“I do,” he says. “You’re not the kind of woman I could just fuck and not think twice about the next day.”
“And that’s a bad thing?!”
“It’s a bad thing if you’re me.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t do commitment, Absinthe. Never have. And even if I did, I’m not in a place in my life where I have the time to dedicate to a relationship.”
My heart sinks. It feels like a breakup, but it hurts a hell of a lot more. The physical sting radiating through my body, the gasps of breath in my lungs, the weight on my chest … it’s all too much.
“Fine.” My voice shakes with that one little word. “Goodbye, Kerouac. It’s been nice talking to you. I hope someday you find exactly what you were looking for. I’m sorry I couldn’t be your exception.”
Kerouac says nothing, but I hear him breathing on the other end, almost as if he’s second-guessing his decision, not yet wanting to end the call.
So I hang up first.
Because … fuck him.
It takes a moment for me to catch my breath, to accept what just happened. When I finally come to, I add him to the long list of people who’ve left me, people who’ve decided for whatever reason that they want nothing to do with me.
My parents, a long list of foster families, a few friends here and there along the way, and now some faceless internet stranger I had no business fancying into the man of my dreams.
The tiniest fraction of my heart squeezes as it clings onto what might have been, refusing to accept that it’s over, that I meant nothing to Kerouac, and that everything he ever told me was probably a lie.
But the rest of me wants to move on, pretend like he never happened.
Besides, what choice do I have? It’s not like I have a face or name. It’s not like I’d even know him if we ever did cross paths. The fact of the matter is, Kerouac doesn’t exist.
He’s not real, at least not in my life.
And not anymore.
Pressing my finger against the little green Karma app, I wait until it begins to shake and then I press the little ‘x’ in the corner.
Goodbye, Kerouac.
Chapter 19
Ford
3 Weeks Later
“You wanted to see me, Principal Hawthorne?”
I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere.
Glancing up from my desk, I find a girl in skintight athletic leggings and a low-cut tank top standing in my office doorway, her full lips wrapped around a shiny sucker and a familiar electric jade gaze trained on me.
It’s her.
The woman I spent most of all summer chatting with under the anonymous veil of a dating app—one specifically meant for adults seeking connections but not commitment. I purchased a stock photo for seven dollars, chose a pseudonym, Kerouac, and messaged a woman by the name of Absinthe who quoted Hemingway in her bio when everyone else quoted Nickelback and John Legend.
Fuck.
Me.
“You must be Halston.” My skin is on fire. I stand, smooth my tie, and point to the seat across from me. I never knew her name, but I’d know that voice anywhere. I can’t even count how many times I came to the sound of her breathy rasp describing all the wicked things she’d do to me if we ever met, reading me excerpts from Rebecca and Proust. “Take a seat.”
She takes her time pulling the sucker from her mouth before strutting to my guest chair, lowering herself, cleavage first, and crossing her long legs. The tiniest hint of a smirk claims her mouth, but if she knows it’s me, she’s sure as hell not acting like it.
“You want to tell me what happened with Mrs. Rossi?” I ask, returning to my seat and folding my hands on my desk.
I may be a lot of things; overconfident prick, allergic to commitment, red-blooded American man …
But I’m a professional first.
“Mrs. Rossi and I had an argument,” Halston says. “We were discussing the theme of The Great Gatsby, and she was trying to say that it was about chasing the elusive American dream. I told her she missed the entire fucking point of one of the greatest pieces of literature in existence.” She takes another suck of her candy before continuing, then points it in my direction. “The real theme has to do with manipulation and dishonesty, Principal Hawthorne. Everyone in that book was a fucking liar, most of all Jay, and in the end, he got what he deserved. They all did.”
My cock strains against the fabric of my pants. It’s her voice. It’s her goddamned sex-on-fire voice that’s doing this to me. That and her on point dissection of classic American literature. Sexy, intelligent, outspoken. Three elusive qualities I’ve yet to find in another human being. Until her. And knowing that now, I couldn’t even have her if I wanted her, isn’t doing me any favors. If I don’t compose myself, I’m going to be hard as a fucking rock.
“Language,” I say. The room is growing hotter now, but I keep a stern, undeterred presence.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m an adult, Principal Hawthorne. I can say words like fuck.”
“Not in my office, you can’t.” I exhale. “And not in class either. That’s why Mrs. Rossi sent you here.”
“The jackass behind me was drawing swastikas on his notebook, but I get sent down here for saying ‘fuck.’” Her head shakes.
“I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Rossi privately.” I scribble a note to myself and shove it aside.
“You’re really young for a principal.” Her charged gaze drags the length of me. “Did you just graduate from college or something?”
Six years of school and two years of teaching place me in the budding stages of a career shaping and educating the minds of tomorrow’s leaders, but I refuse to dignify her question with a response.
“My age is irrelevant,” I say.
“Age is everything.” She twirls a strand of pale hair around her finger, her lips curling up in the corners. The cute-and-coy shtick must work on everyone else, but it’s not going to work on me. Not here anyway. And not anymore.
“I said my age is irrelevant.”
“Am I the first student you’ve ever had to discipline?” She sits up, crossing and uncrossing her legs with the provocative charm of a 1940s pin up. “Wait, are you going to discipline me?”
I take mental notes for her file.
Challenges authority
Difficulty conducting herself appropriately
Possible boundary issues
“I’m not going to punish you, Halston. Consider this a verbal warning.” I release a hard breath through my nose as I study her, refusing to allow my eyes to drift to the soft swell of her breasts casually peeking out of her top. Knowing her so intimately over the phone, and being in her presence knowing she’s completely off limits, makes it difficult to maintain my unshaken demeanor. “From now on, I’d like you to refrain from using curse words while on school grounds. It’s disruptive to the other students who are here to actually glean something from their high school education.”
“I don’t know.” Her lips bunch at the corner, and she fights a devilish grin. “I mean, I can try, but ‘fuck’ is one of my favorite words in the English language. What if I can’t stop saying it? Then what?”
“Then we’ll worry about that when the time comes,” I say.
“You could always bend me over your knee and spank me.” She rises, wrapping her lips around the sucker before plucking it out of her mouth with a wet pop. “Or maybe you could fuck my brains out and break my heart.”
“Excuse me?” My skin heats as she recites my words, but I refuse to let her see that she’s having any kind of effect on me.
“You’re him,” she says, as if it’s some ace she’s been keeping up her sleeve this entire time. “You’re Kerouac.”
I’m at a rare loss for words, trying to wrap my head around all the ways this could go very fucking wrong for me.
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” Halston rises, her gaze lingering on me one last time, and then just like that, she’s gone.
Chapt
er 20
Halston
The last block of the day is taking for-ev-er, so I ask for a hall pass and make my way around the school, loitering at every drinking fountain and every bulletin board. The teacher’s probably wondering where the hell I am, but I’m not afraid to tell him I got my period. That usually shuts them up.
Rounding the corner by the front office, I’m making a beeline for drinking fountain number six when the door swings open and out walks Kerouac.
Or rather, Principal Hawthorne.
We both stop so as not to bump into each other, though he’d be so lucky.
I saw the way he looked at me in his office this morning, the way his body responded to my voice. I knew the instant he started talking that it was him, though it took all the strength I had to ignore his chiseled jaw, dimpled chin, thick, dark hair, and hooded, honey-brown eyes.
Principals are supposed to be old with gray hair, glasses, and dad bods.
They’re not supposed to look like fucking supermodels.
Our eyes lock, and I smirk. To think, all those times I was talking to this.
This is what was on the other end. That stock photo doesn’t even hold a candle to the striking Adonis standing before me. No wonder he doesn’t want to commit. For a man like that, the world is one giant, all-you-can-eat buffet of beautiful women.
“Excuse me,” he says, stepping out of my way like a gentleman.
God, that voice. That gentle, low rasp of a voice. I about creamed my pants when he did the overhead announcements earlier. Almost had to excuse myself from class so I could finish the job in an empty bathroom stall.
It doesn’t help that all anyone can talk about lately is how fucking hot the new principal is. I overheard a group of senior girls earlier making a wager to see who could sleep with him before they went off to college. The winner was to get a thousand bucks.
Ha. Stupid girls.
If they only knew who they were dealing with.
But I’m no better than they are. I know the man that lies beyond the carefully crafted exterior, behind those dark, hooded eyes and that confident stride. The man on the inside is a million times sexier than any of them could begin to imagine.
“You’re excused.” I make my way to the fountain, press the button, and lower my mouth to the jet stream of fresh water. His stare is heavy, weighted, and I’d give anything to know what he thinks when he looks at me.
The halls are empty and quiet. It’s just the two of us.
Across the way a male teacher drones on about World War I and the Lusitania, and when I glance into the classroom, I spot Bree sitting in the front row, gnawing on the tip of her pen as her eyes wander in our direction.
I move out of her line of sight. Ford follows.
“I’d like to talk to you sometime,” he says. “About—”
I rise, turning to him. “About what? Nothing happened.”
He squints, studying me. He must think I’m planning to blackmail him, but he’d be mistaken. While his rejection stung at the time, I’m over it and I’ve got bigger fish to fry—specifically a bottom-feeder by the name of Bree.
“I tried to reach out to you after we last spoke,” he says, keeping his voice down. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Couldn’t find you on the app.”
“I deleted it.”
His lips press, and he nods. All those long phone calls and messaging sessions this summer, and the man can’t find more than a handful of things to say to me now. He must still be in shock. I can’t say that I blame him. He’d have a hell of a lot more to lose than I would. The stakes are higher for him. I might be legal and an adult, but there isn’t a single red-blooded soul in this entire school district who’d be okay with a principal striking up a sexual relationship with one of his students.
On paper, it would seem atrocious. Scandalous. Disgusting.
But it doesn’t keep me from wishing we could’ve made it work, as insane as that is.
“You know, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other around here, so let’s do ourselves a favor and get the fuck over what happened,” I say, arms folded as I maintain my icy demeanor. My ego may be bruised, my heart may be longing for him, but I’ll be damned if I run away with my tail tucked like some rejected schoolgirl. “If you’re going to look at me like that every time you see me—”
“I’m sorry.” He won’t stop staring. “I just … I can’t believe it’s you.”
“Believe it.” I begin to walk backwards, distancing myself from him.
He may have closed the door a few weeks ago, but I’m the one who locked it.
Chapter 21
Ford
Pulling into my driveway, I kill the engine and exhale.
I read her file today.
After she left my office this morning, I contacted the school guidance counselor and asked her to send me anything and everything she had on Halston Kessler.
By the time lunch was through, I had a thick file on my desk with “Confidential” stamped over each and every page.
I’m not exactly sure what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I found it.
And then some.
Bree’s silver Prius pulls into the Abbotts’ driveway, parking outside the third stall of their garage, and I watch from my car as a passenger climbs out the other side. The girl has wild blonde hair, and she flings a bag over one shoulder as she heads inside, not waiting for Bree.
Bree yells something.
The girl turns back.
It’s her. Halston.
I’d have never paired the two of them as friends—they couldn’t possibly be more different, but high school’s a trying time and stranger things have happened.
Halston comes back to the car, retrieving something from the back seat. Bree spots me, waving, and Halston glances in my direction. I’ve no choice but to get out and say hello. Sitting in the car, staring, would be inappropriate at this point.
Exiting my car, I walk toward them, doing my best to be a friendly principal and not a man who spent the entire school day obsessing over a woman he has no business so much as thinking about.
“Hi,” I say, hands resting on my hips. Halston keeps back, staring. Bree smiles, acting like nothing happened.
We’re all just fucking acting like nothing happened.
“How was your first day, Principal?” Bree asks.
Glancing toward Halston, because I can’t help myself, I nod. “It went well, thank you.”
Halston smirks, taking a sip of her iced coffee, her red lips wrapped around a green Starbucks straw.
“I didn’t know you lived here.” Halston moves my way.
Bree watches us. “How could you not know? He moved in two months ago.”
Well shit. Halston must be Abbott’s niece.
Halston shrugs, electric jade eyes trained on me. “Guess I was a little too … preoccupied to notice.”
“We should probably head in,” Bree says, still observing.
“You go ahead.” Halston takes another sip. “I’ll be in in a sec.”
She loiters for a moment before disappearing inside, though I fully expect her to watch us from behind a pulled curtain.
“We couldn’t really talk earlier,” I say, closing the space between us. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Halston rolls her eyes. “Good god. You must think I’m weak or something.”
“That’s not true.” I look at her, but all I can think about is her file.
Everything she’s been through.
Everything she’s overcome.
“The good news is, guys like you are a dime a dozen,” she says, shrugging.
“Guys like me?” I smirk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, the ones who’re afraid to commit, afraid to limit their options.”
“It was never about limiting my options.” I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. Every person I’ve ever loved has left me in some capacity or another. Over the years, I’ve
found it easier to separate emotions from sex, to swear off commitment altogether. The only time I ever found myself second-guessing that decision was the last time I spoke to “Absinthe” on the phone.
But she hung up before I had a chance to say it.
“Anyway,” she says, wrapping her lips around the straw and smiling. “I don’t know about you, but I find this entire situation to be fucking hilarious.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re worried.” Halston adjusts the slipping bag on her shoulder. “And you shouldn’t be.”
My gaze holds hers, and I wonder what it must have been like for her to grow up in a meth house. To miss years upon years of school. To know what it was like to go to bed hungry, to not have heat in the wintertime.
But there was one case note, specifically, that broke my heart in fucking two.
At thirteen, her father pimped her out to one of his friends in exchange for drugs. She lost her virginity, her innocence. And it wasn’t just once. It went on, according to the notes from the social worker, for the better part of a year.
How she can stand here with her head held high and a resilient gleam in her eye is beyond me.
“Okay, if we’re just going to stand here staring at each other …” Halston lifts her brows.
“Sorry.” My brows meet. “I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
About how beautiful she is inside and out, how genuine and unapologetic she is, and how fucking much I’m going to miss talking to her, knowing her in an intimate way that goes beyond the physical.
“Have a good night, Halston.” I say her name, a reminder that my bittersweet, addictive Absinthe is real.
And then I watch her walk away.
Chapter 22
Halston
“What the hell kind of name is Thane?” I ask my Chem II lab partner on the second day of school. If we’re going to be working side by side the rest of this semester, I need to know if he can handle me. I need to prepare him.
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