Layla stood in front of her open closet wearing nothing but a pair of lacy, cream-colored boy shorts with a matching lace bra. She'd bought the set on a whim and never taken the tags off of until tonight.
She glared at a row of sadly underutilized dresses and pretty blouses, not wanting to put on any of them. She was seriously considering ripping off the stupid lace bra and donning a pair of pajamas instead of something more appropriate for a night of eating greasy bar food and bitching about work with her fellow teachers.
Not that she would ever bitch to anyone except maybe her best friend Gabi anyway, and even that was rare. She didn't want people to misconstrue complaining for whining.
Layla would not do a single, damned thing to reinforce the infuriating idea everyone had that she deserved special treatment because of something that happened fifteen years ago.
She'd gotten very good at grabbing her frustrations by the neck and shoving them deep down inside where she could let them stew until she could figure out how handle them on her own terms. So there would be no bitching on her part tonight. Just a few obligatory drinks, and she was out of there.
She'd only attended one Rooster Night even though they'd been going on twice a year like clockwork in October and April since the year after she started with the district nearly a decade ago. A bunch of younger teachers, including her, had been hired within a year or two of each other due to a mass exodus-slash-retirement of a slew of septuagenarian teachers who lamented the good old days when kids had respect.
The younger teachers, not including her, had started the tradition of meeting at Maybe's only bar, The Rooster, so they could throw back a few drinks and get to know each other better. Layla had gone to the first get together, and then one a year or two ago which had resulted in awkward date and even more awkward sex with Peter, the new and considerably younger than her English teacher, but Rooster Nights weren't her thing.
And until last night, sex wasn't her thing either.
Now, that sex hadn't been awkward at all until she opened her mouth. Nope. Awkward was not the word she would use to describe it.
Primal. Toe curling. Addictive.
But not awkward.
Not during the act, anyway. The awkward part came when she opened her mouth.
Layla sighed and adjusted her bra. She felt uncomfortable in something so fancy, but she had little choice but to deal with it. Once she eliminated polka dots, hearts, and flowers, all she was left with was the fancy stuff. The stuff she never wore because she had no one to impress but herself.
She was normally more of a cotton type of gal, but as she rifled through her drawer after her shower, she'd been determined avoid polka dots or anything even remotely resembling something that would make her think of Derek's comment about playing connect the dots with his tongue. And it figured that she loved polka dotty stuff so much, most of her drawer was full of it.
She'd tried on a pair with a pattern of little hearts all over them, but it seemed like each tiny pink offender burned into her flesh, taunting her with a multitude of paths Derek's tongue could take across the newly re-awakened parts of her body. During her search for non-fantasy inducing underwear, she'd even eliminated stripes and chevrons because of their tongue-tracing qualities.
Damn her and her fondness for patterned underwear.
And damn Derek, too, for making almost her entire drawer of unmentionables unwearable. She'd go commando, but even that made her think of him. Layla wanted to forget about him and their messed up roll on the floor, not wish she could have another chance to do things differently.
To say things differently.
You'd think a guy of his status would be relieved to know a woman wasn't trying to pull an unprotected sex shenanigan, but he'd taken off like her reassurance was code for "get the fuck out of my house."
Not that she had any right to be upset. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am was kinda what she'd asked for. It's what she wanted, wasn't it?
He was probably gone by now. Game over.
They'd reached the finish line, so what else could he possibly have to do in Maybe? A little voice in her head whined that a goodbye would have been nice, but she told it to shut up.
Casual sexual encounters didn't warrant goodbyes.
And as mind-blowing as their sexual encounter had been, it would never be anything more than casual. It was best if she just accepted that now. Derek had Grammy bath toys to get back to, and she had her students. Her job. That was all she needed.
Layla pulled a denim skirt from her closet, figuring that was halfway between getting dressed up for a night out and her typical blue jeans. The skirt was too short to wear to work, but if she was going to somewhere as fancy as the Rooster, she might as well live on the edge. Plus, it was surprisingly warm for October, so thankfully she wouldn't have to bother with tights.
As she got dressed, she thought of a million reasons why she could back out of going tonight, but she didn't want anyone to think she was sitting at home having a pity party for herself. Especially not Brody. If he was even going to be there.
She was sure everyone had heard about her budget cuts by now...if she stayed home now, they'd all just think she was moping because she didn't get what she wanted. The last thing she wanted was to reinforce the false notion that she was some fragile thing that had to have everything handed to her because trauma made her special.
Most of the newer teachers weren't from Maybe so they didn't know her past as intimately as the rest, but small towns are good for making sure that not only does everyone know your business, your business stays with you forever no matter how much you want to forget it.
Plus, she'd promised Amelia she'd be there. The physics teacher--who'd started the same year she did and could have had a second career as a bikini model if she ever decided hammering the laws of motion into malleable young minds wasn't as appealing as she imagined--had just gone through a rough divorce and had begged Layla to come out, do a couple of shots, and curse every human being with a penis.
Layla was as much of a shot kinda gal as she was a fancy underwear kinda gal, but she couldn't say no to Amelia. Not since Amelia was as close to a friend as she got at work and especially not when Amelia made her cornflower blue eyes go all big and puppy dog on her when she asked Layla to come with.
Plus, cursing penises sounded great right about now.
She might even curse the whole concept of red pants on said penis-owning members of the species while she was at it. Red pants were the worst.
So were lace bras. Sure, her boobs looked great, but all that lace so close to her skin served as a constant reminder that she didn't have anyone to appreciate them. As she zipped up her skirt she had an idea.
She pulled a gray, wide-necked sweater from the back of her closet. Like the bra and underwear, it still had its tags on. She'd never worn it because of the way it slid off one shoulder when she put it on, yet that was the whole reason she bought it.
Well, was she going out, or wasn't she? Tonight was the night for off the shoulder sweaters and short skirts.
Layla pulled it over her head, but not before she removed her bra and tossed it on the bed. The sweater was loose, and her boobs were small enough. Plus she didn't want her bra strap sticking out all night. It was a win, win.
To complete the look, she threw on a few bangles and her favorite pair of sneakers. In the interest of not giving a damn, she left her hair down. Then before she could change her mind and opt for the pajamas and excuses, she headed out.
Almost everyone was at The Rooster already by the time she got there. Not every staff person came--there were some who had been with the district long enough that they were allowed to not participate, no questions asked--but most of they younger tier of teachers were there. Some of the older ones, too.
Francine Wilkins, who'd been teaching geometry at least twenty years before Layla had her in ninth grade, was crammed into a booth, throwing tossing back a beer with Stan Yargovich, the shop teacher who Layla was pretty sure came with the school when it was built in 1915.
In all, the group of about twenty monopolized the back corner of the bar, taking up the tables near the juke box--old fashioned on the outside, but purely digital on the inside--and pool table. Layla spotted Amelia right away, jumping up and down as she played the antique pinball machine, her movements as she thwacked the buttons suggesting that she'd gotten an early start on the shots.