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  Copyright © 2016 by L.J. Shen

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Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely casual.

Defy

Edited past: Karen Dale Harris, Ellie McLove

Encompass Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Dedication

Soundtrack

Chapter Ane

Chapter Ii

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Affiliate V

Chapter Six

Chapter 7

Chapter Eight

Chapter Ix

Chapter 10

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Affiliate Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Books by 50.J. Shen

Vicious Sneak Peek

Sneak Peek of Illicit by Ava Harrison

"I would ever rather be happy than dignified."

—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

To Jaime Steinman-Jones and Kerissa Blake

Soundtrack

"Secretly" – Skunk Anansie

"R U Mine?" – Arctic Monkeys

"Under Your Spell" - Desire

"Colors" - Halsey

"Crazy In Beloved" - Nightcore

"Whistle for the Choir" – The Fratellis

"Halo" - Texas

"Atomic" - Blondie

Originally, the anchor symbol was not used past those on the water, only by people on land. During the early years of Christianity, Christians were under heavy persecution by the Romans. To show their religion to other practicing Christians under the watchful centre of the ruling people, they would article of clothing anchor jewelry or even tattoo anchors on themselves. The anchor was seen as a symbol of forcefulness as anchors hold downward ships even in the stormiest of weather. Information technology was also a popular symbol considering of its close resemblance to the cantankerous. Anchors were also used to mark safe houses for those seeking refuge from persecution.

MyNameNecklace.com

My proper name is Tune Greene, and I take a confession to brand.

I slept with my student, a senior in high school.

Multiple times.

I had multiple orgasms.

In multiple positions.

I slept with my student and I enjoyed it.

I slept with my educatee, and I'd do information technology all over over again if I could turn back time.

My name is Tune Greene, and I got kicked out of my position as a teacher and did my walk of shame à la Cersei Lannister from the chief's office, minutes after said principal threatened to call the cops on me.

My proper name is Melody Greene, and I did something bad because information technology made me feel expert.

Here is why information technology was totally worth information technology.

I SNAILED MY Mode OUT of the principal'southward office toward the SoCal mid-winter clouds. Anger, humiliation, and self-loathing coated every inch of my soul, creating a film of desperation I was drastic to scratch away.

Rock. Meet. Lesser.

I'd but found out All Saints High was not going to renew my contract as a teacher next year unless I pulled my shit together and performed some magic that'd transform my students into attentive human beings. Principal Followhill said that I showed zero authorization and that the literature classes I was educational activity were falling behind. To add fuel to the fire, last week I'd received notice that I was getting kicked out of my apartment at the end of next month. The possessor had decided to remodel and motion dorsum in.

Also, the sexting partner I'd bagged through a questionable dating site had but fired me a message maxim he wouldn't be able to make it to our beginning in-person date considering his mom wouldn't give him her car this night.

He was twenty-6.

So was I.

Being picky was a luxury a woman who hadn't seen a existent-life cock in four years actually didn't have.

And, every bit a matter of fact, other than a few short flings, I'd never had a relationship. At all. With anyone. Ballet had always come first. Before men and before me. For a while, I'd actually idea it was enough. Until it wasn't.

When did it all go wrong?

I could tell you when—right after I started higher. 8 years agone, I got accepted to Julliard and was about to fulfill my dream to become a professional ballerina. This was what I'd worked for my whole life. My parents had taken out loans to pay my way through dancing competitions. Boyfriends were deemed an unwelcome distraction, and my but focus was joining a prestigious New York or European ballet company and becoming a prima ballerina.

Dancing was my oxygen.

When I said my goodbyes to my family and waved at them from the security point at the airport, they told me to pause a leg. 3 weeks into my kickoff semester at Julliard, I literally did. Broke it in a freakish escalator accident on my way downward to the subway.

Information technology not simply killed my career dreams and lifelong plan, only also sent me packing and dorsum to SoCal. Later a year of sulking, feeling sad for myself and developing a steady relationship with my get-go (and last) swain—a dude named Jack Daniels—my parents convinced me to pursue a career in teaching. My mom was a instructor. My dad was a instructor. My older brother was a teacher. They loved teaching.

I hated teaching.

This was my third year of didactics, and my first—and judging by my performance, only—year at All Saints High in Todos Santos, California. Chief Followhill was one of the most influential women in boondocks. Her polished bitchery was formidable. And she absolutely despised me from the get-go. My days under her reign were numbered.

As I approached my twelve-year-old Ford Focus parked across the alley from her Lexus and her son's monstrous Range Rover (Yep, she'd bought her son, a senior, a fucking luxury SUV. Why would an eighteen-year-former demand a car so large? Perchance so it could accommodate his giant-donkey ego?), I decided my situation couldn't maybe go any worse.

But I was incorrect.

I slid into my car and started bankroll upwards into the about empty parking lot, slipping back toward the two pricey symbols of a small dick. At the exact same moment, Mr. Living With His Mom texted me again. The dark-green bubble flashed with GOT THE CAR. R8DY TO Sexual practice Information technology Upwardly? accompanied with approximately three thousand question marks.

I got distracted.

I got annoyed.

I bumped straight into Principal Followhill'due south son'south 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 and shook my car didn't exit any room for doubt.

I'd done to his SUV what Keanu Reeves did to the movie Dracula. I'd fucking ruined information technology.

My fight-or-flight adrenalin kicked in, and I briefly contemplated whether I should hit the gas, presume an allonym, and abscond the country to hide in a cave somewhere in the Afghan mountains.

How was I going to pay for the damage? I had a big deductible and at that place was that notice at home almost my last insurance premium being tardily. Was I even covered? Principal Followhill was going to kill me.

Mustering my courage, I peeled my sad ass off my seat. Technicall

y speaking, Jaime's precious black SUV wasn't supposed to be parked in the teachers' lot. Then again, Jaime Followhill got away with a lot of shit he wasn't supposed to, thanks to his looks, social status, and powerful parents.

I circled around to discover my cheap auto's donkey that was kissing his Range Rover'southward back quarter panel, leaving a dent the size of Africa.

Suffice it to say, now things couldn't go any worse.

But I was wrong. Over again.

Bending down, I squinted at the destruction, not giving a damn about the fact that my brown knee-length clothes danced in the air, exposing my new lace panties. There wasn't anyone else in the parking lot to see them, and it wasn't as if I was going to be flaunting them in front of Mr. Living With His Mom tonight.

"Oh, no, no, no…" I chanted breathlessly.

I heard a guttural growl. "Next time you curve over like this, Ms. G, make sure I'k not behind you, or it'll end up on National Geographic: When Predators Strike."

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

Jaime looked like the lovechild of Ryan Gosling and Channing Tatum, and I was not making this shit upwardly. (Side note: This would be a peachy thought for a M/M romance novel. I'd totally read it, anyway.) Sandy-blond hair tied into a low, messy bun, indigo eyes, and the body of a male person stripper. Seriously, the kid was then ripped, his guns were the size of fucking bowling assurance. He was a walking, talking cliché of the prom male monarch in a 90s movie. A baller who had every girl's attending at All Saints Loftier…

And his optics were at present on me every bit he strode closer to his very smashed ride.

He wore a tight gray Henley shirt that made his biceps and pecs stand out, slim night denim, and high-acme shoes that looked and then expensive and tasteless you but knew P Diddy had to be behind that design. He had a few bruises on his arms and a fading black eye. I knew where he'd gotten them. Rumor was he and his stupid friends beat the shit out of each other on the weekends in a fight-guild game they chosen Defy.

Judge Pretty Male child wasn't too rich to be pushed around. I wondered if his female parent knew about Defy.

Wait, did he enquire 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 the two cars had melded together. Like his SUV was giving birth to my ugly auto through its rear end, and now the SUV's pregnant other (Primary Followhill's Lexus) was enervating a paternity test.

I taught Jaime, and he was ane of the few kids that I could count on not to yell/scream/throw crap at people in English language Lit. He wasn't a adept pupil by whatever stretch of the imagination, only he was too decorated with his jail cell phone to brand 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 half-dozen-pack, stretching lazily and yawning at the same time. "Seems to me like I fucked your auto up, Ms. Greene."

Wait…what?

"Y'all…" I cleared my throat, looking around to make sure it wasn't a prank. "You fuck—I hateful, you damaged my car?"

"Yeah. Bumped correct into your donkey. Pun intended, obvs." He kneeled down, frowning at the spot where our two vehicles met. He brushed his tan palm over the shiny paint of his SUV.

Jaime made it sound like he was the one who'd crashed his car into mine. I had no idea why. He wasn't even in his car. He'd just walked up. Possibly he wanted to blackmail me?

I considered myself a respectable teacher with a moral compass. Just I also considered myself someone who would prefer not to bathe in the ocean and sleep in her machine. That was exactly what I would need to practice to survive the financial accident if I admitted to being at blame for hit his expensive car.

"James…" I sighed, clutching onto the gold anchor necklace hanging around my neck.

He shook his head and raised his hand in the air. "Then I screwed upwardly your ride. Shit happens. Let me brand information technology up to you."

What. The. Heck?

I didn't know what game he was playing. I just knew that he was probably meliorate at it than I was. And so, in true Tune Greene fashion, I turned around and walked straight dorsum to my car, substantially running away from the state of affairs like the petty pussy that I was.

"Whoa, not and so fast." He chuckled as he grabbed me by the elbow and spun me effectually.

My eyes darted to his palm on my flesh. He lowered his hand, but it was too late. Butterflies somersaulted in my tummy, and my skin prickled with demand. I was hot and bothered by one of my pupils.

Only Jaime Followhill wasn't just any pupil. He was also a sex god.

There was gossip in the hallways of All Saints Loftier to prove information technology, enough stories to compete with the length of the fucking Consummate Works of Shakespeare. And that wasn't the only things that were long and impressive about the guy if the rumors were true.

Followhill made me about as uncomfortable as his female parent did. Only departure was his mom inspired fearfulness in me, while he poked at my almost sensitive spot. He fabricated me experience embarrassed.

That could be because my eyes always drifted his manner while I taught his Lit class. Similar a moth to a flame, I always noticed him, even when I didn't want to. I was worried he knew that too. That I was looking at him in a way I shouldn't be when he was dicking around, messing with his phone.

Not like a teacher.

Just similar a adult female.

"I said I dented your car." His blue eyes shimmered with intensity.

Why was he doing this? And why the fuck did I care? This kid received more pocket coin than I had in all my savings combined. If he wanted to shoulder this, I should just have.

Was it a better grade he was after? Doubted it. Jaime was a senior on his way out the door. I'd heard his rich ass had landed a spot at an fantabulous Texas university (see: Mommy Beloved), where he'd play football and probably fuck his way into some kind of a man-whore Guinness Globe Record.

"You lot did," I said, swallowing. "And right now, I'one thousand running tardily. Please step out of my mode."

We mentally shook easily on that lie, our eyes hard on one another. I had a feeling I was earthworks a hole. A hole in which I was nearly to dump a ton of dark shit that'd state me in hot trouble. I was hit a deal with the devil'south spawn. Fifty-fifty though I had a good viii years on him, I knew who he was.

Ane of the Four HotHoles.

A self-centered, privileged princeling who ruled this town.

Jaime took another stride my way, his body flush with mine. His jiff skated over my face. Mint glue, aftershave, and musky male sweat that made me oddly heady. I was so unprepared for this that my face twitched.

I took a step back.

He took a step forward.

Bending his head down, he moved his lips close to mine. To my horror, my knees buckled, and I knew exactly why.

"I owe you," he murmured darkly. "And I'll brand sure you become to greenbacks in on that debt. Soon. Very shortly."

"I don't need your coin," I sputtered, my womb tingling with fuzzy warmth.

His mesmerizing optics widened, and he flashed me a dimpled smirk. "It'south non money I'm going to give you."

How could someone so young be and so arrogant and self-bodacious? I felt his pollex stroking my tummy, barely touching, teasing, making me quiver through the sparse fabric of my dress. It was like he'd shoved his whole fist into me and attacked my mouth with his.

I licked my lips and blinked, astonished.

Holy shit.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Jaime Followhill was hitting on me. Blatantly. In the parking lot. In plain sight.

I wasn't a troll. I withal had a dancer's body after all, dark-green eyes, a nice California tan, and soft chestnut curls. Merely I didn't exactly requite the cheerleading oversupply a run for their coin.

Tripping backward, I swallowed a groan, feeling my pulse everywhere, eyelids included. "That'southward enough, James. Dri

ve safely, and delight exist sure to exercise your homework for tomorrow," I had the audacity to say.

I tucked myself back into my Ford, and and so accidentally bumped my car into the Range Rover one more time before I fled the scene, smearing the ugly paring into a long, wide scratch. From the rearview mirror, I watched every bit he cocked his eyebrows at me in a challenge.

I drove so fast I swore my curls transformed into a dramatic blow-out by the time I parked under my building.

At home, I slouched on my couch in front of my phone and waited for Principal Followhill to telephone call and tell me she was firing my ass and suing me for every single penny that I had. Or in my case didn't have.

Long hours passed, but the call never came. I crawled into bed and airtight my eyes at ten p.m. but couldn't slumber to save my life. All I thought about was that gorgeous asshole, Jaime Followhill.

How he smelled like the hottest guy I'd always been near.

How he looked like the nearly succulent thing in the world when he rubbed his tan 6-pack.

How he helped me out of a shitty situation without flinching, knowing that his mother would probably beat me for this, and at present…he wanted something back.

On newspaper, he was still a kid, merely every other part of him felt like a man this afternoon.

It and so defied logic, information technology was unnerving, nigh infuriating when I thought about it.

This morning, I'd woken up with the impression that I hated the Followhills.

But afterward this afternoon, at that place was no denying it—there was at to the lowest degree one Followhill I wanted to get very friendly with.

Here WAS ALL YOU NEEDED to know nigh Todos Santos: it was the richest boondocks in California and, equally a directly result, domicile to the most entitled teenagers in the earth. My students knew I couldn't fail them. Their parents had enough power to strip me of my citizenship and banish me to an oxygen-deprived planet. These kids did whatever they wanted during grade, much to no 1's surprise.

The day later the car incident was different.

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