Taken by the Mafia King

Sera

Jim Harrison. Tall, blond hair, big baby blue eyes. And dimples that showed off every time he flashed his dashing white smile. Everything about him screamed American Dream—broad shoulders and a finely defined jaw, well-fitting Levi jeans, and the kind of face that made me envision a life where we got married, bought a condo in Jersey, and adopted a Golden Retriever named Buddy. Jim would train him to heel, sit, and stay. I’d let him sleep at the foot of the bed. We’d argue about it, but Jim would eventually forfeit and lose a quarter of his half of the bed. Buddy deserved the best.

I’d been crushing on Jim on and off for the better part of a year, but so had every single other teacher in the Ardmore, Pennsylvania district. Yet, somehow, on a sunny Thursday afternoon in October, Jim walked me out to my car after our students left for the day and started flirting with me. Reality turned to sand, running between my fingers.

Finally.

“Sera?” He laughed, waving a hand in front of my face. I snapped back to the real world in an instant, totally aware of the way my cheeks burned.

“Long day,” I mumbled, flashing him a warm smile as I adjusted the heavy weight in my arms. “Did you say something?”

“I was just asking what you have planned this weekend.” He gave me another smile that showed off the extensive and expensive dental work he’d had done as a teenager. He had a million-dollar smile most actors would envy.

“Grading,” I replied, shrugging as I adjusted the numerous folders I was carrying in my arms. “I’ve been at it all week. Midterms, you know.”

Jim smiled again, that dimple making my knees go a little weak as his eyes met mine. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to empathize with the hell that was middle-school midterms. He was the beloved gym teacher, after all. While all of the teachers at Jefferson Middle School slaved away for a week straight, our fingertips stained with red ink and our eyes rimmed with dark circles, Jim threw dodgeballs at unsuspecting thirteen-year-olds and drank coffee in the teachers’ lounge.

“What about the dance?” he asked, leaning on his shiny blue Subaru.

“What dance? Oh, God. The Fall Formal?” I set my papers on the hood of my beat-up Volvo station wagon and sighed heavily, running my hand over my face. “Is that this weekend?”

“Didn’t some of your classes do the posters for the dance?”

“We might have done some editing.” I massaged the crinkles between my eyebrows. The days had been blending into the weeks lately. How it was already October, I had no idea. I’d just been getting my footing at Jefferson as the eighth grade reading teacher. There were protocols and structures my education hadn’t set me up for, not to mention temperaments and behaviors of students. The last six weeks had been dedicated to trying to bond with said students. It had been a tricky task, but I finally felt like I was finding my footing. Perhaps I’d gotten a little too cocky. After all, I was supposed to chaperone the dance.

There go my weekend plans.