Their voices fade as some instinct pushes me to lick Evan’s cut closed, then I shut my eyes and rest against his chest. I whisper a Thank you. I tell him I didn’t stitch his wound for the blood, I swear, that it just happened, and he isn’t all that terrifying. Then I explain how I haven’t slept well in ages and if I could just rest my eyes…
Exhaustion pulls me under.
I’ll worry about the rest tomorrow…
Dear reader!
I hope you enjoyed a taste of my love for things unusual. This was an experiment, and I’m anxious to hear back from you if you like—or dislike—my trek into the supernatural. Let me know via email if you want more, or if you hope I never pen anything like this again. Haha. All my links are below!
Love,
Ilsa
About the Author
Wall Street Journal, New York Times, and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills pens angsty new adult and contemporary romances.
A former high school English teacher and librarian, she adores all things Pride and Prejudice, and of course, Mr. Darcy is her ultimate hero.
She's addicted to frothy coffee beverages, cheesy magnets, and any book featuring unicorns and sword-wielding females. Feel free to stalk her online. ☺
*Please join her FB readers group, Unicorn Girls, to get the latest scoop as well as talk about books, wine, and Netflix:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/ilsasunicorngirls/
You can also find Ilsa at these places:
Website:
http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com
News Letter:
http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/contact
Other Titles by Ilsa Madden-Mills:
All books are standalone stories with brand new couples and are currently FREE in Kindle Unlimited.
Briarwood Academy Series
Very Bad Things
Very Wicked Beginnings
Very Wicked Things
Very Twisted Things
British Bad Boys Series
Dirty English
Filthy English
Spider
Fake Fiancée
I Dare You
I Bet You
I Hate You
I Promise You
The Revenge Pact
Boyfriend Bargain
Dear Ava
Not My Romeo
Not My Match
The Last Guy (w/Tia Louise)
The Right Stud (w/Tia Louise)
Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2021, Max Monroe
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar
To Short Stories: We wish you were taller. We wish you were a one-hundred-thousand-word, full-length-novel baller.
To Teachers: Thank you for everything you do.
Introduction
Katy
Thursday, April 1st
Raucous laughter roars through the wall behind me, and then what sounds like a semitruck rams straight into it and shakes the floor. For the love of everything. I pause, midway through my quiz instructions, and twist my torso to face the offending direction—through my classroom wall, to the other side toward Mack Houston’s classroom.
Mr. Music Man.
Mr. Fun Time Bobby (without the booze).
Mr. Giant-Thorn-in-My-Side.
Basically, all my work-related problems come from Mack Houston. His classroom is always loud, always boisterous, and always on the verge of being out of control, and because he’s right next door to my classroom, my students’ and my ears never miss a moment of the chaos.
And the constant disruptions never aid in my endeavors to keep my high schoolers focused enough to learn important mathematical concepts.
Most days, I feel like I’m trying to teach calculus in the middle of an amusement park.
The onslaught of noise dulls slightly, and after heaving a deep sigh, I turn back to my students and straighten the bullet-pointed instructions’ outline in my hands. I might be a little Type A when it comes to organization, but I’ve found that giving specific directions before my students get started on an exam minimizes the confusion during testing time. Which, in turn, allows them to focus and go at their own pace and do so without adding any undue stress.
Calm. Relaxed. That’s the ambiance I’m always trying to provide for my class.
“Okay, where was I?” I hum my way down the paper until I get to the next bullet point. “Right. You all have a single piece of scratch paper for your work, which you can fill front and back completely if you need to. As always, though, you’ll be turning in this sheet at the end of the quiz, and if possible, I’ll use it to give partial credit on problems you worked through mostly correct. Just make sure you outline each of your steps clearly because I’d really hate to score you lower than you deserve, okay?” I offer a little smile toward my students. “And I know you guys got this. You know the material, and I know you can rock this quiz.”
One of my most conscientious seniors raises her hand, and I gesture toward her with a friendly hand. “Yes, Caroline?”
“Ms. Dayton, can we…” Unfortunately, after the first couple of words, a loud round of pandemonium breaks out again next door, and the only information Caroline manages to relay is that she has the ability to move her lips. It’s a regular mime show in here, and I haven’t made a dime off admission.
I swear, the disruptions never end—drums and screams and kids sliding by my door in the hallway like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. All thanks to Mack Houston, the good-time guy, who just happens to teach music at the same school as me. And his obnoxious teaching style—if you can even call it teaching at all—always comes at the expense of my classroom.
God help me. I can’t take this anymore.
I slam down my paper on the corner of my desk, hold up one finger to the class at large, and stalk toward the door like a woman possessed. Out my door and around the small divider between our rooms, I march right through his open door to the noisy classroom and raise my voice over the din to get his attention.