A/N- I know, I've started another story and I'm still knee deep in the vampire one. Don't worry, I won't leave one hanging for the other. I just needed to get this idea out there, plus, it feels like a good balance to A New Death. So, I guess will see where this goes and if there's much of a response.
No beta- if you'd like to do the honors of cleaning up where I've diddled (ooh, that sounded dirty), then please, let me know.
This is my very first AH fic. I love 'em and have been toying with this idea for a while now.
Enjoy…
Disclaimer: Not mine- all Charlaine Harris'.
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Red Letter Day
"Wait a minute… what do you mean I have to take Home Ec?" My voice turned into a growl at the last few words.
"Respectable tone, Mr. Northman." Dr. LeClerq rolled her overly made-up eyes at me. "You haven't completed all of your electives to graduate. If you do not take a course from the following choices, You. Will. Not. Graduate." Seriously, I'm not fucking stupid. I may play football, but I can read- bitch!
I glanced down at the list of classes to choose from:
-Multicultural Ed. (No-fucking-way! I do not smoke nearly enough weed to even half-way understand that class, or the teacher, Ms. Broadway)
-Home Ec. (If I couldn't nuke it, what was the point?)
-Intro to Home Finances (Hire an accountant… nuf said!)
"So, what'll it be, Mr. Northman." During my inner debate, Dr. LeClerq had been tapping her blood-red nails on her mahogany desktop. For a principal, her outfit was horribly inappropriate. Though, I'm pretty sure she shoved the twins together and leaned over a little more when I stepped into the office.
Oooh… just what I want to see. Wrinkly tits, covered in over-tanned cowhide. Nasty!
Sorry, I wasn't normally this sarcastic… well, sometimes. It was just this stupid course had me riled up. I was being forced to take a frickin' freshman course to satisfy my credit hours so I could graduate. Ridiculous!
I had a fucking 4.0 average. With honors! But, nooooo, I had to learn how to cook or balance a checkbook or, God forbid, learn an interpretive dance of an African Folk-tale.
Ok…Ass-kissing in 3…2…1, "Look's like Home Ec. it is, Ms. LeClerq." The gigantic, toothy smile, dripping with gratitude should get my point across. Plus, she hated it when we didn't call her 'Dr.'
"It's Dr. LeClerq. Good, I'll let Miss Stackhouse know you're sooo excited to join her class."
School had started three weeks ago, but I had just now found out about the elective-snafu by my guidance counselor, Mr. Burnham. He told us to call him 'Bobby', but that just had 'pedophile' written all over it.
He was useless.
So, here I waited for the start of my first class of the day- Home Ec.
Boring!
The model kitchens were filled with freshmen of all shapes and sizes. Really, they all looked clueless and annoying.
Some of the girls were giving me the googly-eye. Trying to act coy, but not quite able to pull it off.
It's not like I wasn't used to it. Six-foot-four, broad shoulders, long, blonde hair, blue eyes, starting, varsity lineman- I'm hot! But, if I fawned over every girl who looked my way- I'd lose the image.
Well, at least I wasn't the only one who got screwed over by 'Bobby'. Quinn, one of our receivers, was sitting next to me at our 'prep table' (or so it was labeled).
He seemed awfully happy to be in this class.
"Dude," Fuck! That's what he calls everyone…all the time. Well, I guess it could be worse, I could be a girl, and then my name would be 'Babe.' "Miss Stackhouse is fucking hot!"
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. Apparently, the look on my face prompted him to convince me of our Home Ec. teacher's physical attributes.
"Seriously, Dude! She's blonde, blue-eyed with a tight ass. Her tits aren't bad either. I've taken this class like three times already." The way his eyebrows jumped up and down made me wonder if all the hair on his body was trying to run away. Who goes bald in high school?
Ok, I had slight ADD tendencies and if I wasn't careful, I lost my focus in certain conversations.
Quinn may be a senior and we played football together, but that doesn't mean we're 'BFF's. At the moment, he'd be lucky if I didn't grab the silicone cheese grater and julienne him to death.
Luckily, the door to the classroom opened up just as I was reaching towards the handheld, Kitchenaid device. Fucker was saved by the bell!
This early in the morning, I found it difficult to keep my eyes open. So, they tended to focus on the floor. Which was a good thing. Her shoes caught my attention first.
No! I was not a fetish man. But, I could appreciate a nice pair of heels.
And, these were, indeed, a nice pair of heels. Baby blue, peep toes with a two-inch heel. Very sleek and shiny. The kind you just knew would feel good digging into your ass.
Ok, too early and wayyyy too long since I got laid!
Of course, the heels were connected to an amazing pair of legs. I loved nylons on a woman (it was always fun to rip open your presents) but I'd have bet money that her legs were just that tan. They were too smooth to be manmade.
My salacious perusal of the newcomer's legs was interrupted by the hem of a pale tangerine sundress. Her luscious hips slid into the dip of her waist.
As I made my way up her incredible form, my eyes passed her delicate arms and the white cardigan concealing sinfully generous breasts. Not overflowing to the point of indecency, but definitely on the Top Five of any guy's Spank Bank.
She had to be a 'butterface'. There was absolutely no way, a woman, with that body, had anything going on up top. It was like a karmic law, or something.
Fuck!
I took in her face all at once.
Definitely not a 'butterface'!
Her deep, sapphire blues were scanning the room. There was a little tug on her bottom lip that indicated she was chewing on it slightly. Her wavy, golden locks swung back and forth as she took in the room.
Damn, Gorgeous! If you're looking for a place to sit, I've got a spot just for you. Right on my lap!
I know, pig-headed, blah, blah, blah…
Just as I was about to stand and offer the new girl a place to sit, she spoke,
Her face softened into an immaculately pure smile, "Good morning, students. Thank you for being so well mannered for your substitute, Ms. Fant, for the last three weeks. My family emergency is under control now and I don't foresee any long breaks from teaching in the near future." Holy-fucking-shit! She's the teacher?!
Fuck, I was expecting a Quasimodo, Julia Child's type ogre to come in here and start harping about 'cooking with love' and shit like that.
I didn't expect to want to hump my Home Ec. teacher… at least, not for something other than extra credit.
I do have standards.
My internal head-smacking was interrupted by a lotiony-smooth hand extended into my personal space-bubble. Same tan. I wondered how far it went…?
Teacher.
Teacher.
Stop eye-fucking your teacher!
I gathered my wits about me fast enough to gently grasp her hand.
"Eric Northman, I believe?" No condescension whatsoever in her tone. Amazing, considering most of the teachers assume that I was all football and nothing else. Whatever.
"Yes, ma'am." Mama didn't raise no fool.
I swear to God her pupils just dilated slightly…that, or I was staring way too much.
"Well…uh, welcome to my class. I'm Miss Stackhouse. I hope you've come prepared to learn." The slightly startled expression that crossed her face and the light blush that colored her cheeks told me that was a bit of a Freudian slip.
Miss Stackhouse curtly nodded at my smirk and turned on her heels. I watched her worship-worthy ass swoosh side to side as she made her way to the front of the class.
Her voice was melodious as she explained the dishes we'd be creating over the next few weeks. Apparently, the class had not delved into many entrees, mainly side dishes and appetizers, since they had been under the guidance of a sub for the past three weeks.
She seemed so confident when she talked about food. Funny how just thirty minutes ago, she was blushing while talking to a nineteen-year-old student.
Unfortunately, I couldn't concentrate on a word she said. I was far too occupied willing away the wood I had for my teacher. This really didn't help when we were expected to wander about our 'kitchens' and put together a simple breakfast pie.
Luckily, no one noticed my hard-on. Nope, they were busy, being entertained by my ability to screw up every single step.
¼ tsp does not equal ¼ cup. Oops.
Baking soda is definitely not the same as baking powder.
And, apparently, milk should not turn brown while you are heating it on the stove.
How the fuck was I supposed to know?!
Quinn was giggling in the corner like the creepy little girl in that exorcism movie.
Dick!
Miss Stackhouse was patient the entire time. Never once commenting on how I looked like a paraplegic handling an egg-beater.
Not one word about the flour now covering the front of both our aprons (yes, it was required apparel).
Even without her speaking, I could tell she was getting just slightly frustrated with my ineptness. But, there's no way she was as frustrated as I was. I had a 4.0 because I was good at everything. I mean everything!
By the time the bell rang, I had balled up my blue plaid apron and tossed it towards the laundry basket. I was done. This was stupid.
!*!*!*!*!
For the next week, everyday was the same. Sure, I got to stare at an insanely beautiful woman. I just couldn't get the hang of this cooking thing.
I was also flying solo, as I had requested all individual assignments. There was an odd number of students and Quinn was a douche. If I had to hear one more comment about him "tappin' that"… I wouldn't get graphic but it involved the grater, peeler and melon-baller. Let your imagination do the rest.
Finally, by Friday, Miss Stackhouse and I had come to our wits' end. I approached her after my stuffed, French toast ended up inside out and exploded.
"Miss Stackhouse," her innocent eyes trailed up my chest to mine, "I don't know what I'm doing, but, I don't think I can do this." I shoved my right hand through my hair, raking out the ends.
"Eric," she took a moment, like she was searching for the least insulting words, "everyone can learn how to cook. It's all about finding the right motivation." The twinkle in her eyes had me intrigued as to exactly what kind of motivation she was talking about.
"Can you come in during eighth period? That's my plan time. We can work one on one." She fidgeted with her nails. Not in a 'geez, I hope that lady filled them correctly' kind of way, but more of a nervous twitch. It was cute.
"Sometimes… when we're out of our element, it can be difficult to perform… at our best. It might help to eliminate any extra audience and keep it to just you and the ingredients. Does that sound like something you can do?"
Eyebrow lifted.
Smirk in place.
Oh yeah, I could definitely use a new kind of motivation. One on one with Miss Stackhouse was exactly what I needed to pass Home Ec.
My cool, calculating nod was all the confirmation she received.
"Alright, give this," she tore a yellow slip from a pad and handed it to me, "to Mr. Burnham and he'll change your study hall to an independent study time with me." I gathered my backpack and slung it over one shoulder. My gaze lingered over the delicate flower that was carefully sanitizing the countertops. Such the picture of innocence.
She wouldn't know what hit her.
As I stepped through the doorway, her voice stopped me.
"Eric?"
I turned slightly, taken aback by the depth of blue in her eyes.
"Don't be late. I hate to be kept waiting."
Whoa! "Yes, ma'am." I nearly stuttered, practically cumming in my pants from the dominance in her voice.
This would be a very interesting independent study.
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A/N- Alright, here's the part where you tell me what you think. I have a fairly clear plan of attack on this story, but am always in search of improvement.
Thanks for reading :o)