But I was wrong.

Sliding into my car, I adjusted the rearview mirror, took a deep breath and started backing up, slipping from between the two pricey, small dick symbols. At the exact same moment, Mr. Living With His Mom had texted me again. The green bubble flashed with “GOT THE CAR, R8DY TO SEX IT UP?” accompanied with approximately three thousand question marks.

I got distracted.

I got annoyed.

I bumped straight into Principal Followhill’s son’s SUV.

Choking the steering wheel and gasping in horror, I slapped my hand over my heart to make sure it didn’t shoot out of my ribcage. Shit. Shit. Shit! The thud that filled my ears didn’t leave room for doubt. I did to his SUV what Keenu Reeves did to the movie Dracula.

I fucking ruined it.

My fight or flight adrenalin kicked in, and I briefly contemplated whether I should use an alias and run out of the country to hide in a cave somewhere in the Afghan mountains.

How was I going to pay for the damage? Principal Followhill was going to kill me. Technically speaking, her son wasn’t supposed to park in the teachers’ lot. Then again, Jaime Followhill got a lot of free shit he wasn’t supposed to get due to his looks, social status and powerful parents.

I mustered the courage to peel my sorry ass off my seat and examine the destruction I’d caused to Jaime’s precious black Rover. I crawled out of my car and circled around to find my cheap car’s ass kissing the Range Rover’s backdoor, leaving a dent the size of Africa.

Bending down, I squinted at the white scratches, not giving a damn about the fact that my brown knee-length summer dress danced in the air, exposing my new laced panties. People may as well see them, as I wasn’t going to flaunt them in front of Mr. Living With His Mom tonight, even though, in the end, his damn car wasn’t even supposed to be here. Suffice to say, now things couldn’t get any worse.

But I was wrong. Again.

“Oh, no. No. No…” I chanted breathlessly before I heard a guttural growl.

“Next time you bend over like this, Ms. G, make sure I’m not behind you, or this’ll end up on National Geographic: ‘When Predators Strike.’”

I slowly turned around, pushing my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose and scowling at Jaime Followhill as I took him in.

Jaime looked like Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling’s lovechild, and I’m not making this shit up (side note: here’s an idea for a great M/M book. I’d totally read it, anyway.) Sandy-blond hair tied into a messy man-bun, indigo eyes and the body of a male stripper. Seriously, the kid was so ripped, his guns were the size of fucking bowling balls. He was a walking, talking cliché of the prom king you see in 90’s movies. A baller who had every girl’s attention at All Saints High…

And his eyes were now on me, as he strode to his very smashed ride.

He wore a gray, tight Henley shirt that made his biceps and pecs stand out, slim dark denim and high-top shoes that looked so expensive and tasteless, you just knew Kanye West ought to be behind that design. He had a few bruises on his arms and a fading black eye. I knew where he got them. He and his stupid friends had a game called DEFY. It wasn’t just any fight club. The snotty fuckers used weapons, too. I guess Pretty Boy was not too posh to be pushed.

Wait, did he ask me a question about my hamster? Or was it my hamstrings?

“Well, fuck me to the moon and back.” He stopped a few inches from our cars, releasing a wicked grin. It looked like they melted together. Like his SUV gave birth to my ugly car through its rear end and now the SUV’s significant other (Principal Followhill’s Lexus) demands a paternity test.

I taught Jaime, and he was one of the few kids who wouldn’t yell/scream/throw crap at people in English Lit. He wasn’t a good student by any stretch of the imagination, but he was too busy with his cell phone to make trouble in my class.

“Sorry.” I released a pained breath, my shoulders sagging in defeat.

He lifted the hem of his shirt and rubbed his perfect six-pack, stretching lazily and yawning at the same time.

“Seems to me like I fucked your car up, Ms. Greene.”

Wait…what?

“You…” I cleared my throat, looking around to make sure it wasn’t a prank. “You fuck—I mean, you damaged my car?”

“Yeah. Bumped right into your ass. Pun intended, obvs.” He kneeled down, frowning at the space where our two vehicles met. He brushed his tan palm over the shiny metal of his SUV. Jaime made it sound like he was the one who crashed his car into mine. I had no idea why. Maybe he wanted to blackmail me. I considered myself a respectable teacher with a moral compass. But I also considered myself someone who would bathe in the ocean and sleep in her car. If I admitted to doing this to Jaime’s car, that was exactly what I would’ve been doing to survive the financial blow.

“James,” I sighed, clutching onto my golden anchor necklace. He shook his head and raised his hand in the air.

“So I screwed up your ride. Shit happens. Let me make it up to you.”

What. The. Heck?

I didn’t know what game he was playing. I just knew that he was probably better at it than I was. So, in true Melody Greene fashion, I turned around and walked straight back to the car, essentially running away from the situation like the little pussy that I was.

“Whoa, not so fast,” he chuckled, grabbing me by the elbow and spinning me around. I turned, my eyes darting to his palm on my flesh. He withdrew it, but it was too late. Butterflies somersaulted in my stomach, and my skin prickled with need. I got hot and bothered by one of my pupils. Only Jaime Followhill wasn’t just a pupil.

He was also a sex god.

There were stories the length of the fucking Bible running around the hallways in All Saints High to prove it.

And they weren’t the only things that were long and impressive about the guy, if the rumor was true.

“I said I scratched your car.” His blue eyes shimmered with unrestrained intensity. Why was he doing this? And why the fuck did I care? This kid received more pocket money than I had in all my saving accounts combined. If he wanted to shoulder this, I should’ve just accepted. Was it decent grades he was after? Doubt it, as Jaime had fantastic scores to begin with (See: Mommy Dearest), and I heard his rich ass had already landed a spot in a Texan university, where he’d play football and probably fuck his way into some kind of a man-whore Guinness record.

“You did,” I swallowed. “And right now, I’m running late. Please step out of my way.”

We mentally shook hands on that lie, our eyes hard on one another. I had a feeling I was digging up a hole. A hole in which I was about to dump a ton of dark shit that’d land me in hot trouble. I was striking a deal with the son of the devil. Even though I had a good eight years on him, I knew who he was.

One of The Four Hotholes.

A ruthless, privileged criminal who ruled this town.

Jaime took another step my way, his body flush with mine. His breath skated over my face. Mint gum, aftershave and sour male scent made me eerily heady. I wasn’t prepared for that, which is why my face twitched uncomfortably.

I took a step back.

He took a step forward.

Bending his head down, his lips murmured into mine. To my horror, I noticed my knees buckled, and I knew exactly why.

“I owe you,” he said darkly. “And I’ll make sure you get to cash in on that debt. Soon. Very soon.”