She lights up. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much, Lennon.” She looks around her empty classroom. “There’s a faculty meeting after school today, but I can leave my classroom unlocked for you to use so you two can get acquainted and set up a schedule.”
“Sounds good. Thanks.” I’m heading toward the door when it occurs to me that I don’t even know who it is I’ll be tutoring. “Who’s the student?”
She looks up from the pile of papers on her desk. “I’m not sure if you know him since you two aren’t in the same class, but it’s Phoenix Walker.”
It feels like someone pulled the rug out from underneath my feet.
“Oh.”
She blinks. “Is that a problem?”
Not unless she considers my stomach bottoming out, my sudden case of sweaty palms, or the inability to draw air into my lungs a problem.
“Nope. Everything’s fine.”
Just fine.
Maybe I should tell Mrs. Herman I came down with mono.
Or malaria.
I could say there’s an emergency at home.
Or that my goldfish died.
I tug on the hem of my shirt as I walk down the empty hallway, silently cursing myself for ever agreeing to this in the first place.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I was hoping my nerves would have subsided throughout the day, but they’ve only gotten worse.
And now here I am…ready to tango in the lion’s den.
Not that Phoenix is a lion.
He’s more like a lone wolf.
Especially with those icy-blue eyes and his don’t fuck with me or I’ll tear out your jugular with my teeth demeanor.
I’m relieved when I find the classroom empty. Arriving first gives me the upper hand…and some extra time to chill the fuck out.
Placing my book bag on the long table in the back, I plop down in a seat.
Five minutes soon turns into ten, and there’s still no sign of him.
Relieved, I pack up my stuff while humming one of my favorite songs, “Cryin,” by Aerosmith.
Music has always been my first love. Whenever I’m stressed or sad or nervous...it’s there with open arms. Wrapping me up like a warm blanket on a cold day.
It’s not long before my humming turns to full-on singing. I’m belting out the line about love being sweet misery when I see a tall form enter the classroom in my peripheral.
Oh, God.
I freeze. The only sound I can hear now is my pulse thrumming in my ears.
Don’t look.
I kind of have to though, given he’s here to see me.
When I finally muster the courage to angle my head, I find him propped against the doorway with his hands in the pocket of his jeans and a sly smirk on his face.
Awesome.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
His voice is crushed velvet wrapped in silk and gravel.
Luckily, mine comes out sounding way more in control than I feel. “You’re late.”
He strides inside like he owns the place. “Had to take care of something.”
I have to stop myself from asking what that was because it’s none of my business.
He stands, hovering over me like an impending storm cloud as I take a few books and folders out of my bag. “Mrs. Herman said you’re having some trouble in English class.”
I feel like a moron because, duh, that’s why he’s here, but I have no idea how to get the ball rolling because he’s not exactly Mr. Talkative.
After what feels like an eternity, he joins me at the table, but still remains silent.
I decide to try a different tactic. “What days and times are you available? I’m usually free after school and on weekends.”
I mentally smack myself because I just made myself sound like a loser.
He leans back in the chair with his legs spread and a pissed-off expression on his gorgeous face. As if it’s my fault he’s here.
Opening a folder, I take out the essay we’re supposed to read and analyze, and a list of questions about it. “Okay. We can set up our schedule later.” I slide the paper across the table. “I’ll give you a few minutes to read this and then we can—”
Do nothing…because he’s walking out of the classroom.
I sit there stunned for a few moments because the audacity. Here I am trying to help him so he can graduate and he just up and leaves without so much as a thank you or a fuck you.
Irritation simmers in the pit of my stomach, and I storm out after him.
I’m tired of people mistaking my kindness for weakness. Tired of assholes thinking they can just walk all over me because I don’t look like an Instagram model or wear a size two.
Tired of accepting shitty behavior that I don’t deserve.
Phoenix is gone by the time I reach the end of the empty hallway. I debate running out to the parking lot, but why bother? If he doesn’t want my help—and he’s made it crystal clear he doesn’t—I’m not going to waste my time.
Gritting my teeth, I make my way back to the classroom so I can collect my things and go home. I’m approaching the door when the melodic sound of the piano fills my ears. The notes are familiar, but it still takes my brain a second to realize it’s a stripped-down version of the song I was singing earlier.
And then I hear it.
My heart stops cold before awakening with a great big thump that sends everything inside me spiraling.
There are good voices.
And then there are once-in-a-lifetime voices.
The hypnotizing kind that holds you hostage and demands every ounce of your attention…every piece of your soul.
The kind that makes you follow the sound like a moth to a flame.
A craving you can’t ignore.
My skin prickles as I enter the band room where I find Phoenix sitting at the piano with his eyes closed and his head tilted toward the ceiling as he sings.
Although singing seems like the wrong word for what this is.
It’s like he’s siphoning every note into his bloodstream so he can spin it into something even more beautiful with his vocal cords.
I feel like I’m watching a spiritual experience…a metamorphosis taking place.
His low, raspy voice envelops me like a thick fog. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, even if I wanted to. He’s utterly mesmerizing.
Like he was born for this.
The song ends and I’m not sure he’s even aware I’m standing there.
Not until he snarls, “I don’t want your help.”
I should be insulted with his rejection and the harsh edge to his words. Instead, I blurt out, “You come alive when you sing.”
I don’t get a response, but it doesn’t matter. I take a step in his direction. “Your voice…watching you do that…” Inching closer, I inhale a deep breath. “You have a gift, Phoenix.”
I don’t even realize I’m next to him until I hear the legs of the piano bench scrape against the wood floor and he stands, towering over me.
He’s like the sun. The energy radiating off him pulls you in and you can’t help but get closer. Aching to feel the heat on your skin. To make contact with something so powerful. So beautiful.
Even if it burns you.
“I don’t want your help,” he says again.
His low, raspy voice is a turbulent current of water, pulling me under. However, it’s the haunting, desperate look in his eyes that’s my undoing.