Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 2

"I'll do my master's."

"And then?"

"I'll teach."

He scoffs. "You'll teach? That's it? That's your sole ambition? That's the final step in your plan?"

"Hey," I say. "The world needs more teachers. Good ones. Smart ones."

"You've got this little plan all worked out. You think that it's all going to depend on how well you do in your cla.s.ses, what grades you get. Let me ask you, we go to a good private school, right?"

"Yes," I say, nodding.

"What do you think of Dunham?"

"He's my history teacher. He's-"

"A f.u.c.king idiot."

"No he's not."

"Yes, he is."

"He's got a doctorate, he's written books on the first and second dynasties of Chin-"

"And this is where he is! Why do you suppose that is, if he's so accomplished?"

"No shame in teaching in a good school."

"Why don't you ask him if he wanted to teach a bunch of rich, stuck-up teenagers all day?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Do you even know the point you're trying to make, Chance? We happen to go to a very good school. You're kind of undercutting yourself here."

"He doesn't know anything about anything useful. He couldn't change the tire on a bicycle! Is that what you want to be? In some stupid little corner, some narrow field of study, that n.o.body else gives a s.h.i.+t about? You want to go into academics? You want to live and die by what you publish? Have your work peer-reviewed by a bunch of cliquey circle-jerkers? You know they all just suck off their friends, don't you? You know it's all one big boy's club."

"Can you not be so vulgar? And, anyway, I'm not afraid of being a woman in academics. The world's changing, and even if we still fight an uphill battle now, it's not as bad as you make it out to be."

"Take your head out of the sand."

"Also," I tell him, "Political science is not a narrow field, and my options will be open. I could go into academia, or I could go to, shock horror, politics!"

"Politics?" he blurts, laughing. "G.o.d, you're precious. The truth is, in this country, if you're a woman who wants to go far in politics-"

"I'd be a woman who wants to make a difference."

We pause, and I let my eyes fall closed. That was trite, groan-worthy.

"I get your point, Chance. That it'll be tough, that it still mostly is a boy's club. But I'm not afraid. I never have been."

He sits back for a moment, licks his lips again. The expression on his face has changed. Now... now he looks impressed.

"And I can float between teaching and researching, or working in a more hands-on manner. The qualification would open doors to high-ranking, difference-making positions in social service agencies, NGOs, charities, think-tanks, even an advisory capacity. That sounds like a lot of options to me. What kind of prospects do you have? What happens when you sustain an injury? When you lose your edge in the ring or on the mat or wherever the h.e.l.l it is you fight?"

"Your options won't be broad. You'll be encouraged to specialize over and over again. They will push you into a narrow corner, where you can be the master of all you can see a nothing. You will be a big fish in a tiny, brackish pond."

"Like you would know anything about academics, Chance. You barely graduated from what I hear."

He laughs. "Surprised me, too. I hardly went to cla.s.s."

"Did you make minimum attendance?"

"Of course I did," he says. "My teachers were all women."

I roll my eyes. "You're so gross and up yourself. That's so much bulls.h.i.+t." I frown and I'm sure my expression darkens. If he's telling the truth, well then it isn't fair.

"Don't be so upset, Ca.s.s. Why does it matter to you what happens to me?"

"Don't call me Ca.s.s."

"Don't tell me you never saw a girl hitch her skirt up just a little, pull those puppy-dog eyes to get out of trouble? Don't tell me you once never saw Nicole Stansfeld or Alice Ortiz get away with not doing their homework? Or get caught smoking in the changing rooms only to be let off the hook because it was a male teacher that happened to walk by and smell the smoke? Those two got away with far more than I ever did."

"That's wrong, too. And I don't care about your what-about-ism."

"So what if you don't get accepted into a master's program?"

I fold my arms. "That's not going to happen."

"Ca.s.s, Ca.s.s, Ca.s.s," he says, shaking his head. He adjusts his belt, and I can't help but watch as he does it. For a fleeting moment, his t-s.h.i.+rt comes above his jeans, and I see the beginnings of his trimmed buzz of pubic hair.

I snap my eyes away, breathing a little quicker. G.o.d, when is this bus going to come?

"You think you've got it all figured out. Life isn't like that."

"How would you know what life is like?" I say, glaring into his eyes. I notice, then, that embedded in his hazel irises seem to be bits of silver pigmentation. It's like his eyes are s.h.i.+ning. He doesn't even blink that much, he just meets my glare with a slightly-amused look.

"You spend all your time with your nose in textbooks, never once asking if what they are teaching you is accurate, or why it is accurate. You memorize the tests, rote learn, regurgitate paragraphs from books you read the night before. So what if you did well in school? How's it going to prepare you? I mean, have you ever even had a job?"

"Yes, actually," I say, feeling indignant. "I worked as a barista part time. And rote is a pretty complex word for an idiot like you, Chance."

He shrugs. "Maybe I'm an idiot. But at least I'm enjoying myself."

"You enjoy being a total d.i.c.k to everyone? You enjoy getting all sweaty with another guy and beating him up?"

"I enjoy winning my fights, yes. And I'm not a d.i.c.k to everyone."

"Oh, I mean, except for your stupid group of friends who follow you around like dogs."

"Hey, I don't give a f.u.c.k about them. I was talking about the girls, actually."

Groan! His reputation is known in this school, and the one the next county over.

Chance Hudson has slept with more girls than ten men will in their lifetimes, they say.

Chance Hudson has slept with half the female staff, they say.

I doubt these rumors are even true. It's just simply not possible.

And anyway, I don't even care. It's disgusting. He's a dog.

"You're a dog," I say. "You're disgusting."

He grins. "I am, aren't I?"

"You're proud of it?"

He thinks for a moment, brown eyebrows pinching together like two caterpillars meeting.

"Never really thought about it that way. It's just what I do. Come on," he says, getting up off the bench. "Let's go."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll give you a ride. You know you want one." He doesn't even smile, he just plays it straight.

"Wow," I say, shaking my head. "Really? Seriously? No thanks."

"The bus isn't due for an hour. You know that right?"

"An hour?"

"Didn't check the timetable?"

"Shut up."

"Well I know you can either sit out here for an hour, or I can drive you home."

"Why would I get into a car with you?"

"Come on, Ca.s.s, are you really asking me that question? Why does anybody get into a car with me?" He extends his arm, all lean and muscular, but I just ignore it. He really is such a pig.

"You're so wrong, you know, with how you approach everything. You can't talk to people this way. You've got a one-track mind."

"This one-track mind is about to give you a free lift home."

"No, this one-track mind is about to p.i.s.s off."

"Are you sure?" he says. "Don't worry, I may be a dog, but I won't bite."

I don't want to wait for an hour.

"Don't try anything," I say, pointing at him while I get to my feet.

He puts his hands up. "You've got a pretty inflated opinion of yourself."

"Just shut up, okay? Just, try not to talk. Where's your car?"

"So you do want a ride?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Where's your car?"

"Alright, alright," he says, falling into step with me. My shoulder rubs against his, but I pull away. Still, it leaves my heart beating quicker.

"Over here," he says, and we walk a little ways down the street. There I see what looks like a sports car. Not just a sports car, but a real boy's car, too. It's ugly as h.e.l.l.

"Mazda RX-8," he says.

"I really don't care about your car."

"Well, to be fair, muscle was always my thing, but this was a prize. I can't really complain."

"You won a sports car?" I cry, flabbergasted. "How?"

"My under-eighteen amateur MMA tour through Asia." He shrugs. "Corners well."

"Your insurance must be insane."

He unlocks the car, opens the door for me, and then puts out a hand.

"What?" I ask.

"Give me your s.h.i.+t." When he sees my expression, he says, "I'm not going to f.u.c.king steal it, Ca.s.s. I'm just going to put it in the back seat."

It's not... 'my s.h.i.+t'.

Chapter Three.

It's so hot in the car.

If Chance knew what I was thinking, he'd probably think it was because of him, but it's definitely not.

That's what I would tell him, anyway.