by Cassie James
After the way he worked me over with his knee, I’m beyond ready for my orgasm when it hits me, stars exploding behind my eyes as I dig my nails into his back. I moan out Jake’s name as my head lulls to the side. I’m deliciously exhausted the moment my orgasm subsides, but I’m not done. I tune into all of my senses as Jake keeps working against me, keeping a steady pace as he starts to whisper sweet nothings near my ear. There’s a lazy grin on my face as he tells me that he loves me.
I startle some time later when his hand leaves the back of my thigh and reappears between my legs. I brush his hand away. He tries to put it right back but I block him.
“I’m good,” I tell him in a tight voice. The one orgasm is definitely all my body can handle at the moment. Now, all I want is the pleasure of seeing him getting himself off with me for the first time. I’m just as turned on by the idea of that as I am by anything else.
“I can definitely get you off again, though,” he says, confusion plaguing his face. My cheeks flush as I realize the only thing I can do is be honest, despite the fact that this seems like the worst possible time to do that while he’s mid-thrust inside of me.
I close my eyes so I don’t have to look into his as I rush out the words, “I’m sore from too much sex at the beach house.” He’s speed stutters for a moment, but he catches himself and settles back into a rhythm again. I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination, but it seems like he’s moving faster now as he surprises me by kissing me until my eyes open.
“Look at me, Juliet.” It’s a command, more demanding than I’m used to from him. I settle my eyes on his face and wait for the awkwardness to settle in, but it doesn’t happen. He holds my gaze as he thrusts harder into me, going for only about another minute before his face twists up from the pain of trying to go any longer. He finally gives in, his head dropping against my shoulder as the rest of him collapses over top of me. I revel in the weight of him bearing down on me. Somehow, this is my favorite part, getting to hold him after we’ve both managed to feel so damn good together.
Afterward, as we lay in bed completely satiated, my head resting on his chest, he asks me, “What are you going to do about your grandfather’s folders? Have you decided?”
It’s one of the only things I’ve thought about since the guys told me the decision was mine, which means I do actually have an answer at the ready. “I think it’s long past time I fully embrace what it means to be a Lexington. No more sitting on the sidelines. It’s time to get my hands dirty.”
Chapter Seventeen
Patrick isn’t thrilled, but he accidentally leaves his keys behind at my house the night before I decide to put a plan into action. I’m not sure it’s my brightest idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’ve got a hunch, and if I’m right it could change everything, but I’ve got to proceed delicately.
I let myself into the school building long before anyone else is showing up for the day. I come through the back door after leaving my car down the block just to be safe.
The building is eerily silent but I don’t dare let that deter me as I creep down the empty hall toward Dr. Peterson’s office. I use Patrick’s master key to let myself in, leaving the door propped open behind me so that hopefully I’ll hear if anyone comes in and starts heading this way. I’m not above hiding under the desk if it comes to that.
I don’t even bother looking anywhere else. It’s the binders I came for, the ones Peterson acted all suspicious about. I crouch down next to the shelf and pull this year’s binder into my lap. I get a weird sense of deja vu as I start to open it, as if I’m dealing with Hollis’ folders for the first time all over again. And I might as well be, based on what I find inside Peterson’s binder.
He’s got detailed notes on students. Not just notes from counseling sessions, either, I’m guessing, since half of the notes look like they were ripped straight from The Patience School gossip mill. I flip to the middle of the binder, looking through the alphabetized names for mine. It doesn’t take long to find it, his filing system is immaculate, if nothing else.
Then a paralyzing fear settles into my chest as I stare down at the notes about me. I have no idea how the hell Peterson got this information, but he’s got details about what happened with Kareem—something I’ve very pointedly never mentioned to him. He doesn’t have the details quite right, though, which also means he didn’t get this from the guys. Apparently, someone else has mentioned it. Once I get past seeing that motherfucker’s name so close to mine, I realize that this is helpful. This is proof that these aren’t just notes from meetings with students, otherwise this wouldn’t be here since I hadn’t mentioned it.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I jump, and the binder goes flying as I lose my balance and end up on my ass. I stare up at Peterson’s horrified face with my own big dose of horror. I should have had well over another hour before he showed up. Staff don’t come in until seven and it’s only six. Fuck. So much for leaving the door open.
I swallow quickly and remind myself how he’s violated my privacy. “Funny. I was here trying to figure out what the hell you’d been doing in here.”
“Language,” he chastises before my words fully hit him. His voice falters as his face pales. “I, uh, don’t know what you mean?” His words aren’t the least bit believable and he knows it. He drops the pretense and shakes his head. “It’s my research,” he confirms, gesturing toward the binders.
“You’re a journalist,” I say the words aloud for the first time. I hadn’t wanted to tell anyone else my suspicion until I knew for sure. There was no other reason he would be asking such intrusive questions in what was supposed to be a safe setting.
“No,” he answers carefully as he shuts the door firmly behind him. “I’m not a journalist.” I snort at the obvious lie but he puts his hands up. “I have however been working on a book.”
“A book? Like fiction?” I ask hopefully, sort of wishing it would be so easy to explain away as to say he was only basing characters off of his students for some young adult novel he’d dreamed up.
“No. Non-fiction.” He must think he has no choice but to tell me everything now, because he doesn’t hold anything back as he explains, “I’ve been writing an exposé type novel about the students here. It’s why I took this job in the first place. The real answer to the question you asked me when we met and you sort of accused me of having ulterior motives. The truth is I did. The corruption, the scandals, I’ve been writing about all of it. I figured it was about time wealth stopped protecting them.” It’s a sentiment I sort of understand, if only it wasn’t directed at my classmates—including many of which that I deeply care about.
I stand up, picking up the fallen binder as I do, and then I slam it down on his desk. “My friend’s brother trying to rape me. Is that going to make it into your book?”
Guilt colors his expression as he averts his eyes for a second before looking me head on again. “What happened to you, you didn’t deserve that, Juliet. No one does. But Kareem Nazar is a prime example of this town’s problem. He should have been dealt with legally, and instead he’s what? Been sent away to some men’s program meant to whip him back into shape? That hardly seems like a punishment.”
Hearing him try to justify this only makes me more mad. “He’s not at some program. He’s in jail in another city because I wasn’t the first girl he crossed a line with and that finally caught up to him. And for the record, the Nazars both personally came to apologize to me after what happened and they never tried to sweep anything under the rug. They’re good parents trying to do their best with a son that’s done something terrible. No one let Kareem off the hook.”
Good parents. That’s the real thing separating people here. Parenting.
I let out a frustrated breath. “You’re looking in the wrong direction. You’re looking down instead of up.” I shake my head at him, struggling to wrap my mind around his fucked up plans. “Why wouldn’t you go for the worst of them? The parents and the grandp
arents. They’re the ones that have perpetuated all of this bullshit. This problem you’re describing? It comes from them, not from us.”
He winces at my cursing but doesn’t correct me this time. We’re way past that right now. “It’s the path of least resistance, Juliet. Have you ever been to a carnival?” I give the most unenthusiastic nod of my life. “They have those games were you try to knock down the milk jugs, you know the ones I’m talking about.” I nod again, even though it feels unnecessary at this point. “You always aim for the base, because the chances of knocking all of them over if you hit higher up is just too slim. If you hit the base though, then you stand a chance of sending the whole pyramid tumbling.” I’m sure he thought this explanation would help, but it only sours my stomach even more.
“Those games are rigged. Just like this one that you’re playing. You call teenagers in here and try to exploit the worst parts of them. Like you did with Sadie’s drinking. Like you’ve tried to do with me and my relationships.” I know he’s not unfazed by everything I’m saying. Another flash of guilt darkens his eyes for a moment before he glances away.
“I wouldn’t exactly consider your classmates innocents in all of this,” he says, but his expression falters. “They certainly did a number on you when you first arrived, didn’t they?”
I laugh. A loud, barking laugh that fills the small office. “You should know as well as anyone that the kids here, most of them were raised by monsters. How could you expect them to have turned out any other way when you look at the family histories? You’re going to destroy people who never really had a chance to be better.”
“I think you’re wearing rose-colored glasses. I’m sure stumbling upon a well-padded bank account helped with that.” There’s derision in his voice even in spite of the fact that I’ve just called him out for doing something much shittier than anything I’ve ever done—he’s taking advantage of teenagers. At the moment, he’s no better than the creepy men at The Patience Club picking up their friend’s daughters, as far as I’m concerned. Which means he’s really got no right to sit up on his high horse judging the rest of us.
I hold back all the snide comments I’d like to make in favor of staying pragmatic. I’ve got a purpose here, a much bigger purpose than insulting this asshole with an obvious chip on his shoulder.
“You got the Kareem thing wrong, Peterson. How many other things do you think you’ve gotten wrong by trusting secondhand information with no proof or confirmation?” He flinches as hard as if my accusation was physically striking him.
He hangs his head as he sinks his hands down in his pockets. “I didn’t expect for things to go this far. I thought it’d be easier to get teenagers to talk, but I underestimated how tight-knit everyone would actually be. I guess I also overestimated my ability to fit in here.” He lets out a defeated sigh. “Before you tell Headmaster Dupont, can you please give me a chance to—”
“Oh, I’m not telling the headmaster anything,” I interrupt. “You’ll have to, eventually—but not today.”
“You’re not telling him?” He repeats the words like he can’t seem to make sense of them.
“Before you go getting your hopes up, I’m not letting this shit continue, either, though. You’re right, the people here, we protect our own. There are people you could seriously hurt with what you’re doing, and I don’t agree that all of them deserve it.” He starts to speak, but I put a hand up and cut him off again. “I’m going to help you get a story worth telling, the hidden parts of Patience that actually deserve to be exposed.”
“What’s the catch?” He frowns.
“I’m going to help you take the literary world by storm,” I tell him as I take a seat behind his desk, making myself comfortable since I have a feeling I’m going to be sticking around for a bit. “But we’re going to play by my rules.”
Chapter Eighteen
That night, my mind still buzzing with everything Dr. Peterson and I discussed, Jake and I settle into Hollis’ office surrounded by his boxes. “What are we looking for again?” Jake asks. He flips open a thin folder that’s only got a solitary receipt inside and tosses it aside.
“Any instances where the person showed complete disregard for someone else. If there’s any rational reason for why they did what they did, put those aside. We want the sinners, the people that pretend they’re saints when secretly they’re anything but.” He nods along with my description. He’s got no pre-conceived notions about any of these people, which makes him the perfect person to help me.
Loud knocking from the front door disrupts us before we’ve really gotten started. I let out a groan of frustration and Jake glances over at me. “Do you want me to get it?”
“No, I’ll grab it. I’ll be right back.”
The knocking stops before I reach the door. I’m hoping that means whoever it is has moved along so this doesn’t become a serious distraction from all the work Jake and I have to do, but I’m not so lucky. I open the door to a man in a suit. He’s facing away, but he turns to me when he hears the door open.
“Mr. Harrington?” I stare dumbstruck at him as he stands casually with both hands deep in his pockets. I would have been less surprised if Santa Claus had been the one standing on the other side.
He takes a hand out of his pocket to pick up a briefcase by his feet. He looks like he’s just come from work, which makes this all the more bizarre. “I’m sorry to come over unannounced, but I think there’s something we should discuss.”
My nerves skyrocket. Mr. Harrington’s been nothing but helpful to me when it comes to handling Pearl’s affairs—and everything that happened after Kathryn’s death—but I don’t know how much I trust him. Especially after what I’ve discovered recently. I can only assume he knows about Hollis’ information keeping, and that means I have to keep my guard up as he looks at me expectantly and lowers his voice.
“Funny thing, Miss Lexington. Some papers managed to make it to my mailbox at work. Papers with some very sensitive information. The kind of thing I would only expect one person to have had hold of, except she’s unfortunately no longer here, and you’re the only one left in her place.” He studies me, looking for some kind of reaction so I do my best to give him nothing.
He reaches into his briefcase and for one long moment I have this sudden fear that he’s going to shoot me. That I’m not going to be around to see the rest of this through. I don’t release the breath I’m holding until well past the point I should have realized it’s a book he’s holding out to me. An achingly familiar book. I reluctantly take it from his hands.
“Yeah, I had a feeling you’d recognize that.”
He steps past me into the house without an invitation. I’m close to demanding he leave when I realize he’s walking over to the painting on the wall. He reaches for it before I can even protest, flipping it over in his hands as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for, and I guess he does since he doesn’t look the least bit surprised to find the picture there.
“My father used to bitch up one way and down the other about the fact that Hollis held onto this picture, leaving it so close to being in plain sight. I can only imagine that you know now…” He trails off, waiting to see if I’ll fill in the blank.
“Tell me what you know and I’ll tell you if I know,” I challenge him with a raised eyebrow.
He chuckles. “I knew I liked you.” He hangs the painting back in its place, leaving the picture tucked safely on the back side. “Even if you have gotten my son hooked into the strangest relationship I’ve seen in a long time. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. I remember Pearl when she was younger. She had quite the fan club of her own. And Hollis, well… Hollis had my dad.”
He offers a tight grin as he waits for me to respond. I don’t pretend to seem surprised by his words, since I can tell he already knows that I know, whether I admit to it now or not.
“You’ve given me quite the gift by handing over my wife’s messages. Particularly because you sent them d
irectly to me, which means she’s got no idea I have them. You could have gone public with these.” I would never have done that to Ace. “If you’d done that, I would have been stuck struggling to divorce her without losing much of what my family has worked so hard for over the generations. Now, though, I’ve got just enough to prove she broke our pre-nuptial agreement, all thanks to you.”
“It was the right thing to do,” I say simply, uncomfortable under his strange praise.
“All the same, I think it’s only right that I return the favor.” He reaches out and taps the book I’m still holding in my hands. “Open the cover, there.”
I do as he asks, only to find the same inscription that’s in all the other books. “I’ve seen this already,” I tell Mr. Harrington, trying to hand the book back.
“Well, you’re even more ahead of the curve than I thought, then. But I know for a fact that you don’t know what this book means, because otherwise I would have been seeing your face around a lot more often.” I’m not sure what the hell he means by that, considering he’s the one that never seems to stick around home long. Though, I guess with a wife like Celia I can understand why. Not that it’s been fair to Sadie and Smith to leave the two of them to put up with her.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I answer candidly. Already, he’s told me more than most adults in Patience ever bother to—I loved Pearl, but even she wasn’t this open with me most of the time. I’m not sure if it’s because he finally feels bad about what’s been happening in this fucked up town—although I strongly doubt that he does—or if he’s just tired of dealing with all the shit. Or if he’s just grateful he doesn’t have to deal with his crazy wife’s shit anymore. One thing’s for sure, though, he definitely knows more than I do, and Grant Harrington isn’t pulling any punches right now.
