My sleeve is still rolled down over the mark Malcolm left on my arm.
Abel holds my grout sample up to the light, and the whole class goes quiet.
Abel: This is shit. Look at the lines.
Abel: Grout is not decoration. Grout is the skeleton. Yours is crooked, wet and lazy.
My face goes hot. Somebody at the back says the trust must have paid for my seat.
Abel: Class dismissed. Not you, Kira.
Chairs scrape. Somebody mutters a word that sounds like pet.
I keep my eyes on the table until the door clicks shut.
Abel: Redo it. From nothing.
Kira: I did it right the first time.
Abel: You did it fast. That's not the same thing.
My hands won't hold still. I scrape too hard and a chip flies off.
Abel: Your hands are shaking.
Kira: You're standing over me.
Abel: Then I'll stand closer.
He steps in behind me, close enough that I feel the heat off his chest.
He smells like chalk and coffee. My ears go hot.
Abel: Breathe. You push the grout. You don't stab it.
His hand covers mine and moves it, slow, one long line.
The grout comes out perfect. The bastard.
Abel: There. That's what your hands can do.
Abel: You have the best touch in this building.
Abel: That's why this fake certificate pisses me off so much.
He says it against my ear. My thighs press together under the bench.
I turn on the stool and look up at him.
Kira: You said don't do that again.
Abel: I lied.
His mouth comes down hard on mine, and I don't push him away.
I grab his jacket and pull him in. My body sells me out again.
My hands slide under his shirt before I decide to do it.
His stomach is warm, and the muscle jumps under my palms.
Abel: Fuck. Your hands.
He walks me back until the bench edge hits my hips, and I have nowhere to go.
Abel: Keep your hands there.
His mouth finds my neck, and my head drops back.
His hand slides up under my shirt and his thumb drags along my ribs.
I grip the bench and make a sound I've never heard myself make.
Abel: Quiet. This door doesn't lock.
He presses into my thigh, and I feel exactly how hard he is.
My breath stutters. I want more, and I hate how much.
Kira: Abel.
Abel: Don't say my name like that.
Then he steps back, and his face shuts like a door.
Abel: Monday. My office. Bring the real paperwork.
Abel: And if your work needs correcting, you bring it to me. Not Malcolm. Not anyone.
Kira: Yes, sir.
The door closes. My mouth is still warm and my hands are a mess.
The grout line on the board is perfect.
The mark on my arm doesn't burn anymore. Something else does.