Bad Boy Gone Shy

H E A T H

H  E  A  T  H  -  F L A S H B A C K   T O   T H E   E N D   O F   C H A P T E R   T W O

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GIF: Peter Dinklage as Mr Bolton

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Dedicated to @fanmed 
Thank you ten thousand times for your wonderful support!!!! That one comment tucked in at the end of chapter six made my day and perhaps my entire week!! <333
Here is the chapter that you asked for :) Hope you enjoy it<3

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M  O  N  D  A  Y

A storm. 

That was what Heath had seen in her eyes. 

Sure, no part of her body exceeded the 'storm' on her head- and by that he meant the tangled nest she carelessly wore to school everyday. But her eyes...they had a different meaning.

A ring of melancholy clouds swam around her pupils, a deep, endless void holding every sorrowful, complex emotion. They held a peculiar force which clawed thirstily at him, yearning for his touch, a taste of his soul... ...

Okay. Now he was sounding like some amateur poet, desperate to sound smart by incorporating overly descriptive, cringe-worthy words.
He'd made up his mind. Heath Parker didn't want to see her again...and by her, he meant the tormentor of his psychological well-being. Jasmine fucking Winters.

Mr Bolton picked at his calloused fingers while Heath watched him absentmindedly. The room was silent, except for the monotonous ticking of the clock. "I just love silence," Mr Bolton finally said, "In fact, I've loved it more after ten years of teaching big mouthed, boisterous teenagers." He stretched a short arm towards the steaming mug of Hot chocolate which awaited him above a thick volume of 'War and Peace'. "You know what I love too? My office." He took a long sip from his cup."...And of course, hot chocolate." He held the mug to his chest and glanced from one wall to another with an expression which could only be identified as 'pride'. "I think I need to give myself a pat on the back for arranging this room...no seriously, just look at the vintage bookshelves and the wonderful collection of books tucked into their homely positions."

Ah yes, it would have been terribly curt for Heath to deny the beauty of the room, and its vintage brown walls patterned with stripes of Victorian white, and the meticulously shelved library of books that stood on either sides of him. The room reminded him of overly formal university professors from Britain, and their annoyingly posh accents.

It was certainly VERY wonderful... ... ... ...ly terrible. 

Nothing about the office made him feel at home. Instead, he felt as if he had been strained to an 'interrogation' chair- the ones you'd see in a court room. The word 'guilty' was carved onto his forehead. 

"Now, explain yourself." Mr Bolton swung his stubby legs onto the the smooth surface of his desk. The object had transformed into an intimidating judging podium and the juries pointed accusing fingers at him, straightening their spines of wires and card-boards.  

"I...um," Heath trailed off, "...It was Mr Jameson. I was-"

"-Skipping class and Mr Jameson found you in the hallways," Mr Bolton finished his sentence for him. He nodded gravely, "And?"