Illicit: A Novel

by Ava Harrison

  “Hello, Ms. Stuart.”

  “Oh no, Carson. Call me Lauren, like I told you yesterday.” Her arm touches mine. Her fingers are rubbing too close, and I feel my back straightening. I don’t like people invading my space; it puts me on edge. Strangely, I didn’t feel that way with Lynn the first night we met. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe the beach or the stars calming me, but I can’t remember anyone ever making me feel so at ease that easily. I take a step back.

  “I’ll remember for next time.” Not that there will be a next time. I’m not the type to initiate small talk. In fact, I’m usually the one to end it. I move to walk out the door.

  “Oh, are you leaving?”

  “I was going to head back to my class and go over notes—”

  “Please stay, I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to you, and I would love to get to know you better.”

  Shit. “Rain check? I need to be getting back,” I say, and she pouts at my words.

  “Fine, but you owe me.” There is a glint in her eyes and a small smirk lines her cheek.

  No hiding what she means.

  With a few minutes to kill before my next class, I find myself searching out someplace to be alone. Any place that’s quiet enough to think and decompress. Air. Could definitely use some air. With quick steps, I head toward the door leading out of the building. When I’m about to turn the corner, the sound of approaching footsteps has me halting my own steps, but as the chattering noise grows closer, I hear a voice that has my muscles tensing. It’s Lynn and a few other voices I can’t place.

  Impatiently, I wait for them to pass. Everything inside me feels so rigid, I might snap in half. Time stands still as I wait for her to come in focus, and once she does, a heaviness grows and spreads through my chest. But I can’t pull my gaze away. Instead, I watch as one foot steps in front of the other and it leaves me wondering, Will she look at me? An odd sense of disappointment weaves its way through me when she purposely looks down to the ground, so as not to catch my eyes. But that movement is her undoing, because just as she attempts to look anywhere but at me is the exact moment she missteps and her body rushes forward, about to hit the linoleum. Time seems to slow as I instinctively reach out to catch her, then pull her toward me and hold her in my arms.

  Her chest rises and falls with each inhale of air. My own quickens.

  “Damn, Mr. Blake. Look at you acting like a superhero,” her blonde friend laughs. “Will you catch me if I fall?”

  The other girl with them—a short brunette—lets out her own giggle, but my eyes are still locked on Lynn, who’s safely enclosed in my arms. Her cheeks pale and then she blushes.

  “Are you okay?” I grit out, hating how good she feels, how natural it is to hold her and hating myself even more for thinking this way.

  “Yeah.” She pushes off me and stands. “I’m fine.” Then without another word, she grabs the blonde by her hand and pulls her down the hall, the brunette following closely behind. What the hell was that, and why did my treacherous body have to respond?

  Hours later and we’re finally heading out for the day. Since I held her in my arms earlier, my brain has been working on sensory overload. Like a beacon, everything inside me hums with Lynn’s proximity to me. It’s strange. Sure, we got on well enough at the beach—okay, more than well. It was fantastic, but still, this incredible need for her that courses through my body, I don’t understand it. In the two days since school started, Lynn Adams has been on my mind constantly. To be completely honest, since she left me on the beach she’s all I think about, and it isn’t just the sex.

  I shouldn’t get excited to see her in class. I shouldn’t get excited at the idea of reading her future papers to discover what’s going on beneath the surface, and I definitely shouldn’t be interested in what she thinks about me. But I am. And that’s the scary part.

  This is why I have to avoid her.

  This is why I can’t speak to her.

  It’s too difficult to keep Lynn out, and in truth I don’t want to.

  I want to talk to her.

  I want someone who listens. Lynn always listens . . . and she hears more than the words I speak.

  Her presence in my life is dangerous and this is why having her in my class, and thus having her in my group, is not a good idea.

  This is why I have to keep my resolve and shut her out.

  ONCE WE STEP INSIDE THE vast space of The Kids’ Club, we’re divided into small groups by the age of the children, and then divided off again. I’m assigned a little boy named Toby.

  From across the room, I hear the sound of the door creaking open. The scratching of the metal hinges makes my back straighten as I wait for the children to arrive. It sounds like a stampede of animals as they flood into the room. The stomping of their feet hitting the wood floor has me nervous to meet the child I will be reading to for the semester. As they get closer and sit at tables set up against the window, their footsteps stop but chatter and giggles still fills the space. And then I see him. His arm is resting on the shoulder of a little boy who’s so small and frail, it’s almost as if Mr. Blake is holding him up. As the students greet the other children, I sit back and watch. Mr. Blake’s gaze meets mine, and he nods his head at the boy, indicating to me that this is Toby. This is the little boy I have been assigned.

  Toby halts his steps, and all the oxygen leaves my body as Mr. Blake gets down on his knee to face him eye to eye. I don’t know what he says, but as I watch these two interact, a quick breath leaves my body. He’s so different here. So relaxed. He even looks different. Lighter, playful. The tension I’ve noticed in his shoulders and the dark circles are now gone.

  When Toby is finally brought to my table, my smile turns into a frown. His deep brown irises peek out from a mass of what should be gold curls, but instead they appear black as they are matted with dirt and grime, and he’s in desperate need of a haircut. When his gaze meets mine, it’s unnerving that the shadows appear to spread across his sunken cheekbones, and my heart lurches in my chest.

  “Hi, Toby, I’m Lynn. I’ll be reading you a story today. Would you like that?”

  His expression is guarded, his small features held tight. “I guess,” he mutters, and then turns his head away from me. I pull out the book and start to read, filling in the stories with my own dramatizations and adding funny voices until Toby has no choice but to smile and laugh. The sound of his giggles makes me want to cry. When we reach the end of the chapter, I see Toby fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair, his little body bouncing up and down.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” he whispers.

  “I’ll just sit here.”

  After he leaves, I head over to where Mr. Blake is standing. He looks at me, his expression a mask of stone.

  “What you do here is amazing.”

  A small twitch in his cheek tells me he’s surprised by my comment. “Thanks. It’s a great organization, and I love volunteering here.” His eyes brighten and it causes a smile to form on my own face.

  “How long do these kids come here?”

  “This location only handles kids until fifth grade.”

  “What happens after that?”

  His eyes grow somber. “There used to be another youth center, but it shut down. They just don’t have the funding to hire staff, and no one has the time to volunteer.”

  “It’s so sad. My heart breaks for Toby. I mean, you are doing something fantastic but—”

  He places his hand on my shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “I know. Trust me, Lynn, I understand.” My heart flutters at the sound of my name on his tongue. He hasn’t called me Lynn since the first day of school, when he slipped. Every surface of my skin feels warm.

  “Well, if you ever need help raising funds . . .”

  “Thank you, but first they would have to find someone to run it, so until that happens, it’s a moot point.”

  The whole thing is disheartening. “I have to go back
to Toby, but thanks for telling me.”

  “You have about twenty-five more minutes. Stop by the desk before you leave,” he says before sauntering back down the room to his desk.

  A little while later, I hear a cough from above me and realize the rest of my time has flown by. One of the other kids is standing by the table we are sitting at and appears to be waiting for Toby so they can leave. I look up at the clock and realize I have gone over the hour.

  “I’ll see you next week?” Toby asks in a small voice, and I know he’s really asking if I’ll be back.

  “Yes, Toby. I’ll be reading to you for the rest of the year.” With that, a huge smile lines his face.

  “Okay, bye. Thank you, Lynn,” he squeaks before leaving.

  I stand and stretch my arms over my head. From the corner of my eye I see Mr. Blake staring at me, and I realize we’re the only two people left in the room. He waves me over, and with slow steps I make my way to him.

  “You did great today. I’m impressed with how you handled the responsibility.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to sit?”

  “I-I really should be going.”

  “That’s fine.” He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Again, thank you.”

  The walk home is effortless. My feet carry me, with muscle memory as I think about the children’s center and Carson . . . or, well, Mr. Blake. I don’t even know what to call him anymore. Seeing him there, watching him with those children, makes this complicated man even more complex. I need to know him. I want to know him. By the time I arrive home, a huge smile lines my face, and when I open the door, it spreads further. The brownstone is quiet and clean, and I thank every star in the sky that it’s empty. My mood from earlier this week is looking up, and I don’t want my mom ruining it.

  I’d like to say Mr. Blake has gotten better in class, but alas, the little interaction we had at The Kids’ Club was short lived. It’s still the same bullshit at school. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. It’s ridiculous that he doesn’t, especially since I’ve spent every night reading the material. When he asks the next question, I raise my hand in the air frantically like a child who is dying to be picked in gym class. His gaze sweeps across all the students, locking on me briefly . . .

  And then passes right over me.

  Trying to get noticed by him is useless. It’s not that I want him to pay attention to me per se. It’s simply that I don’t want to feel dismissed, and that’s how this is starting to feel.

  By the time class ends, I’m so ready to head out of there that I don’t even wait for him to finish talking before I pop up from my chair. Luckily, the bell rings at the same time so I can’t get yelled at.

  Without a backward glance, I leave.

  One week later . . .

  Thursday: only one more day until the weekend, thank God. I’m so ready for the week to be over. I just need to get through community service today, and then tomorrow will be smooth sailing.

  When I open the door and head into the rec room, my gaze locks with his. Is he happy? Angry? There’s something different in the way he looks at me here. It’s almost as if it pains him to look at me, but not out of anger or malice. I don’t get it. In school, he barely sees me. Why is it different here? His eyes find me more often and he doesn’t turn away as abruptly. I feel this strange sensation that something is lingering in the air. It’s like the facade he shows the world melts away and it’s just him and me at the beach again. Wishful thinking. I shake it off, pulling my gaze away from his, and find Toby, waving at me from a table at the far side of the room.

  “Hey, Toby,” I say as I take a seat, and the smile he gives me is infectious.

  “You came.”

  “Of course I came. I told you I would.”

  His little face scrunches up, and his eyes go glassy. “I just . . .” he starts and then stops.

  A part of my heart lurches in my chest. “I promise you, if I say I’ll be here, I will.” I smile. “So, what story do you want to read next?”

  “The flying horse story.” He bounces eagerly in his chair. His excitement warms my heart.

  “Which one?” I flip the pages, looking for the story he’s describing.

  “You know . . .” He pulls out the picture book and flips through the pages. “This one.” He turns the page to show me and my heart stops. Perseus. I shouldn’t look, but I can’t help it. My head turns toward Mr. Blake. Everything from that night rushes back to me.

  The story.

  The stars.

  The little kisses he placed on my body, and the way his hands traced the curves of my skin, drawing out a delicious torture. And how finally, underneath the stars, underneath the myths, he made me feel . . . special.

  My cheeks feel warm as our eyes meet from across the room. His gaze is harsh, but then something flashes against his rigid features. A crack in the armor he wears. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking about. I wonder if he remembers, too. I wonder if he wishes things were different.

  As I reminisce about our tryst, he furrows his brow, his eyes growing darker. Then his gaze snaps away from mine, shutting me out and placing that last stone in the wall separating us. I feel cold and confused. What did I do? Why does he hate me?

  Turning back to Toby, I issue a huge, albeit fake, smile. I make him think I’m okay. This boy has been dealt a bad enough hand, and no way will I let him down. We read the story together, taking turns on each page. When he gets stuck I help him, and the little smiles and giggles he awards me makes the uncomfortable feeling worth it. After the hour passes and we are done he leaves, but not before throwing his arms around my shoulders and giving me a giant hug.

  Moving to stand, I resist the urge to search for Mr. Blake. It’s nearly impossible. I exhale a giant sigh and the air around me rushes through my system. I’m so happy that I don’t have to do this again for a week. As much as I can make it through the tedious forty-five minutes of his looks in school, this is too much.

  Once all the children are gone, the Cranbrook students proceed to gather their stuff together. The sound of papers rustling is followed by a cough.

  “Hey, everyone. Can I have your attention, please?”

  The room goes quiet.

  “I just wanted to say, great job today. For some of these kids, there is no consistency in their life at all. As I am sure you can tell, some of the children are finally starting to come around. They are trusting you will be back.” His gaze meets mine, and he gives me a reassuring smile. “Others are a little slower to warm up, but when they do it will be the most rewarding experience of your life. Trust me.” With one last smile, he moves back to the table he’s sitting at and gathers his own papers. As soon as all the volunteers are gone, I make my way over to him.

  He looks up at me, his eyes widening in surprise. “Lynn. I mean Miss Adams.” He assesses me with a small incline of his head. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Mr. Blake, I just wanted to tell you . . . I really like being here.”

  “Thanks. It means a lot to me that you feel that way.” From the look in his eyes, I know he means what he’s saying. A deep sigh reverberates from his lips and fills the space between us, passing through his lips with familiarity that reminds me of our time on the beach. “Do you want to sit down?” His gaze skates over to the chair sitting across from him. Even though we have spoken alone, this moment seems different.

  I nod and lower my bag to the floor and take a seat. “You mentioned that you picked this charity. It’s really special. Do you mind telling me how you got involved with it?”

  “Well, as you know I’m a Cranbrook Prep alumni, so I had to do community service hours, too. Most of the students lied about it, hence the reason we need proof now.” A smile tips at his lips, and my own mouth can’t help but spread as well.

  “Wow, really?”

  “You’d be surprised the crazy stories people make up to not have to do community service.”

&nb
sp; “Crazy, but I guess I know people like that. They’d rather party.”

  “I don’t think it’s that black and white. Many of the people here are performing a mandated service. Their heart’s not in it. They’re just looking for their “sentence” to be up, and then they go back to the way they were. Others have good intentions and then life happens. But at the end of the day, no matter what the story is, these kids deserve better. They deserve to know they can rely on us. That they have us.”

  Listening to him speak, and the passion in his voice, gives me a new respect for this man. In awe, I watch him for a beat. This is Carson. This is the man from the beach. The one who regaled me with stories and spoke with conviction. This isn’t the man at school. A new and unexpected warmth rushes through me. No. This is so much more. This is a new Carson. A Carson I want to know. I need to know.

  He stands. “I should be heading back to the school. I have papers to grade tonight.”

  “Do you mind . . . ” I swallow and he meets my gaze. There’s a spark of some indefinable emotion in the crystal blue of his eyes. He watches me with interest and I feel the need to blink to break up the pull he has over me. “Do you mind if I walk back with you? My place is right down the road,” I stammer. Instead of being met with indifference, his lips tip up into a small smile.

  Soft.

  Kind.

  Warm.

  “No, of course not,” he finally says and I let out the air in my lungs I don’t even know I’m holding.

  He pauses to let me pass, and then steps ahead to hold the door open for me. He’s so unlike all the boys who go to Prep. But that makes sense, as he’s not a boy at all.

  “Thank you,” I say as I move through the entrance of the building and out onto the street. Together we fall into step. Even though there is space separating us, he’s shortening his gait to keep us on course, and for some reason it warms me to him.

  I like this.

  He’s a different man.

  From the corner of my vision, I notice his hands are securely tucked in the pockets of his pants. Looking further up, his brow is set into a straight line as if he’s uncomfortable in the silence that has descended as we wait to across Third Avenue. He impatiently shifts his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet, and I decide to break the tension.