Defy (Sinners of Saint 0.5)
L.J. Shen
“I would always rather be happy than dignified.”
—Charlotte Bront?, Jane Eyre
To Jaime Steinman-Jones and Kerissa Blake
Soundtrack
“Secretly” – Skunk Anansie
“R U Mine?” – Arctic Monkeys
“Under Your Spell” - Desire
“Colors” - Halsey
“Crazy In Love” - Nightcore
“Whistle for the Choir” – The Fratellis
“Halo” - Texas
“Atomic” - Blondie
Originally, the anchor symbol was not used by those on the water, but by people on land. During the early years of Christianity, Christians were under heavy persecution by the Romans. To show their religion to other practicing Christians under the watchful eye of the ruling people, they would wear anchor jewelry or even tattoo anchors on themselves. The anchor was seen as a symbol of strength as anchors hold down ships even in the stormiest of weather. It was also a popular symbol because of its close resemblance to the cross. Anchors were also used to mark safe houses for those seeking refuge from persecution.
MyNameNecklace.com
My name is Melody Greene, and I have a confession to make.
I slept with my student, a senior in high school.
Multiple times.
I had multiple orgasms.
In multiple positions.
I slept with my student and I enjoyed it.
I slept with my student, and I’d do it all over again if I could turn back time.
My name is Melody Greene, and I got kicked out of my position as a teacher and did my walk of shame à la Cersei Lannister from the principal’s office, minutes after said principal threatened to call the cops on me.
My name is Melody Greene, and I did something bad because it made me feel good.
Here is why it was totally worth it.
I SNAILED MY WAY OUT of the principal’s office toward the SoCal mid-winter clouds. Anger, humiliation, and self-loathing coated every inch of my soul, creating a film of desperation I was desperate to scratch away.
Rock. Meet. Bottom.
I’d just found out All Saints High was not going to renew my contract as a teacher next year unless I pulled my shit together and performed some magic that’d transform my students into attentive human beings. Principal Followhill said that I showed zero authority and that the literature classes I was teaching were falling behind. To add fuel to the fire, last week I’d received notice that I was getting kicked out of my apartment at the end of next month. The owner had decided to remodel and move back in.
Also, the sexting partner I’d bagged through a questionable dating site had just fired me a message saying he wouldn’t be able to make it to our first in-person date because his mom wouldn’t give him her car tonight.
He was twenty-six.
So was I.
Being picky was a luxury a woman who hadn’t seen a real-life cock in four years really didn’t have.
And, as a matter of fact, other than a few short flings, I’d never had a relationship. At all. With anyone. Ballet had always come first. Before men and before me. For a while, I’d actually thought it was enough. Until it wasn’t.
When did it all go wrong?
I could tell you when—right after I started college. Eight years ago, I got accepted to Julliard and was about to fulfill my dream to become a professional ballerina. This was what I’d worked for my whole life. My parents had taken out loans to pay my way through dancing competitions. Boyfriends were deemed an unwelcome distraction, and my only focus was joining a prestigious New York or European ballet company and becoming a prima ballerina.
Dancing was my oxygen.
When I said my goodbyes to my family and waved at them from the security point at the airport, they told me to break a leg. Three weeks into my first semester at Julliard, I literally did. Broke it in a freakish escalator accident on my way down to the subway.
It not only killed my career dreams and lifelong plan, but also sent me packing and back to SoCal. After a year of sulking, feeling sorry for myself and developing a steady relationship with my first (and last) boyfriend—a dude named Jack Daniels—my parents convinced me to pursue a career in teaching. My mom was a teacher. My dad was a teacher. My older brother was a teacher. They loved teaching.
I hated teaching.
This was my third year of teaching, and my first—and judging by my performance, only—year at All Saints High in Todos Santos, California. Principal Followhill was one of the most influential women in town. Her polished bitchery was formidable. And she absolutely despised me from the get-go. My days under her reign were numbered.
As I approached my twelve-year-old Ford Focus parked across the aisle from her Lexus and her son’s monstrous Range Rover (Yeah, she’d bought her son, a senior, a fucking luxury SUV. Why would an eighteen-year-old need a car so big? Maybe so it could accommodate his giant-ass ego?), I decided my situation couldn’t possibly get any worse.
But I was wrong.
I slid into my car and started backing up into the almost empty parking lot, slipping back toward the two pricey symbols of a small dick. At the exact same moment, Mr. Living With His Mom texted me again. The green bubble flashed with GOT THE CAR. R8DY TO SEX IT UP? accompanied with approximately three thousand question marks.
I got distracted.
I got annoyed.
I bumped straight into Principal Followhill’s son’s SUV.
Choking the steering wheel and gasping in horror, I slapped my hand over my heart to make sure it didn’t shoot out of my ribcage. Shit. Shit. Shit! The thud that filled my ears and shook my car didn’t leave any room for doubt.
I’d done to his SUV what Keanu Reeves did to the movie Dracula. I’d fucking ruined it.
My fight-or-flight adrenalin kicked in, and I briefly contemplated whether I should hit the gas, assume an alias, and flee the country to hide in a cave somewhere in the Afghan mountains.
How was I going to pay for the damage? I had a big deductible and there was that notice at home about my last insurance premium being late. Was I even covered? Principal Followhill was going to kill me.
Mustering my courage, I peeled my sorry ass off my seat. Technically speaking, Jaime’s precious black SUV wasn’t supposed to be parked in the teachers’ lot. Then again, Jaime Followhill got away with a lot of shit he wasn’t supposed to, thanks to his looks, social status, and powerful parents.
I circled around to find my cheap car’s ass that was kissing his Range Rover’s back quarter panel, leaving a dent the size of Africa.
Suffice it to say, now things couldn’t get any worse.
But I was wrong. Again.
Bending down, I squinted at the destruction, not giving a damn about the fact that my brown knee-length dress danced in the air, exposing my new lace panties. There wasn’t anyone else in the parking lot to see them, and it wasn’t as if I was going to be flaunting them in front of Mr. Living With His Mom tonight.