course not. I just didn’t know if I was ready to let him go just yet. I loved him, loved being with him, loved his scent, his touch, his body.
That bastard
. He broke us. Yeah, we had our issues, especially in the bedroom. Mostly in the bedroom. He didn’t have any issues with Lauren in the bedroom. Maybe I should just screw the shit out of some guy and call it even. Find some guy, have my way with him and…Maybe…

“Miss Garrity, whatcha thinking about?” Holy crap. Busted.
Alright Janelle, bring yourself down lady. He was one of your students, albeit a gorgeous, hot, virile student, but a former student nonetheless. Cool it down, honey.

“I was just thinking about how glad I am that it’s summer vacation. I think I’m ready for a break, maybe even a change.” I followed Briggs’ eyes; he was staring at my hands. Absently, I had been twisting and turning my wedding ring, sliding it on and off my finger.

“Damn , did you get tatted up?” He was looking at my ring finger. On our honeymoon, I decided it would be romantic to tattoo our ring fingers, so that we’d be happily married even when our rings weren’t on. Marcus said that he’d do it, too and loved my “dedication to forever.” I went first. I got a little strand of flowers around my ring finger to signify my new last name, Flowers. I would forever be Flowers. I loved how into our marriage and each other we were. When it was time for Marcus to get his ink, he realized that he didn’t have enough cash with us and could only afford my tattoo. At the time, I believed it was an honest mistake. Hell, we were in Cabo on the most romantic honeymoon getaway that money could buy, or at least my brother, Jasper, could buy.

Looking at my finger now, I wanted to chop it off, to “de-Flower” myself. How could I be so stupid, so full of trust in a man, who deserved none? I downed my drink in two large gulps and said, “Yeah, that’s how in love I was. I mean, am.”

Briggs looked at me thoughtfully, started to say something, but stopped. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand, slipped the ring off my finger, and kissed the flowers on my ring finger. My mouth went dry, opening slightly. My breath caught. He was staring straight at me with the most crystal blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a black man. I pulled my hand away, shuddering quickly. “So Briggs, what’s with the blue eyes anyway? That’s not typical with African-American men.” I asked.

He laughed, really laughed, as he was spinning my wedding set on the table. The diamond was still the shiniest rock I’d ever seen. “Miss G, don’t YOU do your homework? I’m mixed; my dad’s a pretty good-looking, blonde-haired, blue-eyed white man. He’s a stud.” That can’t be true. I met his parents a few times throughout his senior year. They were a powerful African-American couple.

“I met your parents. Remember, we had to find a way to get you to read a damn book?” He never read a book in my class, as far as I knew.

He laughed; it was contagious. I loved hearing him laugh, being able to laugh with him while my marriage and world was crumbling around me was welcome. I really shouldn’t be sitting at a bar, yukking it up with old students, while my world fell apart. But I had to ignore it. At least for now. I loved having a distraction.

“Nah, you didn’t meet my old man. My dad was some country club prick who knocked up my mom when she was 18. As soon as he found out she was pregnant, he bailed.” Briggs spun my ring again. “My dad’s parents would’ve freaked their shit if they knew he’d gone black. The man you met, my dad, the one who counts, adopted me when I was nine. He made me who I am today.” He seemed so proud of his adoptive father. Had always seemed so.

“I never heard this story. When I had you write your personal narrative in class, you wrote about starting Varsity as a freshman. Why wouldn’t you write about your adoptive father or the flaws in your biological father ?” I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that I didn’t know something so personal about one of my students. I was the teacher who knew her students, who personalized their educations, who they could talk to, come to, confide in. This was important information; I didn’t know it. That was unlike me.

“Shit. Right. I’m not even that deep now; you think I could think past Friday night then?” As I looked at Briggs, I began to realize that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I had. He was always a dumb-jock, with a beautiful body, and great athletic talent. I hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt.

Continuing, he said, “Actually, I think it’s some shit that black dudes always get the rap of knocking up our women and leaving our kids high and dry.” He took a long pull from his beer. He was such a man. A sexy man. “That’s bullshit. My white dad bailed. The black one stayed. My white dickless father can rot in Hell. He’s a son of a bitch.” I could see the anger in his gorgeous blue eyes; they flared with anger and became a darker more prominent blue. “But he did give me these eyes and they have certainly paid off.” He sat back, smugly, and put his hands behind his head, his triceps rippled as he did so.

“I don’t get it, what’s that mean?” He lost me with that last bit.

“Blue eyes on a black man are panty-creamers.” I stared at him blankly, not understanding. He laughed, leaned forward, grabbed my hand, pulled me closer to him across the table, and whispered, “When I look deeply into a woman’s eyes, any woman, with these blue eyes, I know I’m making her wet.” I blinked, staring at him, not able to pull my eyes away. Finally, I chuckled, shaking myself free of his intense gaze.

Laughing it off, I said, “Well I’m sure that works on a lot of young girls, Briggs.”

Still staring straight at me, he smiled slightly, winked at me and said, “Not girls Miss Garrity. Women—all women” he said as he slipped my wedding ring back on my finger. Even that move was sexy and seductive.

With that, I decided that I needed to use the restroom. I excused myself from the table, but as I did so, Briggs gave me a wink and an all-knowing smile. He knew that he was getting to me, but why? I was old enough to be his…his sister? My subconscious was talking, and I needed to listen:
Alright Janelle, calm down, think this through.
You’re hurt. This is about Marcus. You have NO feelings for Briggs. He’s getting you hot, because you haven’t had sex in 82 days, well 83 now. You walked in on your husband eating out Lauren, his secretary. You are just vulnerable, hurt, and in a bad place. Pull yourself together. Briggs is just a kid. Well, he should be about 23 now. Right? Let’s figure it out, talk it through. You had him in senior English your first year teaching. He was 17 or 18 that year. That was six years ago. Yep, he’s 23, maybe even 24. So, 23’s legal. He’s incredibly sexy and hot. But you’re married. Yeah, to a scumbag cheater. Yes, but you’re 29 years old and his OLD TEACHER. Not that old.

Oh my God, I didn’t know why I was letting my mind wander like this. Briggs Alexander was not hitting on me, and I was not about to accept his advances if he was. He was my student. God, I am not that immoral and unethical. Clearly, he wasn’t my student now, but for a short time period he was. He trusted me; his parents trusted me to guide him, teach him, and prepare him for the real world, a successful and meaningful future. I certainly did not spend all of that time educating him to guide him straight into my panties. I had to pull myself together. I dampened a paper towel and dabbed it on my flushed and warm face. Damn liquor. Damn sexy black man. I shook out my hair and reapplied some lipstick, knowing that there was nothing worse than smudging my lipstick. I never even drank with fresh lipstick on. Hopefully, applying lipstick would keep my mouth away from places it shouldn’t be. Please let this lipstick work. I think lipstick stains are trashy, and I, Janelle Lynn Garrity-Flowers, was not a trashy woman. Not now. Not ever. I held my head high, breathed deeply and left the bathroom.

“Damn girl, what took you so long? Let’s dance.” As I exited the bathroom, Briggs grabbed me around the waist and pulled me toward the dance floor. My attempts at protest were futile; I was no match for his strength and power. It was the slowest rap beat I had ever heard. I couldn’t imagine how people danced to this music. It wasn’t the fast-pumping rap or upbeat pop music I was used to dancing to. It was a slow, rhythmic pounding. I quickly learned people don’t really dance to it, they just slowly grind against one another. It was hot, slow, and so erotic. Oh, so hot. It’d been long, way too long.

Well this certainly wasn’t helping my cause.
Holy shit.
Briggs placed the front of his body tightly up against my back and bottom. I could feel his breath on the side and back of my neck. His arms were around my waist, holding me tightly against his pelvis. I could feel him rubbing, grinding, and moving into my backside, imitating a slow, easy, love-making motion. He used his hands to move my hips in a way that he wanted them to move. My body melted and melded into his. I lost control of my senses and actions, letting him control my movements, as well as my desires. This had to be his ammo. These moves, this seduction, had to be his weapon of choice. I couldn’t allow my will to cave, for a student to do this to me. But my God, it felt so good, so right. It had been so long, so frustratingly long. I felt my will faltering, my decisions wavering. His cock began to enlarge against me, finding its way to my ass. Only my linen skirt and thong and his loose-fitting athletic shorts stood between his hardening shaft and the crack of my butt. I could feel its size. Oh God.

“You’re so sexy Janelle.” His raspy whisper was right in my ear, making me shiver and long for more. He just called me Janelle. Oh shit. This was getting out of hand. I had to stop this. Please give me strength to stop this man. No, to stop myself. But instead of stopping it, I heard myself whimper, a sound of acquiescence. A sound of my will failing. I felt Briggs’ tongue slowly travel from the base of my neck to the tip of my earlobe. He started to turn my body to face him. I moaned and succumbed to him, facing him. His blue eyes were smoldering with the most passionate look of desire, a look I had never seen on a man’s face before. Never. I had to have him. I leaned in to him; our lips met. His tongue found mine, and my knees weakened. I wanted to have him, devour him, feel him. I needed him. I swallowed his moan and returned my own. His hands ran down my back, pulling me closer into him, onto him. I needed this man. I had to—