It’s the only way I’m ever going to be able to rise from the ashes.
Chapter 17
Ford
“I want to meet you.” Absinthe’s smooth cadence purrs into the earpiece of my phone.
I’m in the office early today, trying to get things in order before Bree shows up. She told her father about our mentorship agreement and he insisted that we get started right away so she has time to decide on a major before filling out her application to Northwestern.
“I know you do.”
“So?”
“It’s not going to happen.” I exhale, rifling through some leftover paperwork the previous principal had tucked away in the bottom of a seldom-used drawer. “Not that I don’t think about it every fucking minute of every fucking hour of every fucking day.”
She sighs. “You have no idea what it does to me when you say shit like that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“I don’t even know what you look like, Kerouac, and I know with one-hundred percent certainty that I would fuck the shit out of you if you asked me to. If you named the time and the place, I’d be there with fucking bells on. Tied to my nipples.”
I laugh at the image.
“Seriously though,” she continues. “You’re such a mind fuck, and it drives me wild.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“I got fired from my job yesterday.” She changes the subject.
“Congratulations.”
“Heh.” She releases a breath into the phone. “If only I shared your sentiments.”
“You hated your job.”
“I needed my job,” she says.
“Find another. There are hundreds of restaurants in this town.”
“Yeah, but this one was a cash cow. I’ll have to work twice as hard for half as much anywhere else.”
“Then maybe you’re in the wrong profession. Did you go to college, Absinthe?” I assume the answer is yes. She speaks with intelligence and grace, and she’s the most well-read woman I’ve ever had the privilege of chatting with.
“Nope.”
“That’s surprising.” I come across another stack of papers. “Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s never too late,” I say. “What’s your dream job?”
“I just want to marry some rich guy, have a couple of his babies, and spend my days catching up on Real Housewives between spin class and Botox touch ups.”
I cock my head, my mouth pulled up at one side as I formulate a response.
“I’m fucking with you, Kerouac,” she says.
“Good. I was about to lose all respect for you.”
“I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”
I begin to offer her words of comfort when Abbott’s daughter stands at my door, dressed in a skirt much shorter than what’s appropriate and a white blouse that’s damn near transparent.
“I have to go.” I hang up on Absinthe, shoving my phone in my pocket. “Bree. Come in.”
Bree tucks a strand of hair behind one ear before placing her purse on the edge of my desk. Taking a seat, she crosses her legs, letting her panties flash—not that I’m looking, but they’re hard to miss out of my periphery when they’re neon fucking pink.
“So excited.” She claps her hands together, and I imagine she’s the girl who tries too hard to fit in. She’s the girl who doesn’t get invited to parties, doesn’t get asked to prom, but latches onto the “cool” crowd because she refuses to believe for a second that those people don’t want to be friends with her. Girls like Bree don’t take social cues like everyone else does. They see what they want to see, believe what they want to believe.
She’s completely unfit to be an administrator in this field.
Leaning forward, she tilts her non-existent cleavage in my direction. “What are we working on today?”
“Just going through some old paperwork Principal Waters left behind,” I say, avoiding eye contact with any part of her body.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“These are confidential.” I shove them aside, working on another pile. “Thought you just wanted to shadow me?”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll need to sit back and watch. That’s what shadowing is.”
“Oh?” She sits up, frowning. “I thought I’d be helping you with stuff?”
“That would be an internship.”
“Where does the mentoring come in then?” she asks.
“After you’ve completed your masters’ degree.” And hopefully I’m long gone by then.
“Oh.” Her shoulders slump, but I feel her watching me. “I like your watch.”
“Thank you. It was my grandfather’s.”
“My necklace belonged to my grandmother.” She tugs on the little pearl pendant around her neck, only the clasp snaps and the dainty chain falls between her breasts. “Ha. Whoops.”
She giggles, digging around, nearly exposing her tits in the process.
“Excuse me for a moment, Bree.” I show myself out, needing physical distance from her so she gets the hint.
I’m disinterested.
Wandering the halls for a few minutes, I pass a maintenance worker and a teacher using the computer lab. When I get back to the main office, I stop outside the door and get a drink of water. Whatever kills time.
Bernie, the custodian I met at the staff meeting a while back, passes by, pushing an empty trash can, and I ask him to step inside the office with me and wait outside my door while I deal with a student. One of the things that’s been instilled in me since the beginning of my career is that it never hurts to enlist a witness when you’re approaching a formidable situation.
Bree Abbott is, without question, a formidable situation.
Returning to my office, I stop in my tracks when I find her perched on the edge of my desk, legs crossed and her little skirt pulled to her upper thigh.
I called it.
“Principal Hawthorne.” She hops down. “I was wondering if you were coming back.”
“Does your father know you left the house like this today?” I force a breath through my nostrils, arms crossed.
Bree rolls her eyes. “Negative. He had a seven AM tee time.”
“One of the things we need to go over if you wish to continue shadowing me, Ms. Abbott, is professional dress,” I say. “As well as a professional code of conduct. Sexuality has no place in the school.”
“So, I take it you like my outfit?” She pretends to be shocked, placing her hand over her breasts before giggling. “About time you noticed.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “And it’s not like you gave me a choice.”
“All those things I wore when I babysat your nephew,” she says, “those were for you. And you didn’t even act like you cared.”
She pouts like a sullen child.
“This is highly inappropriate,” I say, jaw flexing. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Bree exhales, sauntering toward the door. “Fine. I guess I’ll just tell my father you don’t want to work with me because you’re having difficulty maintaining professional boundaries in my presence.”
Stepping outside my office, I motion for Bernie to come closer. Bree’s jaw falls when she sees him.
“Just making sure you’re hearing this entire conversation,” I say.
“Haven’t missed a single word,” he says, arms folded as he gives her a hard stare.
Her eyes turn glassy, and she glares at me, as if I’ve committed the ultimate act of betrayal, and without saying another word, she pushes past me and disappears out the door.
“Thanks.” I place my hand on his shoulder. His thick gray hair and hunched posture suggest he’s pushing closer to retirement with each school year.
“Wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last,” he says, showing himself out. Before he leaves, he stops and turns to me. “That one’s trouble. I’d keep your distance.”