Taking Care Of Leah (23 page)

“Yeah.” Ty shook his head. Something warm and sticky streaked his brow, dripping down the side of his nose. “Bollocks.” He wiped his hand across his forehead and examined the dark red marks that came away. He looked up and blinked at Craig. “Thanks for coming.”

“I brought backup. Leah sounded scared.”

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen with one of the policewomen, having a prescribed cup of tea.”

They both looked at Jerry.

“What’s going to happen to him now?” Ty asked.

Craig shrugged, helping him to stand. “That’s up to him. We can’t keep giving him chance after chance. If he wants to screw his life up, then I’m not going to stop him. Not anymore. You were right. We both have our own lives, and they are far more important than him. I’m sorry that I put pressure on you like that. I will make sure that you’re cleared of any charges, and I’ll talk to Candice.” He glanced at the kitchen. Leah was stood in the doorway, clutching a mug with steam dancing out of the top. He looked back at Ty. “Don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t.”

* * * *

Leah kicked an upturned box. Whatever was in it was well and truly shattered. She knelt down and started to pick up bits of broken lampshade and fractured picture frames, placing individual pieces into a plastic tub.

She hissed a breath as an invisible shard sliced her thumb. Putting the bleeding digit to her lips, she sucked at the wound, swallowing the metallic droplets down. Ty took her hand in his, pulling it from her mouth and placing it against his lips, kissing it better. Leah smiled.

“Let me do this,” he offered, picking up a dustpan and brush and sweeping away the debris. Leah stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the damage. “It’s only stuff,” he assured her. “Anyway, if you’re moving in with me, we should probably make this our place rather than mine. We can go shopping tomorrow. What do you want to get first?”

“A TV?” She chuckled.

“Deal.”

She walked to one of the boxes and ripped the tape off the top, pulling out the first few books. “I’ve got to go into school today,” she said. “Planning meeting. Hilary will be there.”

Ty straightened himself, his green eyes questioning her.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. “I’ll have to change my contact details, and she’s going to know that I’ve moved in with you.”

“So let her. She’s my aunt, not my mother.”

“And when am I going to meet your parents?” she asked. “If we’re getting married, it’s only right I should get to know all of your family.”

“I could ask the same.”

“Hmm… We could go up to mine for Christmas?”

“Why don’t we just take one day at a time?”

“Deal.” She grinned, leaning forward to kiss him. “I’m going to have a shower and get dressed.”

“I’ll drive you over. I should probably make sure everything’s ready for when the hordes descend anyway.”

Leah made her way up the stairs, stopping halfway up to peer over and gaze at him. Satisfaction, pride and tranquility washed over her. She felt at home.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The bell rang, echoing throughout the school. Leah watched as her new Year Sevens hovered around, not knowing what to do. Their innocence and confusion made her smile.

“Go on,” she encouraged. “Break time.”

One by one they traipsed out of the classroom, disappearing into the masses, flowing down the stream of students that led to the fields.

Leah leaned back into her chair, folding her arms behind her head, stretching out every aching muscle. She smiled as Rainie popped her head around the doorframe and entered the room. She looked amazing, dressed in loose-fitting dark cargo trousers matched with a flowing cream blouse and chunky jewelry. Her hair had been dyed honey-blonde and cut and layered into a choppy bob. Yvonne had certainly worked her magic.

“Happy to be back?” she asked, beaming as she did a twirl to show off the new her.

“You look fantastic.” Leah grinned.

“I’ve lost four pounds this week. Von’s got me on a strict diet and exercise regime. Zumba, Pilates, running and spinning. I’m knackered, but I’ve never felt so great! I bumped into Lance yesterday. He didn’t recognize me, it was so hilarious.” She paused for a moment. “He told me what happened at the house. That Jerry attacked you. Or tried to. You okay? How’s Ty?”

“We’re fine.”

“No engagement ring yet then?”

“No.” Leah laughed.

“How’d Mrs. Davis take the news?”

Leah shrugged. “She hasn’t fired either of us.”

“I’m going to get a coffee, do you want one?”

“I’ll be over in a minute. I didn’t do any planning last week, so I need to get up to speed or I might well be unemployed before half-term.”

“Summer holidays not been very productive?” she asked with a knowing wink.

“Oh, they’ve been educational!”

Rainie laughed. “Okay then. I’ll see you later.” She waved and almost skipped out of the room. Leah shook her head with a smile. She was glad that Rainie and Yvonne were getting on so well, and happy that Rainie had found herself.

She stretched out before running her finger over the mouse pad of her laptop, waking the screen up from its dark slumber. Next period was a group of Year Tens, her most hated year. Too adult to be classed as children, not adult enough to be taking major exams or getting a job, they would spend the first term testing how far they could push her, reminding themselves of how soft or strict she was, and the last term without an ounce of care. She scanned the screen checking the names—there were only two that she didn’t recognize. One boy and one girl, easy enough to pick out among a sea of spots, not so subtle makeup and hormones.

Her breath caught when he walked through the door. It always did. He leaned against the doorframe, reaching up to the lintel. His T-shirt stretched over the ripple of muscle that it wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding.

“Miss Beauchamp,” he said, his voice as hot as his body. “What have you broken today?”

She pointed across the classroom toward the old TV and DVD unit. “I want to show a film this afternoon, and I can’t figure out how to plug the damn thing in.” She grinned.

Ty tutted and walked across the room, twisting the unit around and bending over to examine the boxes. Leah cocked her head to one side, drinking him in.

He looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Miss Beauchamp, I’m pretty sure I could sue you for sexual harassment.”

“Perhaps I’ll let you punish me later,” she said, placing a Biro between her lips and chewing on the plastic end.

They’d decided to wait before marriage and kids. For now, she was content with watching his beautifully toned ass being caressed by worn jeans while he fixed whatever it was that she’d broken that day.

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

Sassy with Sir: Scoring with Sir

Judy Jarvie

Excerpt

Chapter One

“Dis me and you’re roadkill.”

“You and whose skankwad army, loserboy?”

It’s a gray Monday morning and I
can’t miss
the yelled swearing across the school car park. My iPhone’s Bruno Mars megamix can’t sweeten the F-bomb napalm by the third years at the tennis courts. I long to flee but I still have hours of teaching torture ahead.

Today will herald a watershed in my life. Because I—Izzy Tennant, English teacher at Netherfield Secondary School in Barnet, North London—have a secret. Over the years, I’ve hidden the real me behind the mask of an oh-so-nice and proper English teacher. But at heart I have dark, private appetites. I may teach the classics of literature to kids that don’t give a stuff by day, but at night I’m an insatiable erotica-holic.

Little do I realize that my fantasies are about to ignite with a man who can liberate
these
passions.

This is the story of my journey.

With
he who must be called Sir
.

* * * *

If David Attenborough studied chavvy North London school kids, instead of mating penguins ice-bonking for hours, he’d explain the brawling teenager ritual. I’ve consumed insufficient coffee to try. I beeline for the school’s back door but the yelling mob turns and charges straight toward me.

“Is it true, Miss Tennant?” asks Darren Blackwater. He has the name and look of a repugnantly splendid extra in
Game of Thrones
. One you hope will get impaled before the ad break. From what his mother said at open day he’s no stranger to sticky ends—he gets a little too much solo bedroom exercise and I don’t mean kickboxing his punch-bag.

“Tell us,” Eddie Childs butts in. “They’re sayin’ ’es comin’ ’ere? We’re askin’ you cos, for a woman and a teacher, you know most about football.”

I yank out my iPhone earbuds, succeeding in thwacking myself in the teeth. I remember not to swear but shouldn’t bother—none of the pupils pay me such regard.

“I’ve nothing to impart. And no time at present, boys.”

But Darren, Small Lord of the Blackwater and perpetrator of much school evil, is not mollified. “Ethan’s brother said we’re gettin’ a new PE teacher and ’e’s famous. Tell us if it’s true, miss.”

My tooth’s throbbing. I’m more interested in calculating if I’ve brought painkillers or my dentist’s number.

“I don’t know anything about a new teacher.”

“Ethan’s bruvver said, miss,” says Darren, “’E ’erd it from Matt Riley. ’Is mum’s a cleaner an’ she reads stuff on the desks. An ex-premier league player as head of phys ed, she says.”

“If Matt’s mum’s so good at surveillance, who is he?”

Always answer a challenge with a question. This is my ‘teacher’s gold’ tactic. “Tell Matt Riley he should employ his mother’s reading habits himself if he wants to pass English.”

I walk away, feeling like Khaleesi in
Game of Thrones
and pretending I look like her. Then I hear words uttered from behind a hand.

“Told ya she don’t effin’ know. Told ya not ta bovver!”

It’s Mickey Peters. The boy who dented my car bonnet with a cricket ball. I pounce like a cougar.

“Peters!” I yell and his rigor mortis response gives me a delicious trickle of thrill. “Another word and it’ll be detention and Mr. Rogerson’s office. If I hear another curse, I’ll be mentioning Matt Riley’s mother. Then you’ll have Knuckles Riley at your door and he’s only weeks out of detention center.”

They pout at me but I’m already high-fiving myself from atop my high horse.

“If I knew about the school’s latest staff member, do you think I’d tell a car smasher? Disperse now.”

I’m only through the door when Jack Carson, school janitor, corners me breathlessly. Creosote Carson, as he’s affectionately nicknamed, is out of puff.

“Are you still seeing the doctor about your emphysema, Jack? If not, you need to go and get checked out.”

Jack stops me with a hand. “Izzy, love, we’re getting a new teacher.”

I’m more worried about his dicky ticker and the wheeze like my nana’s busted accordion than school staffing. “I know. Apparently he’s a premier league footballer. As if.” I roll eyes.

Jack stares with squished-up eyebrows. “How in feck’s name did you know that, girl?”

Jack has fingered more gossip pies than Betty Crocker—he’s a loveable Columbo with a wood preserver and chutney-stained coat. I hate to see him thus disappointed.

“Heard it from the future prison inmate reserves in the car park.”

“Then you’ll already know the worst.”

“I know the bare minimum, Jack. It’s best with Viagra Rogerson in charge.”

Jack’s jowls wobble at me. “The new sports head—he only used to play for feckin’ Spurs, Izzy. Sacrilege! And us Gunners lifers—a viper in our midst.”

I take this as my cue—Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen,
could play this no better. I throw down my bags and breathe deeply, closing my eyes. Then I stare at Jack with the iced fire of Boadicea.

“Oh fuck. Bollocks. Crap. Piss. No!”

In the religion that is Arsenal Football Club, at the cathedral that is the Emirates, I am bishop in training to Carson’s cardinal of fan worship.

Being a loyal season ticket holder for two decades solid does not come without fortitude and sacrifice. Nor does it allow for a high-caliber Tottenham Hotspur ex-striker to come waltzing into our school staffroom without comment.

We’re reeling—and I don’t mean doing
Riverdance
—as we head past phys ed toward the English corridor.

“Who is it?”

“You don’t wanna know, girl.”

“I do. You can’t not tell me.” Much as I’m dreading the answer, there’s no avoiding it.

“Brilliant finisher—two hundred and five goals in two hundred and fifty games. He joined Spurs juniors in 1994…”

“Naff off, Carson! Don’t play
Question of Sport
with me at eight-forty-two on a Monday morning or I’m liable to kick you hard. My shoes are killing me, I set fire to the toaster this morning and my key broke in the back door again. Spit it out in the name of Arsene Wenger.”

He pouts but his stare goes soul deep, so intense I see the name before he speaks.

“Darby. Will bloody Darby!” we say in unison.

I take a step backward to hold on to the wall for support and my ankles feel wobbly. Which reminds me, never buy wedge heels from Debenhams, even in a blue cross sale. Bunions on BOGOF.

“That’s bad. He was good,” I whisper.

“I know. Better than good.”

“Head of PE?”

“It’s a maverick move.” Carson offers me a stick of gum, but I decline. He pops one in his mouth and I’m hit by a minty waft of school days memories. And the recollections aren’t as welcome as I’d wish them to be. I shiver.

“When does he start?”

“Not sure—the copies of his contract are faint but I’ll check again. I ’av my magnifying glass soaking in Sparkle now.”

“Matt Riley’s mother needs dealing with,” I mutter and kick the loose skirting board where I’m standing. The shoes now have a split seam.