by Geneva Lee
We return to our earlier arrangement, and Adair begins asking harder questions. Suddenly I know things I’m not sure how I know. I’m unclear on the rules of this little game, and my responses are an equal mix of right and wrong. Eventually, after a correct answer, and in my best earnest student voice I ask, “Do I get any say in what you take off?”
“Hmm.” She taps her finger pensively on her chin. “I’ll allow it.”
“Let’s see how hard those pants are to remove. Call it scholarly interest.”
She meets my gaze evenly. “They are so hard to remove it will take three questions, I think. Otherwise, the reward system might get out of whack. So one down.”
“And the bra?”
“Two. One for each little clasp.”
“You’re killing me,” I grouse. “Let’s start with pants.”
“Aren’t we ambitious?” She grins. “It looks like the next few notes are pretty complex.”
“Ask me.”
She rises slowly from her chair, slides a thumb under the waist of her pants and begins to fumble with the button. With her other arm, she holds the notebook and looks for another question. When the button finally gives way, I have to stifle a low moan. A tiny red flower is embroidered on the top of her panties, the only thing visible past the slit of black leather.
She asks a question about game theory as it relates to microeconomics, and I surprise even myself with the correct answer. She pauses a moment, and it occurs to me for the first time that this might be getting uncomfortable for her.
“You don’t have to if—”
“Hush. Close your eyes.”
“I thought the point was that I got to watch.”
“There’s nothing graceful about this, I promise,” she says. “Now, close your eyes.”
“Right.” I acknowledge. “How do I do that? I can’t seem to remember.”
She laughs softly, leans forward, and brushes her hand softly down my face. I close my eyes, which immediately heightens my other senses. Her perfume wafts across me, a faint floral aroma that gives me dark thoughts. I hear her zipper take five long seconds to come undone, hear the faint whish of fabric sliding over fabric. A floorboard creaks. I hear her settling into the chair.
“Open your eyes.”
I do, and well before she finishes her first word.
There’s teasing, and then there’s torture. This is the latter. She sits sidelong in the chair, one leather-clad leg arranged nearest me. One glorious naked leg is folded up in front of her, and her arms reach around either side of it to hold the notebook.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can stand this,” I say with perfect honesty.
“Nearly there. Focus. Utility is used to measure a consumer’s optimal rate of what?”
“Consumption. Easy.” I try not to sound smug.
“Maybe it shouldn’t count, then?”
Fuck. No. No. No.
“It’ll definitely be on the test,” I argue.
“Eyes. Closed.”
I oblige with a grin.
I hear the squeak of the plastic office chair, the even, smooth sound of her other leg coming out, followed by total silence. I’m on the verge of insanity when I feel two palms on my shoulders. I inhale deeply, taking in her scent. Then I’m shoved onto my back as she straddles me.
I feel like an attack dog let off its leash. My eyes snap open. I grab either side of her jaw in my hands and see her soft, glossy lips part in anticipation. I bolt upright and she responds by wrapping her legs around my torso. The bulge in my jeans grinds against the fabric of her panties and she whimpers.
“Teachers aren’t really supposed to do this kind of thing with students,” she says, eyes closed, cheeks stained crimson on alabaster white.
“I think I’m going to ace that final. Maybe we can skip the chastity clause?”
“I think that would undermine the reward system,” she pants, but presses her body closer. “Don’t you want to focus?”
I answer by pushing her hips against mine, our bodies slowly grinding as our hands explore. There are a lot of things I want to focus on.
“Sterling.” The call is soft, barely audible over the blood pounding in my ears.
“Yeah, Lucky?” I respond, my teeth nibbling her ear. Adair tenses. I pull away. “Did I do something wrong?”
“I didn’t say anything,” she whispers. “I think there’s someone at your door.”
“Sterling!” This time there’s no mistaking it. Someone’s calling from outside the door which is, thankfully, locked.
“Francie!” I hiss quietly. We’ve been studying for longer than I thought. “Get dressed, quick.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re the one who wanted me to take off the pants!” Adair picks them up and dashes for the bathroom door. “Shit! It’s locked!”
“Sterling, are you there?” Francie calls on the other side of the door.
Adair is on the bed, desperately trying to pull on her leather pants, her legs stuck straight up, like she even needs gravity to help with the process.
I tiptoe to the door, retrieve her top, and throw it at her. That’s when I hear Cyrus. Cyrus, who is supposed to be on his way to the Bahamas or the Virgin Islands or somewhere I’ll never be able to afford to visit.
“Francie? I’m Cyrus.” he says. “Sterling told me you were coming.”
“I didn’t think I would get to meet you.” I can hear her hug him, the smoosh is audible.
Yes, keep up the small talk, I pray.
“I need to hit the road soon, but I forgot my phone charger.”
Keys jangle. Come on, Cyrus. Figure it out.
The key goes in the lock. The sock is universal, shithead.
The door opens inward, and I am greeted by my foster mother and my soon-to-be ex-roommate. I’m going to kill him, or maybe roast him alive. My own Thanksgiving turkey. I slide over to block their view of the bed and try to seem like I was hurrying to the door. Cyrus brushes past me, a shit-eating grin sparking on his face as he catches sight of Adair standing up from the bed, her top on inside out.
“Well,” Cyrus says flatly. “I guess that explains the sock.” He tosses it to her.
“Francie, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time,” I say. Adair appears at my side, somehow already more composed than me. “This is Adair. Adair MacLaine. My, um, friend.”
Adair’s eyes dart in my direction at the sudden demotion, then smiles warmly at Francie. “Pleased to meet you.”
Come on, Francie. Be cool.
“I’m pleased to meet you, too.” Francie gives me a small, inscrutable frown before returning to Adair. “I wish I could say Sterling has mentioned you, but Sterling hasn’t told me much of anything since he began school.”
“He’s a bit of a mystery sometimes,” Adair says knowingly.
“Well, she’s got your number.” Francie laughs.
I can always tell how Francie feels about a person. If she dislikes someone, her face gets pinched and her tone snappy. But she sounds like she’s reconnecting with an old friend as she says, “I’ve had years to get used to it, hon.” She grabs Adair and hugs her like a mama bear claiming a lost cub.
Adair looks a little ruffled by the affection, and I remember she doesn’t like hugs.
“Will you be joining us for Thanksgiving?” Francie asks her.
“Oh, um, I’m supposed to have dinner with my family.” She spares a glance at me. “I’d invite you to our house, but, honestly, I think this year will be a little rough.”
“That’s okay,” Cyrus steps in, saving the day. “The Eaton always delivers a meal to its guests.”
“The what-now?” Francie asks. “I figured we’d hit the grocery store and cook in the community kitchen. The dorm brochure said there was one on the ground floor.”
“There is?” Cyrus shrugs. It’s not like he’s ever bothered to check the Valmont dorm amenities. Why would he, when he has a five-star hotel at his disposal?
“Surely Sterl
ing has cooked for you.” Francie clucks at me when she sees their vacant expressions. She pins her eyes on Adair. “Not even you?”
“No, ma’am.” Adair bites back a smile.
“I raised him better than that. No wonder you look so skinny,” she says, skimming my form. “You can’t live off dorm food.”
“Are you from the South?” Cyrus asks. “Because I feel like you will fit in here.”
“I’m from Queens,” Francie says as if that settles the matter.
Cyrus checks his watch. “I have to get going. You have the keys?”
I nod, carefully avoiding Adair’s eyes. I’d mentioned my arrangement with Cyrus casually, but I don’t want to linger on it. Adair MacLaine has never had to borrow a friend’s place to house her family. Because her house is the size of a castle and features multiple guesthouses on property?
“I should go, too.” Adair pops onto her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“Will I see you again?” Francie asks her.
“Um, that’s up to Sterling.”
Two sets of demanding eyes land on me. Nothing like being put on the spot.
“If you can get away from your family,” I say. The thought of spending the whole week without Adair sucks, even though I’m genuinely looking forward to showing Francie around. But I’m not certain Adair will enjoy being dragged to every free exhibit in Nashville, or eating whatever we can concoct in the hotel suite’s kitchenette. Not when she’s used to country clubs and multi-course dining.
“God, I hope I can,” Adair mutters. Our eyes meet, and I remember that for every way we’re different, there are a bunch more that we’re exactly alike.
“I’m going to walk Adair to her car.” I look to Francie for permission, and she beams with pride.
“I wouldn’t expect less. I’ll just be here,” she says.
I grab Adair’s hand and lead her into the hall.
“Your m… she seems nice,” Adair says breathlessly as I rush her out of the dormitory. “Sorry, I don’t know what to call her.”
“Just stick with Francie,” I advise her. “I struggled with what to call her when I first got placed with her. The other foster families I’d been stuck with before had insisted on titles and surnames. All that formality went out the door the second I stepped into Francie’s house. That didn’t mean she wasn’t tough, though. She was easily the strictest foster parent I ever had.”
“She straightened you out, huh?” We step out of the building into the crisp, breezy Tennessee twilight. Adair’s favorite car, a Jaguar Roadster, is parked dangerously close to the no-parking zone. I doubt anyone would have the guts to tow a car belonging to a MacLaine.
I walk her to it and open the driver side door for her.
“What a gentleman,” Adair murmurs.
“Don’t let that fool you,” I warn her, angling my mouth over hers. “I’m thinking very dirty things about you. I might need a second study session.”
“That can be arranged.”
I nip her lower lip. “We should be careful or I’m going to wind up pinning you to the hood of this car.”
“Campus is deserted.”
I groan at the invitation in her voice. “Seriously?”
She laughs, shaking her head and loosening her makeshift bun. “There’s no way you could get these pants off, remember?”
“I am willing to try.” I hook my index finger in her waistband and tug her closer. I kiss her slowly, savoring one final taste of her.
“I’m going to miss you,” she confesses. “I think I’d rather do Thanksgiving at the Eaton than my house, but Daddy would throw a fit.”
“I’m a phone call away,” I promise.
“Will you call me?” she asks. “I’d like to hang out with you and Francie, but I don’t want to intrude.”
“Sure,” I say swiftly, but I don’t know if I’m telling the truth.
She slides into her car and blows me a kiss. I watch as she drives off, feeling like my own heartbeat grows fainter the farther aways she gets.
“Cyrus took off. He told me to tell you that his car is parked in the lot behind Tucker,” Francie says after the walk back to my room. “You were gone a while.”
“Hmmm?” I shake my head. “I mean, what?”
“You have it bad for that girl.” Francie laughs and pins me in a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“It’s kinda off again, on again,” I admit.
“I want to know everything,” Francie demands. “But first, what is this about not staying here?”
“Cyrus thought you might be more comfortable if we stayed at his family’s place. They own a hotel in Nashville, but they’re going to be out of town.” I fill her in on the details as we make our way to the parking lot.
Francie packed light. She has to, in order to avoid baggage fees. My stuff fits easily in one duffel bag. There’s only one car left in the lot. Francie stops when we reach the edge of the sidewalk.
“Wait, your friend is letting you drive that?” She stares at the BMW.
“Yeah, he loaned it to me a couple of times.”
Francie raises her eyebrow so far it disappears behind the coil of her bangs. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Usually, I am the designated driver,” I explain, “and I drove Adair to the hospital in it once.”
“I think you better start catching me up.” Francie pauses at the passenger door even after I open it for her.
“It’s okay, really,” I tell her. “Cyrus is an okay guy.”
“He must be.” But she doesn’t sound convinced.
I fill her in on the night I met Adair, leaving out the nastier fights we’d had along the way. Francie isn’t the type to take sides, but I want her to like Adair. More importantly, I’d rather she not know about some of the bad choices I’ve made since coming to Valmont.
“That poor girl,” Francie says quietly when we pull into the circular drive of the Eaton. “Her first Thanksgiving without her mama. You make sure you check in with her.”
“I will.”
A parking valet opens her door. “Welcome to the Eaton, ma’am.”
I follow Cyrus’s instructions, handing off the keys and giving his name. Inside, I head straight for a bank of elevators with golden doors. Even though this was Cy’s idea, I still feel out of place. I want to get up to the room and out of the opulent entrance with its gleaming marble floors and domed, stained glass ceiling. When I reach the elevators, I turn to find Francie standing in the lobby, staring around her.
“Francie,” I hiss as the elevator in front of me dings.
She hurries over. A few others board with us. The suite is on the sixth floor, the very top level of the hotel. Everyone else gets off on other floors. When we reach the suites, I see why. There are only four, apparently numbered randomly between 600 and 614. In small letters under each number is the word ‘penthouse.’ The first one we reach, number 614, is also marked as a private residence.
“It’s the one at the other end. Number 600,” I tell Francie, shouldering our bags.
“People live here?” she says.
“Guess so.” I might have thought that was far-fetched until I met the Valmont elite. Now, nothing surprises me about this town.
“This wasn’t what I was expecting when you said your friend’s family owned a hotel. I thought it would be like that place we stopped outside Roanoke. The one with the mini-fridge and the broken ice machine.” She falls silent when I open the door to the suite.
It’s easily twice the size of our place in Queens, and a far cry from the Drive Rite Inn we stayed at in Virginia.
No expense was spared for the Eaton’s private suite at their hotel. Plum velvet sofas with turned arms face each other, perfectly spaced around a large stone hearth. A chandelier drips crystal above us, its light sparkling around the richly papered walls. Cyrus mentioned a kitchenette, and it turns out to be larger than our room and appointed with luxury a
ppliances, including a refrigerator with French doors. An oak table that seats twelve stretches between it and the living room, with each place already set for a dinner party. I spot a note on the counter.
Make yourselves at home. Order what you want. Don’t worry about the bill. It’s on the house.
Francie wanders throughout, pausing before continuing down a hall. There are two bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom. I drop Francie’s bag in the biggest one and turn to her with a grin. It fades as soon as I see her face.
“I don’t know about this,” she says. “This is an expensive place, Sterling.”
“I guess I have friends in high places now.” The joke falls flat.
“That girl? Adair? She has money like this?”
“More, I think,” I admit. I drop onto the bed, knowing there’s more we need to talk about.
“Why didn’t you tell me she’s rich?”
“Does it matter?”
“If you have to ask, it does,” she says. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Resentment bubbles inside me. Francie was the one that pushed me toward the private, affluent university. Who did she expect my classmates to be? I fight the urge to boil over. She’s voicing the exact same concerns I had when I first met Adair and her friends.
“Adair’s different,” I promise her.
Francie studies me before forcing a smile. “I hope you’re right.”
15
Adair
Present Day
“This will be your desk.”
I trail my finger across the top of the cheap office chair. It’s not much. A desk shoved into the corner of the room with a beat-up filing cabinet next to it.
The offices at Bluebird Press are a half-story underground. The vibe is exactly the opposite of most offices I’ve been in. Instead of a fluorescent-lighted, taupe-cubicle hell-scape, Bluebird shows signs of actual life. Along the two exterior walls, high windows give the cramped space a surprising amount of natural light. Piles of books and loosely bound, coffee-stained manuscripts gather on well-worn wooden desks. The air is slightly stuffy, except when I walk through a stream of air blown down by the ancient, belt-driven ceiling fan system. The stale, wet-cardboard smell of cheap coffee wafts through the room, but it’s unclear if this is from an actual coffee machine, or if the aroma has simply always been here.