“Mike, you can’t keep calling me like this.”

“It’s just a phone call, Mr. B,” he says in his best innocent voice.

“We’ve talked about this,” I start to reiterate.

“Come on, it's three cities over in a little underground club that no one has ever heard of before. No one will know you, I swear.”

“Mike, man. No. I can’t go out clubbing with you. There’s definitely a law against that,” I assure him over the phone.

“Dude, good thing you’re not my political science teacher because there is so definitely not a law about you going to a club. So what if I just happen to be there too?” he tries to persuade me.

“You’re killing me,” I admit.

“Aw, come on. You know that you want to check out this band. You told me you loved the demo I let you borrow,” he pouts over the line.

“Yeah, but-” I start to deliver my preplanned speech.

“But what? Come on Mr. B,” he pleads while letting my name hang in the air.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Wicked, I’ll pick you up at seven sharp.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I hold my ground, refusing to let him win me over on this.

“You won’t show! Stop being ridiculous, two cars and two separate gas bills? See you at seven. I’ll drive. What’s the address?”

“4378 Woolen Circle, apartment 2D,” I cave.

“Be ready at seven,” he instructs and hangs up the phone with those last words.

How did I go about getting myself in this mess to start with, you ask?

It being my first year at Easley, I swear I was doomed from the start, but let me explain in better detail. Mister smarty over there duel enrolls in Easley Community College and his local Henley High School back in August. He sought out from the very beginning to torture me, I do believe. Well, maybe not exactly, but he signs up for my Pervasive Writing class after having already completed AP English in the eleventh grade.

His originality and his uncanny ability to turn any subject into a heartfelt sonnet on the drop of a dime has me hopelessly swooning over him. He is easily acing my course with his gifted way of words and persuasion. The boy couldn’t fail an assignment even if he had purposely not read the material. He is too good at making up enough bullshit and backing reasons to support his bullshit that by the end of his paper you would actually believe him and his supporting reasons. Hell, he could teach the entire course of persuasive writing himself.

But what does his brilliant student abilities have to do with him calling me on Friday night, you might ask?

You see, persistence is another thing about Michael Shinoda. The persistent, rebel Mike, the ‘I am my own person and no one has control over me’ Mike. The Mike that always hangs out after class to discuss art and music even when I tell him I have to finish my work. The Mike that continues to push for a friendship outside of Easley’s classroom hours. The Mike that laughs at every dumb joke I attempt to make. The Mike that calls up and tells me that he is going to pick me up from my house in two hours. The same Mike that has, no doubt, gotten me to love his favorite band in under a week.

And it’s bad enough that I’m allowing myself to go off with him, but it is absolutely ridiculous that I am standing here in front of my bathroom mirror primping. Fixing my hair and choosing the perfect shirt. Primping for him, an eighteen year old high school senior. God, he should not have been allowed in my class to start with…

*

“Holy shit, dude!” he screams at me as I open my apartment door.

“What?” I question, feeling the heat quickly rising to my now blushing cheeks as a look down at my attire.

“Dude, You never told me you had tats!” he exclaims, reaching out to touch my arm, turning it over to examine the backside.

“Easley’s policy is to keep them covered, so it’s long sleeves for the rest of my life,” I explain, watching him take them all in.

“Damn man, they’re so hot,” he says, running his long fingers over my biceps and down my elbow.

“I know right,” I find myself beaming, completely proud of my badass teenage years.

“I can’t believe you've never showed me before! Do you have any more?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I smirk. “Next time, I’ll be sure to strip mid lecture,” I joke before my brain stops me.

“Ooh, please do because I’ll be paying close attention,” he raises his eyebrows in mock flirtation.

“Shut up, smart ass.”

“Three months and I never knew. What other things are you hiding up your sleeves, Mr. B?” he quizzes me, looking me over and smiling suggestively.

I smirk at him, shrugging my shoulders.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks while trying to peek around me and get a look into my apartment.

“You know we shouldn’t-”

“I know you didn’t get all dressed up to turn me down, so get in the car,” he demands, grabbing my wrist and pulling me abruptly forward as I struggle to close my wooden door behind me.

“A bit bossy are we?”

“You know you like it,” he teases and moves us quickly down the spiral staircase towards his jeep.

*

The ride to the hole in the wall club he is taking me to takes two hours and our conversation about Sci-Fi movies and Shakespeare comes to a halt as we pull into the packed parking lot.

He reaches across my lap, opening the glove compartment and fishing around for the tickets. He digs them out along with some stray papers while gracing me with his famous smile.

“Let's go in, Mr. B.”

Inside, the club is packed to capacity and to my surprise they allow smoking in the building. We are standing in the sea of trendy teenagers waiting for the band to come on stage as I light up a Winston. He turns around to look at me in disapproval.

“What?” I ask him, giving him my over exaggerated bulging eyes.

“Smoking is a nasty habit,” he plainly states.

“That’s why you should never start,” I tell him, drawing in another puff.

He casually takes the freshly lit cigarette from my fingertips and stomps it out on the concrete floor.

“You should quit,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I, however, find that easier said than done.”

“Try harder,” is his answer and he turns around, standing flush against me as the first band takes stage.

I swear he is going to be the death of me.

The pounding of the drums and the strumming of the bass overpowers the setup as the lead singer struggles to get the microphone working correctly.

They get the kinks worked out and soon the dance floor is moving with the heavy beat.

The band works the stage, the lead giving all he has to the crowd. They shape up to be pretty good live and I find myself jumping in sync with the crowd.

The pit grows as the night goes on, taking in Mike when his band takes stage. I keep a steady eye on him as he thrashes around, clearly enjoying himself to the max.

After a few songs, the moshers turn aggressive and Mike catches a stiff fist in the side. Then another one in the back of the head. I push my way deep into the pit, pulling him out by the wrist and pushing another victim in for replacement.

I move us to the side, away from the hungry circle and my hands encircle his waist. My fingers link tightly together so that I can keep him fixed firmly in front of me and out of harm's way.

“Thanks, you saved me,” he yells over the music, leaning back into my chest and tipping his head back into my shoulder as he tries to get a better look at me.

“You okay?” I ask, leaning down speaking closer to his ear.

“I am now,” he responds while placing his left hand on top of my own two that are linked across his stomach. He raises his right hand back up in the air, dancing against me and continues to sing aloud the chorus.

I know that I should let go of him, but I can’t bring myself to release him. My hands pull him tighter against me, feeling his abdominal muscles flex under my touch.

He carefully dances against me for the next few songs trying to make minimal contact until he boldly builds himself up to bumping his backside seductively into my crotch.

Knowing all the after class visits were leading up to this moment, I should have stopped it long before it got this far. I should of never gave him my cell number when he asked for it. I should of never gave him my screen name when he asked for it, but then again I am finding it hard to deny persistent Mike anything.

“Mike,” I call to him, gaining his attention and he looks up at me.

“You having a good time baby?” he asks me in return, clearly aware of my hardening condition and his innocent ways are nowhere to be found.

“You’re so bad,” I whisper down to him, adding some distance between us by unlocking my hands.

He turns around to face me, which takes some effort on his part in the tight crowd.

“Tell me you’re having a good time,” he orders, locking eyes with me and daring me to deny it.

“I’m having a good time.”

“I want you to have a better time,” he says trailing his hand down my chest and slipping his hand up under the black cotton material.

I can’t believe the words that are coming out of that boy’s mouth. God, I want to run my hands all over him right here in the middle of this crowded room, but I refuse to let myself lose what self-control I have remaining.

“I would have a better time…” I start, wanting to tell him just to turn around and watch the band play and to limit our body contact. I trail off as his hand distracts me, groping my lower back and sliding around dangerously close to the top button of my pants.

“If what baby?” he says, kissing the base of my neck, grazing his teeth over the skin as his hand glides across the front of my tight jeans, lightly squeezing my length.

“God,” I groan out as his teeth break the skin and his hand tries to pry into my pants.

“That better?” he teases, going back to suck at my exposed neckline, trying to leave his mark and unzipping my fly.

My God, he is trying to get me off in the middle of the show and I can’t believe how turned on I am with the thought of it.

“Mike,” I reluctantly call for him to stop, but he continues to assault my neckline.

I look around to see how much attention we are drawing and thankfully everyone seems to be minding the band.

He moves away from my neck, kissing his way up to my cheek, aiming to capture my lips and reaching in to find my hardness.

“You have to stop,” I hastily remove him from me, feeling overwhelmed with his gestures I push him back into the skinny Goth kid standing directly behind him.

“What’s wrong? I thought this was okay,” he asks me, seemingly confused at my change of actions.

“I can’t. I shouldn’t of-”

“I get it,” he cuts me off and turns around again.

“I’m sorry,” I shoot over the music, but he ignores me.

I feel his energy drain out of him. He slowly bobs his head with the beat of the last few songs in the set.

“Mike, please…” I try to get him to acknowledge me.

“Let's head for the door. It’s time to clear out of here before everyone tries to book it,” he says, finally looking up at me. “Follow me.”

He starts walking in the direction of the front door and I easily lose him in the fierce crowd. I blindly look around for his familiar form, searching for him. You would think to find someone with blue dyed hair wouldn’t be so difficult, but I can’t spot him anywhere in the dark room. I take a few more steps forward before I feel a sweaty hand snatch my wrist to the left and he forcibly pulls me behind him through the thick crowd.

Once outside the warehouse and past the club bouncers, he quickly lets go of my wrist and walks ahead of me.

“Mike, please…” I try to get him to slow down and talk to me.

“I’m fine, really. Just let it go, okay?” he snaps, unlocking the door to his jeep.

“Don’t be this way with me, please,” I beg for him to understand.

“And what way is that?” he launches back at me with hurt in his eyes.

“We can’t. Please understand that,” I whisper to him, reaching out to touch the side of his face.

“Whatever, I’m starving. You want to grab a bite to eat before we get on the road?” he asks, changing the subject and moves away from my touch.

“I could eat,” I smile hesitantly at him, hoping to salvage the night.

*

We stop at a local diner just up the road. He says he has been here before and that they have good fries.

I watch him walk ahead finding his way to the back corner of the store and sliding into the last booth that is resting up against the wall. I sit across from him, my back towards the door. The booths are small and our legs touch from the lack of space. Which is not helping me control the urge to take him home and have my way with him.

“I’m so thirsty,” he declares and picks up the laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser, giving it a quick once over before putting it back.

“A tall glass of water sounds fine to me.”

The blonde waitress strolls over with her pencil and pad, flipping up the top sheet.

“What can I get you tonight?” she asks in her fake polite voice, smacking her pink bubble gum and twirling the pencil in her curls.

“Two waters and two orders of fries,” Mike orders for us, looking at me for approval.

“Yup, that would do it,” I agree, smiling up at the waitress.

“She’s cute. Maybe you should get her number,” he challenges me when she leaves the tableside.

“She's not my type,” I firmly state, challenging him to question my type.

He takes the bait without hesitation.

“And what is your type?”

I hold his glare for the longest time, my eyes keeping stern contact before I give my reply, “My type tends to always be unavailable.”

“Sounds like you’re the one that has availability issues,” he counters.

“Mike,” I say in frustration.

“Mr. B,” he mimics, “how do you know whether she is available or not? You haven’t asked.”

“For someone that always speaks their mind, do you think we could stop talking in riddles?”

“For an English teacher you sure do need some work on-”

“On what, Mike? Because that’s right, I am an English teacher, more precisely I am your English teacher and there is no way that this could work,” I cut his argument off, feeling angry mostly at myself for allowing it to progress into this conversation in the first place.

“Fine, old man, your loss,” he defensively shoves himself back against the backrest of the booth, straightening out his baggy pants leg and accidentally brushing over my leg.

“26 is hardly old,” I argue at his lame attempt to call names.

“Apparently it’s too old for a legal 18 year old.”

“I never said it was your age,” I argue.

“You certainly can’t convince me that you’re not into guys.”

“I never said that either.”

“You’re just not into me?” he asks, seemingly nervous of my answer.

“I never said it was you. You are amazing, Mike. I enjoy spending time with you, but it is completely not a good idea to start a fling with my student. It’s unethical. ”

“So if I was out of high school you would be okay with-”

“Out of high school and out of my class, yes. I would more than be okay with seeing where this would take us, trust me,” I assure him.

The waitress comes back with our basket of fries and our respective waters.

“I’ll drop out of your class.”

“I’m not letting you drop my class, you have the highest average, Mike. You’re earning your credits for college. Your grade point average will drop too. We’re half way through the semester. Plus, you're signed up for my creative writing class next semester, are you not? I thought that was the whole idea of you doing the duel enrollment. Huh? What about you trying to get the most credits out of the way so that you'll have less to pay for in the summer? I know that school means everything to you. You can’t just give up-”

“I’m not giving up on anything. I am just trying to-”

“You’re being irrational. I should of never let this get this far. I’m sorry for leading you on, it was irresponsible.”

“Don’t back pedal now, you can’t,” he says while taking a swig of water and stuffing fries into his mouth.

“I am beginning to think you're not listening to me at all,” I say, downing my own glass.

“I’m ignoring you, yes.”

“Mike,” I try to get him to think this through, but it is like talking to a brick wall.

We sit here just wordlessly eating to the bottom of our fry basket before he breaks the silence, “You out sang the lead tonight, you know that?” he smiles at me, completely ignoring the serious conversation that I’m trying to have.

“Stop sucking up.”

“I would never,” he smiles at me, running his hand under the table and resting it on top of my knee.

“Stop trying to get in my pants too.”

“Now that’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. Why on Earth would I want to stop that?” he says, squeezing my knee cap.

“I think you should take me home.”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” he smirks.

“You know what I meant and I think I am going to wipe that smirk of your face, if you don’t let go of my knee!” I genuinely threaten him, getting angrier with his antics.

He lets go, sliding out of the booth and dropping ten dollars on the table. He remains quiet as he waits for me to get up from the table. I move to get up and as I slip out of the booth my jeans squeak against the hard plastic. We walk out the diner without exchanging any more words.

He unlocks the jeep and we get inside, starting the engine.

*

“I was out of line earlier,” he says out of the blue, breaking the hour and a half long silence.

“I didn’t help things,” I quickly share the blame, looking down at my twiddling hands.

“I don’t want to lose a friendship, if that’s all we can be. I’m sorry,” he says, looking over at me for my response. “I respect you for putting up with my forwardness and not punching my face in. I get it. I was being stupid. Please don’t hate me for it.”

“I don’t hate you, just the opposite which makes this incredibly hard.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. B.”

“Chester,“ I correct, smiling sheepishly at him. “And I’m sorry too; I was definitely sending mixed signals. I had an awesome time though. The band rocked. Thank you for taking me. I haven’t been to a good show in over a year.”

“Anytime you want to go back, I’m down and I promise not to try to rape you again,” he cautiously laughs out, offering a truce.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe,” I laugh with him.

“Good,” he gives me his wide smile.

“You almost had me, I must say,” I tell him as we pull up to my apartment complex.

“Damn, that close?” he says, dramatically defeated and banging his head on the steering wheel.

“Maybe,” I tease, giggling at his dramatics.

“I would offer to walk you to your door, but I don’t want to get slapped,” he says, hopeful. Persistent is probably a better choice of word.

“Good night, Mike,” I smile at him, opening the jeep door.

“No goodnight kiss either, huh?”

I shake my head at him in disbelief, stepping out to the ground.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Bye Chester, I had a good time regardless that you won’t put out,” he playfully teases.

“Goodnight Mike.”

“Goodnight Chester.”

I wave at him and head upstairs, forcing myself not to look back. He blows the horn as he pulls out of the parking lot which I’m sure my neighbors loved at four in the morning.

>>>>>>>>

TBC (if you think that it’s worthy)

A/N: Not Beta'd. (Scratch that, thank you, Barush for trying to fix up my mistakes, any remaining ones are mine and mine alone) and I’m sure the whole teacher/student thing has been done plenty of times before but I wanted to try my hand at it.

And I know that I need to update Flames. Thank you guys for your support. I have rewrote the next part over and I still don’t like it. This storyline came out instead. I’ll don’t want to disappoint and what I have so far I’m not really feeling…so let me work on the kinks. I PROMISE to have something for you soon. I am on a writing kick again, so hopefully I’ll turn out some type of goodness.

In the meantime, what did you think about this? I always get nervous when I post. Feedback is love, good or bad. I’ll try to improve.

-Stepha