Toying With Her Read online

  “Sterling?”

  I invented the hottest selling sex toy of the decade. I’m not ashamed. In fact, I’m pretty proud of myself. But all the judgments and ridicule of the last couple years have taken a toll. I just want to escape it all, have something simple for a change. But as soon as I hear his deep, rough voice say my name, I know simple just got very complicated.

  *

  RORKE

  This is what trouble looks like. It’s disguised in a white lace dress with green eyes that shoot all the way across the yard. And damn me if she doesn’t look just as good as I remember. “It’s been a long time,” I say, knowing I’m grinning like a fucking fool, but it’s so damn good to see her.

  Ours wasn’t one of those messy teenage breakups. Hell, it wasn’t even a breakup. We were always just friends, except for that one night. But it was never anything more, unless you call your first heartbreak nothing.

  “Ten years,” she whispers, taking one small step in my direction.

  Walking towards her, I see her eyes scan down my body. Clearly, I’m not the same guy she remembers. The last time I saw her was at least forty pounds ago. Yeah, I was the chubby kid in high school. “Was wondering if you’d remember me?” I tease, giving her a little wink.

  That gorgeous smile of hers comes out. I’m not sure who reaches for who first, but she’s suddenly in my arms, wrapped in a huge hug. “Rorke Alexander Weston,” she giggles, I’m sure remembering how much I hate it when people call me by my full name.

  Giving her a squeeze, I pull back so I can look into her green eyes. “Damn, you look exactly the same.”

  She blushes, shaking her head. “So do you.” That’s not true, but I’m hoping it means she remembers me fondly. She reaches up and runs her fingers through my thick, dark hair. She always loved my hair. I’m not sure why. It’s nothing special. But I sure did love it when her hands slipped through my brown hair that one night. Just that one night.

  “Rorke teaches at your old high school now,” her dad, Deacon Keith, says.

  “You do not!” she cries, her hand flying to her hip. “You hated high school. Couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

  She’s right. Those four years weren’t the best for a lot of reasons. But Sterling was the quintessential high school crush. The “It” girl—cheerleader, popular, beautiful, brilliant, and kind. She was every boy’s fantasy, including mine. Of course, she’d been my dream for as long as I can remember.

  “Well, now I get to inflict the pain, so it works,” I say. “You should come by and visit before summer starts. The place looks the same. Even a few of the same teachers. Everyone would love to see you.”

  She looks away for a second, then gives me a tight smile. Not the Sterling smile I remember. “Sure,” she says.

  “That’s a fine idea,” her dad says, picking up the suitcases and walking away. “See you later, Rorke.”

  Sterling gestures towards her house. “I should get back inside. First morning home.”

  “I should get going, too,” I say, motioning towards my Jeep. “Mom and Dad are expecting me.”

  “They still own the stables?” Sterling asks.

  The Jamisons and my family are close, partly because they stabled their horse with us and Sterling rode several times a week, and partly because my twin brother was very sick growing up, and my parents often called on Sterling’s dad for prayer and guidance. So our moms became close friends. “They still own the land, but Dad’s mostly retired now.”

  “Tell them hello for me.” She glances back towards her parents’ house. “I need to pick your mom’s brain. I want to plan a big anniversary party for my parents.”

  “I’m sure she’d love to help,” I say. “I can have her call you.”

  That was playing a little dirty, but she gives me her number, and I plan to use it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  STERLING

  “How can it still be so hot out?” I ask, having lost my tolerance for the South’s humidity. “It’s only May.”

  “Baseball wouldn’t be baseball unless you’re sweating like a whore in church,” Momma says.

  Part of Daddy’s duties as a deacon often involve consoling the families of men and women killed in the line of duty, whether that was in the military or as police officers and firefighters. For as long as I can remember, he’s played in an annual charity baseball game where all the money earned goes to support them—and he’s pitching today. As a little girl, I loved coming to the game, watching him. Think I even wore a cheerleading costume a time or two.

  But I’m not as thrilled about coming tonight. It’s not completely intended, but I’ve become a loner. It’s just too exhausting to deal with snarky judgments from repressed women and asshole comments from men, so I’ve found myself opting out. It soon became my way of life. It makes sense in a weird way. Masturbation is usually a solo act, so why shouldn’t the vibrator inventor be a loner?

  Breaking that tendency isn’t going to be easy.

  Here’s the difference between living in a small town and a big city. Charity events in big cities cost an arm and a leg and tend to be a who’s who of the elite. But in a small town, it doesn’t really matter because everyone knows everyone, and these tickets were only five bucks. The only similarity seems to be the man candy. Of course, here the men are in baseball uniforms and in New York, suit porn reigns supreme.

  Momma spreads a blanket out on the grass, in the same spot we always sat when I was little. Once upon a time, it was so I could run around and play, but I suspect tonight it’s her way of shielding me from being the target of town gossip.

  The whispers and the sly glances my way are already starting. Momma pats my leg. Perhaps I should hold a town hall meeting to educate these people on what I do exactly. I’m sure they assume I run my company out of some trashy back alley and not the fifth floor of the Manhattan skyscraper that is home to Paramour.

  That’s the name of my company. It’s a French word meaning lover, usually something illicit like the lover of a married person. But what’s more illicit than having a vibrator as your lover? I like the name, but I love the logo. It’s the silhouette of a woman’s naked body—that beautiful curve every woman has no matter her size—of her breast, waist, and hips. That curve defines us as women and has been known to drive more than a few men crazy. And I want my company to celebrate the power in being a woman and everything that means. The best part about the logo is that it’s me, but no one knows that. I took the photograph myself. And I’ve never told a soul.

  The thing I wish everyone understood is that my product helps people. It’s not some piece of obscenity used in porno flicks. In fact, a porn film studio approached me with an offer like that once, and I shut that shit down. I’m trying to help people. I don’t want to make it sound like I’m Mother Theresa, but this is my way of improving relationships, helping women claim their power, accept their bodies, and just get rid of some stress. There are actually studies proving the health benefits of masturbation.

  For every obscene phone call we get, I also get messages from people thanking me or personally thanking their vibrator. Unfortunately, there’s a segment of the population that will never understand what I do, and even if they do, they won’t admit it in public.

  “I despise her,” Momma says, staring daggers at a woman way too dressed up for a ball field. “She thinks she’s Miss High and Mighty. She’s nothing but a busybody and a shit stirrer.”

  “Momma!”

  Now, I’m the first to admit that my momma is crazy, but she’s not mean or hateful. Very few people get under her skin. She loves most everyone—but that’s definitely not love coming out of her eyes right now.

  “That woman just ruffles my feathers.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you worry about it,” she says, giving a little point to the field. “Game’s about to start.”

  Daddy takes the mound, flashing a smile at Momma and me, keeping another annual tradition of the game alive
. I tip the bill of my baseball cap, my end of the exchange, and the game starts. I understand the basics of baseball. Daddy’s tried to explain the science behind the different pitches to me a thousand times. But it’s a lot like me trying to explain the science behind vibrators to him. I’d lose him after the first sentence.

  Truth be told, there is a science behind it. The materials, the shape, the colors all make a difference. And that can change across cultures. In the US, we aren’t as picky as other countries, but when you’ve spent years going over international sales trends, you start to notice patterns. For example, some countries love a red toy, while other countries have almost zero sales in that color.

  When you’re dealing in an industry that’s worth close to twenty billion dollars, you need to know these things. This industry has a huge growth rate. When the housing market is bad, the vibrator market isn’t. People are pleasure driven animals. They’ll find it where they can get it. And the high from an orgasm is shown to last about two days. That’s a pretty good return on your investment.

  “Three up, three down,” Momma says, winking at me. “Your daddy still has it.”

  I can’t help the grossed out laugh that escapes. But it quickly fades when I see the pitcher for the other team. I can feel Momma’s eyes turn to me, gauging my reaction. “Rorke pitches for the other team?”

  “Every year. He and your daddy have a little rivalry going. They’re all tied up in wins.”

  Watching him toss the ball up then catch it, I see he’s got a huge smile on his face. He waits a few seconds for his catcher to get set then takes a couple practice pitches, his t-shirt lifting just enough to catch a glimpse of his chiseled abs. Seriously, that V-cut is like an arrow straight to his dick. The ball strikes the mitt with such force it almost echoes.

  “He’s got more power than Daddy, but his pitches can be wild,” she says, offering her expert analysis.

  Wild! That word vibrates through my body, knowing Rorke brought out the wild child in me. Looking back, I still can’t believe we slept together. Who loses their virginity in a one-night stand? I’ve never done anything like that since. Before today, it seemed like a lifetime ago, but watching him, that boyish smile, it seems like last night.

  The first hitter walks to the batter’s box, and Rorke turns back to the mound. I pull my ball cap down a little lower, unsure why I’m trying to hide.

  “You going to go up to the school tomorrow?” Momma asks. Before I can ask how she knew about that, she says, “Your daddy told me.”

  “I don’t know. I came home to be with you and Daddy.” I shrug, glancing back out at the man on the mound. I still can’t believe he’s a teacher. They certainly didn’t make teachers that looked like that when I was in high school. “Plus, your shop is closed on Mondays, so I thought we could spend the day together.”

  She gives me a weird smile. “There’s plenty of time. You should go. Rorke invited you.”

  I glance over at the gaggle of women in the bleachers, giggling and smiling like schoolgirls. “He’s got a whole fan club he can invite.”

  “Earning those green eyes today,” Momma says. “Jealous.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining,” she says.

  “Well, mind ya business,” I say, drawing out the words.

  She laughs and bumps my shoulder with hers. “You can’t lollygag around all summer. You need to get back out there. People are going to disappoint us. But we have to keep trying. I’m just giving you a little focus.”

  Right about then, Rorke’s blue eyes land on me, and I know my days of hiding are over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RORKE

  One thing I don’t miss about being a student here is the uniform. Catholic school uniforms are the worst. I know the naughty little schoolgirl fantasy is popular, but a lifetime in Catholic school has ruined that for me.

  Sterling made a good point yesterday. Some days, I can’t believe I signed up for this. High school was a rough time for me. My twin brother was sick and dying, and I was shy and slightly chubby. The kids were not kind, and teasing me that my brother was sickly because I ate everything was just one of the highlights. Looking back, I wonder if I was heavier because I had to be strong, for Levi, for my parents, for everyone. I couldn’t get sick. It wasn’t until college that I shed the extra pounds, or baby weight, as my mother called it.

  Despite hating being a high school student myself, I really do love teaching. However, teachers are held to the same high standards as the students. Teachers have dress and conduct codes. I have to sign a morality clause in my contract every year. It’s fucking ridiculous. For what they pay me, I should be able to drink, smoke, or screw whatever I like.

  But there’s nowhere else I’d rather teach than St. Genevieve’s High School. This place has been around since the 1800’s, and looks like it should be sitting on a European estate with its old gray bricks, columns, and pillars. It’s seen its share of hurricanes, but aside from closing for a month here or there during massive storms, it’s stood the test of time. And so has the old priest that serves our school. He looks like he was around for Vatican One and is very set in his ways.

  The school serves about five hundred area boys and girls, so it’s small enough that I pretty much know all the kids by name. But the thing that makes it truly special is its location, right on the Bay, complete with a twenty-foot dock extending over the water. Not that the kids get to run around in swimsuits, but it makes for some good bonfires and volleyball games.

  My first period is my off period today. I pass the school’s priest walking into the administration office and give him a polite head nod and respectfully say, “Father.” I’m heading down the hallway to my classroom just in time to see two boys trying to sneak in late. If you lined the entire school up, these two are the ones I’d pick out to be pulling this crap. These boys represent everything I hated about high school. They are popular, but not in the way Sterling was. They are bullies—the Quaid brothers. But no one ever seems to catch them in the act.

  I step into the hallway right in front of them then simply point towards the office. “Ah, come on, Mr. Weston.”

  “So you boys are late again?”

  They don’t say a word.

  “Did you drive yourselves to school?”

  “Yeah,” the older Quaid brother says.

  “You drove?”

  “Yeah, in my BMW.”

  The other boy snickers. I have to say, it’s a little disheartening when the students’ parking lot is filled with nicer cars than those in the teachers’ lot. But that’s neither here nor there at this point.

  “That’s a pretty fast car. What time did you leave this morning?”

  “Seven,” the younger Quaid brother says.

  “You just live about two miles from school. Lots of traffic today?”

  “Nope.”

  “Care to tell me why you’re late?”

  The younger boy looks to his older brother. “Flat tire.”

  “That right?” I ask the other, and he nods.

  “Follow me,” I say, walking into the office and grabbing a few pieces of paper off the copy machine. “Okay, boys. In a minute, I will hand each of you a pencil and paper with a question on it. You will write your answer on it. You both answer the same way, you’re free – back to class. If not, I call your parents, tell them you keep screwing around before school, and you’re mine each day after school until the end of the year.”

  I jot down a question on the sheets of paper, handing them each a folded sheet. “When you open it, look straight down at it, and write your answer. Then we will share with each other. This should be fun.”

  Gone are the Catholic rituals of kneeling on rice or being sent to Mother Superior’s office. In fact, the only religious person on faculty is the theology teacher. Times have changed, so this is the best I can do to try to make these two little assholes into men.

  The boys unfold the
paper, each with the same question on it: Which tire?

  I see a trickle of sweat on the older kid, while the younger starts to fidget. They both look at each other then up at me. “Care to revise your bullshit story?” I ask.

  *

  “Remember, your final term papers are due Friday,” I say to my seventh period English Honors class, seeing their eyes glaze over. Last period of the day, it’s always hard to keep their attention.

  I believe a good writer can take you anywhere. I just have to get the kids to open the book. Most English teachers aspire to write that great American novel, but not me. Now, if one of my students wants to pen that, I’ll be the first to buy it. “So I hope you’ve all finished reading A Good Man is Hard to Find. Flannery O’Connor is one of the . . .”

  I stop when out of the corner of my eye, I see Sterling pause outside my cracked door. I almost shit bricks, unable to believe she actually showed up. She flashes me a little smile.

  “Shouldn’t it be a good woman is hard to find?” one of my smart-ass students asks.

  That whips me right back to reality. “Very funny. So for your assignment, I want you to take this quote, and tell me what you think it means.”

  The students start to groan as I write the quote on the smart board, trying to ignore Sterling’s presence, which is damn near impossible.

  “She would of been a good woman,” the Misfit said, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

  The final bell drowns out the groans, but stops before it can disguise the whistles of a few of my male students as they walk past Sterling.

  She weaves her way past them, asking me, “Hope this is okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, gathering my things and trying not to notice how well her jeans fit, how perfect she fills out her white t-shirt.