by Petrova, Em
“Nope. I’ll get our guy from Kerrigan Construction. He’s good, and I trust him.”
Behind them, the door jerked open, flooding the darkened auditorium briefly with light. Framed in the glow, a figure hurried toward them. The door swung shut, casting the woman into shadow again, but not before Cris recognized her. His body tightened and began humming as Sarah approached down the long aisle. Lost in the fog remaining from last night’s dream, he missed most of what Sam said.
Sam finished up as Sarah reached the stage. “I’ll get our guy in pronto.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bayfield.” Sarah acknowledged him with a nod. Her low, alto voice glided over his senses, reminding him of warm maple syrup. “Sam, what did you find out about the lights?”
“According to Cris, Custodian Barney should never be allowed to touch so much as a light bulb.” Sam’s face was grim, the overhead lights casting shadows in the hollows of his face. “We’re going to have to bring in someone to repair his repairs.”
Sarah speared her fingers through her sunny-colored hair, ruffling it out of its sleek style. She gripped the mass of it behind her head. “Damn. I was afraid of that. So now what? Any idea on the cost to fix this mess?”
Cris took in the tight seam of her mouth and could only think of ways to soften it, to convert it back to a smile. A kiss would be his first option. “A lot less than any lawsuit for negligence the school could be hit with.”
Her lips got tighter, and she cast him an under-the-brow glare. Clearly not the answer she was looking for. “Sam, surely you know someone qualified to take care of this.”
“I’m going to call the guy we use for our construction jobs. He’s state certified. I’ll try to get him here before the end of the week. We’re finishing up electrical work at our biggest job right now. He should be able to squeeze us in. Hopefully, he’ll give me an institutional discount. Soon enough, Cris?”
“Yes, but don’t turn those spots on until I can re-inspect. In fact, we should shut off the breaker supplying power, just in case. Call me when he’s done. I’ll come straight out.”
“Thanks, Cris.” Sam extended his hand. The man had a sure, comfortable grip. Sam released his hand and rubbed his own together with a maniacal grin. “I’m out. I have a pop quiz to prepare in hopes of freaking out my AP Bio students tomorrow. I’ll call when we’re ready for inspection.”
Sam trotted down the stage steps. Stopping at the bottom, he snapped his fingers, then turned. “Almost forgot. Sarah, Pippa said she’d be happy to help with the music. She’ll call you later.” With a jaunty wave, he jogged up the carpeted aisle toward the exit. Sarah moved to follow him.
Cris couldn’t let her get away. “Ms. Willis, uh...Sarah?”
She stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to face him, her delicate brows raised. “Yes?”
Shit, now he had to come up with a reason for stopping her. “Um, I was wondering how Trip was doing with his suspension. I mean...is he turning in his assignments on time?”
“The alternative classroom educator hasn’t complained. I take that as a good sign, Mr. Bayfield.”
“Cris, please. He doesn’t talk to me. Before we moved here, he’d turned into a surly, trouble-bound kid. It was part of the reason we moved. I tried to get him to open up last night, but I might as well have been speaking to a brick wall.” Trip’s face had remained blank throughout their meal last night. “He didn’t open his mouth at all except to shovel in huge bites of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
Sarah clasped her hands at her waist. “I noticed in his file this is the first new school he’s attended, Mr. Bayfield.”
Okay, she wasn’t going to make it easy on him. He’d let the Mr. pass for now. “I just don’t want him to get discouraged and start acting out. Like he did in art class.” In frustration, Cris rubbed the tattoo of Trip’s name on the underside of his bicep.
Sarah’s expression softened as he’d voiced his concern. “Moving is often hard on young adults. It isn’t easy to leave behind the security of friends he’s had probably since he started school. It may take him a while to find his niche...his place here in Granite Pointe. Have you figured out what interests him? What he likes to do with his free time?”
“He’s always drawing. His paintings are really good. Well, the ones he lets me see.” The level of his son’s talent had, in fact, blown him away. Cris had come home from work too worn out to fix a meal and had dragged Trip to Red’s Tavern for dinner. In a few quick pencil strokes on a napkin, Trip had brought to life a sketch of their waitress.
Still, he feared the similarities between Trip and his mom. Trip following in her crazy footsteps was worrisome. He pushed the troubling thought away.
Sarah gestured to the stage. “I’m sure Sam could use some help with the sets for the play. Perhaps you could steer him toward the crew as a place to get involved. It’s not really art, but it could be a way to meet like-minded, creative kids. Kids who won’t lead him toward trouble.”
Glancing over his shoulder at the partly constructed sets, he could see the opportunity. Not just for Trip, but himself as well. And picking up the boy from practices almost guaranteed Cris would have a chance to be around this compelling woman.
Fuck it. He was willing to take fate into his own hands. Drawing a deep breath to quell his nervousness, he asked, “Ms. Willis...Sarah, would you like to get a cup of coffee or a drink sometime?”
Her eyes glittered for an instant before her expression blanked. “I... Mr. Bayfield, I don’t get involved with parents on a personal level. I’m sure you understand. It simply isn’t smart.” Her voice was soft as she spoke. Was that regret he heard, or was that wishful thinking on his part?
“It’s just a cup of coffee,” he cajoled, unwilling to take no for an answer.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bayfield.” She turned to leave, but flipped him a glance over her shoulder. “If you have any additional concerns about Kit, please contact me in the office. I’ll be happy to discuss options for him.”
As she moved away from him, his gaze followed the gentle sway of her hips. Mmm-hmm, he couldn’t believe how hot he was for teacher.
Chapter Four
Stifling a yawn, Sarah drove down the darkened street toward her house. Play practice had run late because Pippa had joined them, and they’d worked on blocking the musical scenes according to her direction. Pip had been patient and giving with the kids, helping them express their emotions with song.
It had been after nine before she’d shut down the overhead lights in the auditorium and locked the stage door behind her. As the glaring lights died, she’d let the inky darkness soothe her rattled senses. She loved the kids’ energy, but craved the quiet of her home.
Traffic had been light so she made it to her quaint neighborhood in less than five minutes. Normally, she enjoyed the ride down the street, but it was dark and the trees had all lost their leaves over a week ago. Stark gray branches crisscrossed over the road, swaying in the cool wind blowing off the harbor.
She shivered as she drove. The lightweight jacket she’d grabbed on her way out the door this morning had been sufficient while the sun was up, but the weather had cooled enough that she’d have to fire up the furnace tonight.
As she swung into her drive, the headlights swept the fence separating her property from her neighbors. She slammed her foot on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt.
“What the hell?”
The plain wooden fence had come to life with colorful graffiti. Swirls of yellow outlined in black, purple slashes highlighted with bright red dots. Pink bubble letters traced in navy spelled out this is art. Discarded paint cans littered the edge of the drive. An abnormally still figure, spray paint can in hand, stood in the blinding glare of her headlights. Clad in a hooded sweatshirt, his face was hidden. Ripped jeans sagged on his backside, revealing a good three inches of his underwear.
Sarah jerked the gearshift to park, her arm quivering with ra
ge. She leapt from the car, hollering in her best hall-monitor voice. “Freeze!”
Her shout startled the kid into action. Dropping the paint can, he spun around as if to take off. Except his feet got tangled up in the puddled bottoms of his pants. He cartwheeled his arms to maintain his balance while he struggled to free his feet. As Sarah sprinted toward him, he jerked one Chuck Taylor-clad foot free. The foot came down awkwardly on the side, and the kid grunted as the ankle rolled at a sickening angle.
Sarah winced when he fell to the ground, landing on his hip with a screech. He immediately pulled his knee to his chest and cradled his shin, as though he was afraid to touch his foot. With his other hand, he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt forward to shield his face from view. A futile effort, for sure. The kid rocked in pain and was in no condition to get up from the ground without assistance.
In an instant, Sarah’s attitude flipped from incensed homeowner to concerned human. “Are you okay?” she asked as she kicked the discarded can to the side and knelt next to the kid.
“Uh-uh,” he grunted. “Think I broke my ankle.”
She reached out and grabbed the edge of his hood, but he held it fast in a death grasp. Dropping her hand to his thin shoulder, she gentled her voice. “It’s okay. Just roll on your back and relax. Let me check.”
When he complied, the hoodie fell open, revealing Kit Bayfield. Lips trembling, his pale eyes watered, nostrils flaring. He was in serious pain, which made Sarah forget he’d defaced her property.
She pulled his foot gently across her thigh. As she probed his swelling ankle with tender fingers, she considered the painting. Defaced might actually be the wrong word. He’d transformed her dull, weathered fence into a colorful statement piece. It was the kind of achievement she’d ordinarily be proud to display. A shame that her neighbors would insist she have it removed. She’d be inclined to leave it alone.
Kit’s sharply indrawn breath as she probed his swelling ankle dragged her attention back.
“I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely sprained.” She released his ankle and took in his pain-distorted features. “Do you think you can stand and maybe walk to the porch?”
“Dunno.” Kit’s voice came out thin and reedy.
“Let’s try. I’ll be right here helping you.” As careful as possible, she moved his left foot to the ground. When he winced, so did she. Once she stood, she leaned over to help him to a seated position. Squatting next to him, she instructed, “Okay, put your arm around my shoulders. On the count of three, we’re going to stand. Just try to keep your foot elevated behind you.”
Kit set his jaw, lips pursed together. “’Kay. I’m ready.”
He slid his arm over her shoulders. Bending his right leg at the knee, he prepared to stand. Sarah wrapped her arm around his lean waist and gave him an encouraging smile. “One... two...” He blew out a breath as she counted down, “Three.”
Working together, they rose from the ground. Kit gasped and wobbled as he put weight on his injured ankle. “Ouch, that hurts like a son of a b—” He pressed his lips together, holding in the rest of the comment.
“Bitch!” Sarah finished for him. “I sprained my ankle last summer in a softball game. I know it hurts like a mother trucker. You can go ahead and say it. This time I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.”
They limped toward the steps. “I was going to say beaver, but I think I like your version better.”
Sarah laughed. “See, you are trying to clean up your language.”
Hearing him chuckle along barely relieved her concern for his pain. His skin was clammy and pale, and his eyes went wide at the sight of the three steps up to her porch.
“I don’t know about stairs, Ms. Willis. Not sure I’m up to them. Can I sit here on the bottom?”
“You can do it. I have some comfortable chairs up there. And I promise a bag of ice as a reward.” She firmed her grip around his waist. “Put your right hand on the banister. I’ve got your weight on the left. Besides, it’s only three steps. Ready?”
Grasping the railing, Kit huffed in a breath, exhaled sharply, then inhaled again as he hopped up the first step. His brows pinched together, eyes squinted, his lips moving in a silent curse as he stared at the objective, the wicker loveseat framed by the big picture window to her front room.
They repeated the hopping process two more times, then limped over to the chair, the sound of their shuffling feet echoing off the beadboard ceiling of the porch. Once they arrived at the couch, Sarah kicked the coffee table away and helped Kit lower onto the seat.
Sympathy twisted in her gut like a spinning color wheel. “You’re looking a little green, Kit. You okay? Are you nauseated?”
Kit breathed hard, in through his nose, out through his mouth. His narrow chest rose and fell with each repetition, his eyes squeezed shut. He nodded his head. “Okay, I think.”
“All right. Don’t move.” She smirked.
He cracked open one eye. “Remind me to laugh later when this doesn’t hurt so much.” He wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m going to get an ice pack.”
Before she retreated to the kitchen, she grabbed the cushion from the side chair, plopped it onto the table, and repositioned it in front of Kit. She lifted his leg and then eased it down to the soft surface. Kit’s eyes remained tightly closed.
“Be right back.” Sarah hustled into the house, making a beeline for the freezer. She uncovered the reusable cold pack under a couple of bags of frozen vegetables. Grabbing a tea towel from the drawer and, as an afterthought, a bottle of water from the fridge, she made her way back to her patient. Before leaving the house, she flipped on the porch light.
Kit remained in the same position she’d left him. He opened his eyes when the screen door squeaked open. Resting one hand on his thigh, he lifted the other and rubbed his eyes. Crap, he’d been crying. She didn’t blame him. She’d heard somewhere that sprains hurt worse than childbirth. A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Not that she’d know.
She nudged his shoulder with the water bottle. His hand shook as he accepted it. Then Sarah focused on wrapping the flexible pack into the towel, ignoring the boy’s quiet sniffles. When she finished, she lifted Kit’s foot and placed the cold pack on the cushion. She eased his foot back and then tied the ends of the towel around his ankle to hold it in place.
Sarah studied her efforts, and then nodded. She looked toward the painting on her fence. The lights of her still-running car shone on his masterpiece. Damn, he was really good. The colors were visceral, almost as if daring her to take her eye off the graffiti.
Trotting down the stairs, her steps clacking on the cement, she headed toward the vehicle. She turned off the engine and grabbed her purse. The lock chirped when she pressed the button on her key fob. When she returned to the porch, she picked up an afghan from the back of the loveseat, spread it over Kit, and tucked the ends in behind his shoulders. Stepping through the front door again, she plucked a russet-colored fleece blanket off the hallway bench and wrapped it around herself. She could have moved Kit inside, but didn’t want to risk him putting any weight on his foot.
Once back outside, she sat on the edge of the cushion-less wicker chair and clasped her hands between her knees. “Kit, we’re going to have to call your dad.”
“I know,” he mumbled. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”
“What you did was wrong.” Beautiful, but wrong. “It’s vandalism and illegal. Your choice. Do you want to call him, or should I?”
Kit tossed the capped bottle onto the cushion next to him and dug his phone from his front pocket. He winced when he pressed down on his ankle. He offered the phone to her. “Will you call? He’s on my favorites list.”
It seemed telling that he’d have his dad on a list of the most important people to him. Sarah wasn’t sure many parents, hers included, had ever made it to that list. Oh sure, they’d been on her In Case of Emergency list, but never counted among her faves. She scrolled
through the widget on his phone until she found Crispin Bayfield’s number. She touched the image, then selected the man’s cell phone number and put the phone on speaker.
While she waited for the call to connect, she studied the screen. Even though it looked like a DMV picture, his image still tugged at something she’d buried deep inside. She couldn’t remember feeling this strong of an attraction to a man. Even the last man she’d dated over a year ago hadn’t had the same impact. That relationship, with the father of a student, ended badly when the man had wanted a bad grade expunged from his daughter’s transcript. She’d refused, and he’d caused an ugly scene at the high school fish fry. Called her a whore in front of her peers, the parents, and students. Heat rose in her cheeks as she recalled the horrible moment. Granite Pointe wasn’t huge, and the dating pool was extremely shallow. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—make the mistake of dating a parent ever again. The fallout from last time still mortified her.
The ringing stopped. “Trip, you’re on restriction so you better have a damn good reason for not being here.” Cris’s voice came low and lethal over the phone.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Uh, Mr. Bayfield, this is Assistant Principal Willis. Kit is with me.”
“Is he okay?” Panic edged anger out of his voice.
“Not really. I believe he’s sprained his ankle. Would you pick him up and take him to Urgent Care?”
“I’ll be at school in five minutes.” In the background, Sarah heard keys jangling.
“He’s at my house, not the school.”
“What? Why?” Cris demanded.
“I’ll explain when you get here.” Before he disconnected, she gave him directions to her home.
After she hung up, silence ruled the porch for a long time, interrupted only by Kit’s occasional sniffle. Finally, she asked the question that bothered her most. “Kit, how did you know where I lived?”
The teen shifted his eyes away. “My dad has an emergency contact list for work, in case something bad happens in town or at school. I sort of snooped through his briefcase and found it.”