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One

"Remember that no matter what function you choose, the sum of the differences is controlled by the first and last," Ms. Mann concludes just as the bell chimes to signal the end of class. It's the last of the day.

Everyone starts packing up. Everyone but me.

I lean back in my chair and tap my pencil against the edge of the textbook, hiding a grin as I watch the new teacher desperately try to hold the quickly disappearing attention of her students. She's cute when she's flustered.

"Parts one-A and one-B for tomorrow!" she calls, but nobody's listening anymore. They're all racing out the door.

"Coming, Easton?" Ella Harper pauses at my desk, her blue eyes peering down at me. She's looking thin these days. I think her appetite left her around the same time my brother did.

Well, not that Reed left her. Big bro is still head over heels for Ella, our kinda sorta stepsister. If he didn't love her, he would've chosen to go to some fancy college far, far away from Bayview. Instead, he's at State, which is close enough that they can visit each other on the weekends.

"Nah," I say. "I got a question for Teach."

Ms. Mann's slender shoulders twitch as my words register. Even Ella notices.

"East . . ." She trails off, her pretty lips forming a frown.

I can see her winding up some lecture about how I need to clean up my act. But we're only a week into classes, and I'm already bored out of my mind. What else do I have to do but mess around? I don't need to study. I barely care about football. My dad has grounded me from flying; at this rate, I'll never get my pilot's license. And if Ella doesn't leave me the hell alone, I'm gonna forget she's my brother's girl and seduce her just for the hell of it.

"See you at home," I tell Ella, my voice firm. Ms. Mann has been flirting with me relentlessly since the first day of school, and after a week of exchanging heated glances, I'm going for it. It's wrong, sure, but that's what makes it exciting-for both of us.

It's rare for Astor Park Prep to hire young, hot female teachers. The administration knows there are too many bored rich boys in here looking for a challenge. Headmaster Beringer has had to cover up more than one teacher-student relationship, and I'm not even relying on the rumor mill for this, since one of those "inappropriate" relationships was mine. If you consider making out with my nutrition teacher behind the gym a relationship. I don't.

"I don't mind if you stay for this," I drawl to Ella, whose stubborn feet are rooted into the tile, "but you might feel more comfortable waiting in the hall."

She gives me a withering look. Not much escapes her notice. She grew up in shady places and knows shit. Or she just knows how deviant I am.

"I don't know what you're chasing, but I doubt you'll find it up Ms. Mann's skirt," she mutters.

"Won't know until I look," I quip.

Ella sighs and gives in. "Be careful," she admonishes in a tone loud enough to carry to Ms. Mann, who flushes and stares at the floor as Ella walks out.

I tamp down a swell of irritation. Why the judgment? I'm trying to live my best life here, and as long as I don't hurt anyone, where's the harm? I'm eighteen. Ms. Mann's an adult. So what if her occupation is currently "teacher"?

Silence fills the room after the door closes behind Ella. Ms. Mann fiddles with her pale blue skirt. Well, hell. She's having second thoughts.

I'm slightly disappointed, but it's all good. I'm not one of those guys who has to bang every girl I meet, mostly because there are so many out there. If one girl isn't interested, you move on to the next.

I bend down to grab my backpack when a pair of pretty heels show up in my line of vision.

"Did you have a question, Mr. Royal?" Ms. Mann asks softly.

I raise my head slowly, taking in her long legs, the curve of her hip, the indentation at her waist where her prim white blouse is tucked into her equally modest skirt. Her chest heaves under my examination, and the pulse at her neck flutters wildly.

"Yeah. Do you have any solutions to my in-class problem?" I place my hand on her hip. As she gasps, I run a finger along the waistband of her skirt. "I'm having a hard time concentrating."

She takes another deep breath. "Is that right?"

"Mmmhmmm. I think it's because every time I look at you, I get the feeling you're having problems concentrating, too." I smile faintly. "Maybe because you're fantasizing about getting bent over your desk while everyone in calc watches."

Ms. Mann gulps. "Mr. Royal. I don't have the slightest idea what you're referring to. Please remove your hand from my waist."

"Sure." I slide my palm lower, so that my fingers are dusting the hem of her skirt. "Is this a better place for it? Because I can stop altogether."

Our gazes lock.

Last chance, Ms. Mann. We're both acutely aware of how I'm ruining her skirt and possibly her reputation, but her feet are glued to the floor.

Her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks. "That's fine, Mr. Royal. I think you'll find that the solution to your concentration problem is in your hands."

I slide my palms underneath the skirt and flash her a cocky grin. "I'm trying to eliminate the problematic functions."

Her eyelids flutter shut in surrender.

"We should not be doing this," she chokes out.

"I know. That's why it's so good."

Her thighs clench under my hands. The naughtiness of this scene, knowing we could be caught anytime, knowing that she's absolutely the last person I should be touching, makes this a million times hotter.

Her hands fall to my shoulders and her fingers dig into the two-thousand-dollar Tom Ford-designed school blazer as she tries to balance herself. My own fingers work their magic. Small, muffled sounds fill the empty classroom until there's nothing but her heavy breathing.

With a satisfied sigh, Ms. Mann backs away, smoothing her hands across her wrinkled skirt before lowering herself to her knees.

"Your turn," she whispers.

I stretch my legs out and lean back. AP Calc is absolutely the best class I've ever taken at Astor Park.

When she's done giving me my extra credit, a hesitant smile settles on her face. Her hair brushes the tops of my thighs as she leans close to murmur, "You can come over tonight. My daughter is in bed by ten."

I freeze. This could've ended in many directions, but I was really hoping to avoid this one. A dozen excuses race through my mind, but before I can get one out, the classroom door opens.

"Oh my God!"

Both Ms. Mann and I whirl toward the doorway. I catch a glimpse of ink-black hair and the navy Astor Park jacket.

Ms. Mann shoots to her feet and stumbles. I jump forward to catch her. She's weak-kneed as I help her brace herself on a desk.

"Oh God," she says numbly. "Who was that? Do you think she saw . . .?"

Saw Ms. Mann on her knees, saw that my pants are undone and Ms. Mann's clothing is rumpled? Um, yeah. She saw.

"She saw," I say aloud.

The confirmation only freaks her out more. With an anguished moan, she drops her face into her palms. "Oh God. I'm going to get fired."

I finish putting myself together and reach for my bag, hastily shoving my stuff in it. "Nah. It'll be fine."

But I don't say it with much confidence, and she knows it.

"No, it won't be fine!"

I shoot a worried glance at the door. "Shhh. Someone's gonna hear you."

"Someone saw us," she hisses back, panic filling her eyes and trembling in her voice. "You need to go find that girl. Find her and do your Easton Royal thing and make sure she doesn't say anything."

My Easton Royal thing?

Ms. Mann hurries on before I can ask what the heck she expects me to do. "I can't get fired. I can't. I have a daughter to support!" Her voice starts shaking again. "Fix this. Please, just go and fix this."

"Okay," I assure her. "I'll fix it." How, I have no frickin' idea, but Ms. Mann is two seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

She lets out another low moan. "And this can never happen again, do you understand me? Never again."

I'm totally cool with that. Her panic attack killed the mood, as well as any interest in a repeat performance. I like my hookups to end as pleasantly as they begin. There's nothing sexy about being with a girl who has regrets, so you gotta make sure at the start that she's fully into it. If there's any question about her interest, it's a no-go.

"Gotcha," I say with a nod.

Ms. Mann stares at me with pleading eyes. "Why are you still here? Go!"

Right.

I shoulder my backpack and exit the classroom. Out in the hall, I take a quick survey. It's more crowded than it should be. Why is everyone loitering in the halls? School's over, for Chrissake. Go home, people.

My eyes skip over Felicity Worthington, who flips her platinum-blond hair over one shoulder. Claire Donahue, my ex, spears me with a pair of hopeful blue eyes-she's been itching to get back together since school started. I avoid meeting her gaze and move on to Kate and Alyssa, the Ballinger sisters. Neither of them has black hair. I scan the rest of the hallway but come up empty.

I'm about to turn away when Felicity leans over to whisper something in Claire's ear, and in the space previously occupied by Felicity's head, I spot her. The girl's face is in her locker, but her hair is unmistakable, so black it's almost blue under the overhead fluorescent lighting.

I stride forward.

"Easton," I hear Claire say.

"Don't humiliate yourself," Felicity advises.

I ignore them both and keep walking.

"Hey," I say.

The girl looks up from her locker. Startled gray eyes collide with mine. A set of pink lips part. I wait for her smile-the response I get from ninety-nine percent of women, no matter their age. It doesn't come. Instead, I get a face full of hair as she whirls and sprints down the hallway.

Surprise stalls my response. That and I don't want to draw an audience. Nonchalantly, I close her locker before following her fleeing figure down the hall. Once I hit the turn, I run, too. With my much longer legs, I'm able to catch her in front of the locker rooms.

"Hey," I say, planting myself in front of her. "Where's the fire?"

She stops hard, nearly falling over. I grab her shoulder to make sure she doesn't do a header into the tile.

"I didn't see anything," she blurts out, shrugging away from my steadying hand.

I glance over her shoulder to make sure we don't have an audience, but the hallway is empty. Good.

"Sure, you didn't. That's why you ran away like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar."

"Technically, you're the one with the hand in the cookie jar," she retorts. And then slams her lips together as she realizes what she admitted. "Not that I saw a thing."

"Uh-huh." What to do with this cutie? Too bad I'm supposed to scare her into silence.

I move forward. She edges sideways.

I keep going until she's backed up against the wall. I lean down until my forehead's about an inch from hers. So close I can smell the spearmint of her gum.

Fix this, Ms. Mann had said. And she's right. What happened in that classroom was supposed to be fun. That's all I want-to have fun, not ruin people's lives. It was fun doing something dirty and wrong. It was fun toying with the idea of getting caught.

But Ms. Mann losing her job and her kid being homeless? Not in the fun category.

"So-" I start in a low voice.

"Um, Royal, right?" the girl interrupts.

"Yeah." I'm not surprised she knows me. Not that I'm proud of it, but the Royals have run this school for years. Thankfully, I've avoided any leadership role. Ella's the Royal in charge now. I'm merely her enforcer. "And you are?"

"Hartley. Look, I swear, I didn't see anything." She holds up her hand as if pledging allegiance to the truth.

"If that was true, you wouldn't have run, Hartley." I turn her name over in my head. It's an unusual one, but I can't place it. Or her face, for that matter. Astor doesn't see a lot of new faces. I've been with most of these assholes for as long as I can remember.

"Seriously. I'm a monkey." Hartley continues her feeble defense, folding one hand over her eyes and another across her mouth. "See no evil, speak no evil. Not that what you did was evil. Or what you may have been doing. Not that I saw anything. Evil or good."

Charmed, I tap the hand over her mouth. "You're babbling."

"New-school nerves." She straightens her school-mandated blazer and juts out her chin. "Maybe I did see something, but it's none of my business, okay? I'm not going to say anything."

I cross my arms, my own blazer drawing tight over my shoulders. She looks like she wants to fight. I love it, but flirting with her isn't going to generate the results I need. I inject some menace into my voice, hoping fear will curb her tongue. "Thing is, I don't know you. So how am I supposed to take your word for it?"

The menace works, because Hartley visibly gulps. "I . . . I won't say anything," she repeats.

Instantly, I feel bad. What am I doing scaring a girl like this? But then the fearful face of Ms. Mann pops into my head. Ms. Mann has a kid, and Hartley is just another rich prep school classmate. She can handle a little warning.

"Yeah? And what if someone-Headmaster Beringer, maybe-asks you about it?" I slant my head in challenge, my tone getting more and more threatening. "What then, Hartley? What would you say?"

Two

As Hartley contemplates my question, I mentally catalogue her. She's a tiny thing-probably a foot shorter than my six-foot, one-inch frame. There's not much to brag about in the boob department, and down below she's wearing a pair of really ugly loafers. Footwear is the only thing that isn't dictated by the school's dress code-the one expression of individuality we're allowed. The guys run around in sneakers or Timbs. Most girls opt for something fancy like a Gucci flat or the red-soled heels. I guess Hartley's statement is I don't give a fuck. I can appreciate that.