“Good morning,” I say to my first-period class, or as I like to call them, the zombie hour.
History first thing in the morning . . . next to impossible to get these kids engaged. I call it a good day if they remember to call me Mr. Greyson.
A myriad of mumbles sound throughout the classroom, but that’s pretty much all I get from them.
I set my bag on top of my desk and pull out my textbook. I set it on my desk. At the same time, I hear a whisper amongst the zombies. I glance up at them and there are some amused faces, the ones that are paying attention, at least. One kid in the back points and chuckles.
Points at me.
Hell, did I forget to wipe my face after brushing my teeth or something? Toothpaste residue is a real thing.
I’m tempted to wipe at my mouth as more students start to wake up as they stare at me. Smirks cross their faces. They hide their chuckles behind their hands, and blatant whispering begins.
Okay, what the hell is going on?
A student in the front, Blake, raises his hand.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Uh, Mr. Greyson . . .”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I say, “Yes, Blake?”
“Uh, not to be the bearer of bad news, but you have a thong attached to your book.”
“What?” I ask while lifting my book to examine it. And sure enough, dangling from a string, attached to my book, is a thong.
A hot-pink lace thong.
Bloody hell.
Embarrassment sears up the back of my neck as I quickly rip the thong off the book and shove it back into my bag. A gaggle of laughter rings through the room as I attempt to compose myself.
This is what she calls war.
That’s fine.
Yup, I said fine.
If that’s how she wants to play this . . . then game on.
Cora: Girls’ night at the Atomic Saloon. Don’t wait up.
I reread Cora’s text and smile to myself as I look up from my mobile and at the restaurant sign in front of me. I’ve heard the other teachers in the lounge talk about the Atomic Saloon and how it’s their favorite bar, but I’ve never visited. Before I came, I decided to look up the restaurant to see if there was anything I could work with when it came to embarrassing my wife.
But there was nothing in particular that caught my eye, so instead, I stayed with my initial idea. Not super creative, but it’ll do the trick.
I dismount my bike and remove my helmet before heading into the bar. The atmosphere of the bar is industrial, with Edison-bulb light fixtures, cool metal chairs, and exposed, darkly stained wood. Just from stepping inside, I can see why it’s a favorite of the teaching staff; it has a very relaxed vibe. To the left, there are booths lined up along the wall, with TVs overhead, and that’s where I spot Cora, Stella, and Greer.
Smiling to myself, I tuck my helmet under my arm and walk toward their booth. Cora has her hair tied up in a tight bun and she’s wearing an off-the-shoulder jumper that shows off her delicate collarbone. As I walk toward her, all I can think about is tearing that jumper off and pressing my lips along her skin. Exploring the length of her collarbone. Tasting her skin. Marveling at the moans that slip past those pouty lips.
I want her . . . bad.
Greer is the first to spot me and her smile quickly morphs into a concerned look. I see her mouth something, which causes Cora to fling her head in my direction to make eye contact with me.
I smirk.
She frowns.
I make a kissing motion at her.
Her eyebrows form a menacing scowl.
Oh yeah, this will be a lot of fun.
When I reach the table, I say, “Hey, wife.” Stella covers her mouth to hide her laugh.
Cora stiffens. “Pike, what the hell are you doing here?” she whispers, while her eyes travel the vast space of the restaurant, fear in them.
What could she be so scared of?
Curious, I glance over my shoulder, and at the bar, I see Romeo and Arlo chatting with beers in their hands.
Girls’ night? Not so much.
I face Cora again and say, “You know, I was in class today and I happened to pull out my textbook.” Her lips press together in a nervous grimace. “And there happened to be a string attached to it, and attached to the string was this.” I pull the pink thong out of my pocket and hold it out to her.
“Oh, Cora,” Greer says, shaking her head.
Stella laughs out loud.
And Cora’s eyes widen.
I dangle it from my finger and say, “I was so worried you were missing it that I thought I’d bring it to you. Funny, though, I haven’t seen you wear this one yet.”
“Has he seen you wear other ones?” Stella asks.