Ch69: Complications...
Professor Mitchell -
I am writing this to you out of concern. I know you and I have always kept aquainted for professional reasons, and I am eternally grateful for your continued support in my career. I have always respected you, and in turn you have shown me the same. I would hope that this aspect of our relationship should never change.
I have noticed a new adjunct that has been added to your staff. He is tall, with long blond hair, and I believe he teaches history if I’m not mistaken. I have not yet had a chance to speak with him personally, and so this is why I have chosen to come to you in this situation.
I have witnessed this individual with a girl that is most assuredly a student… and I believe she attends one of said adjunct’s classes. Her name is Claire McTavisham, and it for her that I am writing this email. She is a wholesome girl, sir, and I am concerned that she may have been coerced into a relationship with this main in an authoritative position.
I know that you would require proof, and/or at least another account of the two behaving in anything other than student/professor behavior. I am enclosing a picture that was taken from my cell phone when I was out with a friend of mine for ice cream the other weekend, as well as a recounted story of a friend of mine (she chose to remain nameless as she is close with the girl) who claims she saw Claire leaving a public area with an unknown man that met the adjunct’s description.
Sincerely,
Finnegan Clarke
He hit ENTER on the keyboard, sending the fateful email with merely one tap of his fingertip. He felt like gloating… he was so close.
He visualized the pieces across the board - all of the pawns but one had been scattered - the bishop, the knight, the rook, all fallen - all that remained was the queen on one side, the king on the other, and he was closing in on them fast.
He took one last drag from his cigarette, snuffed it, and sat back, blowing a lungful of smoke at the computer screen. His lips formed a cruel smile. “Check.”
*****
Claire sat cross-legged on her bed, her books spread out in front of her. She sighed wearily as she shuffled one book for another and opened it to the proper chapter, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She began reading, using her highlighter along the way, absorbing herself into her studying so that when her cell phone went off loudly on the side table she nearly jumped three feet in the air.
She sent one of her books and a pencil flying to the floor in her haste to grab the phone. She noted the time - already one in the morning, where had the time gone? -then she hastily looked at the caller ID.
Her heart did a small flip in her chest and then her pulse began to race. She hesitated, biting her lip. Just before the call would have been transferred into her voicemail, however, she picked up.
“Hello?” She was proud that her voice didn’t shake to give away her true feelings.
“Hey Kitten,” came the husky reply.
His voice always had a way of caressing the name - a talent she wasn’t entirely sure he was aware of - and it never failed to send shivers up and down her spine.
“Hey,” she answered, knowing full well she could not hide the smile in her voice. She bit her nail to try and steady herself.
She heard him chuckle softly, the sound all masculine - and sexy as hell. “You sound happy to hear from me,” he murmured. She thought he might be smiling.
“I am,” she admitted, tucking a leg under herself as she sat down on the bed. She could feel heat creeping up her neck, warming her face. “I… miss you,” she admitted softly.
He slowly expelled a pent up breath, as if he’d been about to say the very same thing to her. “I miss you, too,” he said, his voice low. He took a breath and held it, then: “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… about when you were here… or that night at the concert.”
Claire laughed softly. “Oh yeah? Which part stuck with you specifically?” she asked him teasingly as she lay back on the bed, one leg bent. “The part where I yelled at you?”
He laughed again, sounding more relaxed. “No.”
“The dinner you made?”
“What did we have again?” His tone was teasing.
She snorted slightly but chose to ignore him. “The part where I wore your shirt?”
His laughter turned into a soft hum. “Hmmm… yeah,” he admitted. “That was one of the parts I’ve been thinking about. I was also thinking about how I got you out of that shirt.” His voice had roughened slightly, the way it did when he’d spoken into the shell of her ear. Her heart was racing from the affect of his words, and she swallowed, trying desperately to quell the desire that cut its way through her.
“How indecent of you,” she teased him lightly. He laughed heartily and then sighed.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Her heart turned over at the concern in his voice. “No, not at all. I was just studying.”
“What are you studying for?” he asked curiously.
She made an impatient sound in the back of her throat. “My history teacher is a real prick and assigned us all a test for tomorrow.”
She heard him smile widely. “Sounds like your teacher is pretty wise, considering the kind of intellectuals your classmates are. Could use a little testing now and then…”
She giggled slightly, happy that he was allowing her to play her game.
“Well, I think it’s just because he’s too darn cute and the girls can’t take their eyes off him to take down notes.”
He scoffed at that. “Besides,” she continued. “This teacher is a real stickler on his tests.”
“Oh yeah?” he drawled. “Have you had his tests before?”
“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, allowing the pitch of her voice to drop slightly into a huskier tone.
He chuckled into the phone. “And how did you do? Did you pass?”
“I’m not sure, actually, he never did give me the results,” she said, trailing off.
There was a slight pause, and then: “I’m pretty sure you passed with flying colors,” he said. His voice was like brushed velvet.
She smiled against the receiver and closed her eyes, relishing the sound of his voice. She sighed. “I wish you were here,” she nearly whispered.
He sighed as well. “I know.”
They were both silent a moment, each lost in their own thoughts of the other. At length, he cleared his throat slightly and spoke again.
“So what do you wear when you’re studying?”
She laughed. “Um,” she started, then bit her lip. “Well, in general or just now?”
“Now,” he answered quietly. She tried to ignore the thrill that raced through her by lazily drifting her hand up and down her abdomen.
“Well, right now, I’m wearing a pair of pajama pants and a tank top; but I normally study in the nude,” she stated baldly, teasing him. She heard his quick intake of breath and relished her victory in shocking him.
“Hmm,” he said after a moment. “I think you should stick with tradition, really, if you want my opinion.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” he chuckled darkly. “You’re going to need all the help you can get, based on your grades.”
She pretended shocked horror at his words: She knew she’d been getting fine marks in his class. He laughed again at her reaction, and then she heard his breath catch slightly. Her hand paused.
“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.
He seemed to wait a moment, as if he’d been caught in the act of some deviant activity. He laughed through his nose and sighed.
“I’m being indecent,” he said. He cleared his throat subtly, and it was her turn to catch her breath as she caught the meaning behind his answer.
“How indecent?” she asked softly.
She heard him swallow once. “Very,” he muttered, his voice low.
The breath she let out was shaky, and she closed her eyes, letting her hand on her abdomen drift ever lower towards the waistband of her pants.
At length she whispered back to him: “Me too.”
The muffled groan that answered her was enough to chase away any thought of studying from her mind entirely.
*****
Finn sat in the corner of the bar, immune to the amount of noise that surrounded him. His Jack and Coke sat nearly untouched, the ice dissolving into the alcohol quickly as he stared at it unseeingly. His mind was elsewhere… struggling… just as it had been for the last week.
“Hey Dreads,” came a soft voice from beside him at the table. He looked up swiftly to see the friendly bartender… what was her name? He’d always called her Pretty Lady when he was around the bar with his friends. He was fairly sure her real name started with an M…
“Hey Pretty Lady,” he answered her, giving up on trying to think of her real name for now. His voice sounded sullen, even to him, and he hadn’t even meant it to.
She laughed breezily - it was a pleasant sound: Welcome inside his head.
“What’s got you down, sweetie?” she asked him, placing a hand on her hip. The slight smile that had been pulling at his reluctant lips finally fell.
“Nothing,” he grumbled, his eyes drifting away from her back to the table and his watered down drink.
The bartender pulled one of the chairs out and sat down opposite him. “Look, you come in here all the time with your little buddies and you’ve never been this quiet,” she stated plainly. He raised his eyebrows without looking at her. She remembered him?
When he hadn’t responded she sighed. “What, are you waiting for me to have a bar rag and a glass and pretend to shine it? Cause I can,” she said, jerking her thumb back over to the bar.
He laughed stiffly despite his lack of humor. She had tenacity, he had to give her that. It reminded him of another stubborn girl he’d known…
He took a deep breath leaning back in his chair, trying to will the thoughts out as well. He blew the air out slowly, his fingernail tracing an idle pattern on the tablecloth. “It’s complicated… you wouldn’t want to hear about it,” he finally said.
She waited for him to continue and when he didn’t offer anything more on the subject she folded her arms across her chest and sat back in the chair. “I’m a bartender. It’s in the job description.” She flashed him a kind smile and he was surprised to realize his lips were smiling a little back at her in response. He didn’t think he’d truly - genuinely - smiled in over a month. The action felt foreign to him.
He sighed; ruffled his hair. “You don’t even know me… how do you know if something is even wrong?” he asked, trying hard to keep the impatience from his voice. It wasn’t her fault he was decidedly more on edge than he’d ever been. He blamed Ben for that… and a certain blond professor who didn’t know how to keep his own dick in his pants. He felt the dark cloud of anger reassemble above him and he took a sip of his drink for something to do.
“I can tell when guys are feeling down and out,” the bartender said matter-of-factly, her eyes intent and alert. He had the feeling that she meant it.
Finn held her gaze for a second, for the first time actually seeing her. Her hair was dark and curly, fashioned into long, thick dreadlocks that would most likely reach to the middle of her back if she didn’t have them pulled up. Her skin was smooth; the color of mocha, and her frame was small and lean. Beneath her uniform he’d suspect that she’d have killer legs.
He considered her a moment before responding. “Have you ever… found something out about a person you care about?” he asked, his voice low. “Something that could ruin them, and all you’d have to do is alert the right people?”
She blinked, surprised by the depth of the question. He smirked sarcastically.
“Well,” she said slowly, taking her time answering him. “I guess that depends on what you mean by ‘ruin’… are you talking thirty years to life?”
He snorted. “Not likely.” He took another sip of his drink. “No, just more or less expose them for it. Get them into trouble.”
She hummed in understanding, regarding him patiently. “Well then… I guess it depends on what kind of person you are.”
He bristled at the unspoken implication. “I’m not normally that type of person,” he stated flatly.
“Then what makes you consider it now?” she asked seriously.
He played with the stir stick in his glass. “Retribution,” he said finally, flicking the stir stick so that it bounced off the edge of the glass, and he sat back again.
“Revenge?” She shook her head and shrugged. “What’s in it for you? After the revenge, I mean.”
He laughed once, the sound bitter, but he didn’t answer. She leaned forward. “Look, bottom line is, you care about this person, right?”
He eyed her warily, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Yeah,” he allowed reluctantly.
“Then that’s your answer,” she stated. “If you truly care about them, then why would you want to do something that would get them into trouble, no matter what they did?”
He scowled at her logic, and she smiled at him in understanding.
“Let me see if I can remember how this goes,” she said thoughtfully. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and then she quoted: “ ‘Something of revenge I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: Its after-flavor, metallic and corroding - ’ ”
“ ‘ - Gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned,’ ” he finished for her, his voice low and fervent. He stared at her in surprise. He’d never met anyone who knew that quote before.
She grinned at him, pleased; oblivious to the fact that she had just affected him more than she could possibly know.
“Charlotte Brontë,” he said, in reference to their quote. She nodded, then patted his hand as she stood. He suddenly had an urgent need to hear more from her and he had to quell the impulse to beg her to sit back down with him.
“Something to think about,” she said with a wink, before walking away back behind the bar.
Finn sat at his corner table for only two more minutes, forcing down his lukewarm drink to an appropriate level for a refill, before relocating to a seat at the bar. The bartender smiled in welcome to him, and he smiled back.
A true, genuine, smile.
And this time, he made a point of getting her name.
*****
“You asked to see me, sir?” Colton said, rapping lightly on the wooden doorframe. Dean Mitchell looked up from his computer screen and smiled kindly at him.
“Yes, Colton. Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the plush leather armchair that sat before his desk. Colton sat, keeping his face neutral; he didn’t want to come across as edgy as he felt.
Hugh Mitchell was a middle-aged man, with silver hair whisked back from his brow, and dark wire rim glasses. He held a slight paunch in his belly that spoke of too many well-cooked dinners, but otherwise looked as though he would have been quite handsome in his youth.
He had been the one to hire Colton, and he was in charge of all management of the faculty, as well as a seasoned professor in Political Science, Ethics, and Economics. He had always treated Colton kindly, having been impressed with both his resume and his experience at such a young age, but he had never had reason to call Colton into his office before. Being brought into the Dean’s office usually meant one of two things; you were either being promoted, or fired.
And as Colton did not have his Masters yet, a promotion was not exactly possible.
“Colton,” Mitchell spoke with authority, peering over the edge of his glasses. “I’ve always thought very highly of you. You’ve done extremely well here with the students and your methods of teaching this curriculum have been very well received.” He paused and Colton’s foot fidgeted.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly, acknowledging the compliment. Dean Mitchell nodded thoughtfully, his brow wrinkling in distress.
“Because of that, I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt about what I have to say,” Dean Mitchell started slowly. Colton took a fortifying breath through his nose. “There have been reports… emailed reports, specifically, and I have it from a very reliable source, as well… a past student of mine, Mr. Clarke, and his character has never been one to lie,” he cleared his throat. “It’s been said… that you have been seen fraternizing with a female student after school hours.” He raised his gaze to watch Colton’s expression.
Colton’s thoughts were scrambled - he was sure it was clear on his face - and in between one minute and the next, he was struck with an idea.
He furrowed his brow in deeper confusion, and shook his head slightly. “Uh…” he blew his cheeks out. “Did they have a name, sir?”
Mitchell studied him for a minute before looking down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. “A Miss Claire McTavisham,” he said, pronouncing the last name wrong by over-enunciating the -ham. Colton had to stop himself from cringing. Instead, he merely chuckled and shook his head in what he hoped was a sheepish gesture.
“Claire is a family friend,” he explained. “I interned with her father my senior year at LFT… I’ve known her and her family for years.”
Dean Mitchell sat back, slightly surprised. His bushy eyebrows were raised, clearly taken aback. “Oh,” he said after a moment. He looked back down at his papers. “A family friend, you say?” He watched Colton nod before continuing. “So you wouldn’t have been on a date with this girl?”
Colton was sure his nerves were stretched past their baring, but he forced himself to grin easily. “No, of course not.”
The Dean consulted his papers again. “Even to take her out for ice cream, Colton?” he asked pointedly. His expression was severe - like a parent who did not appreciate being lied to.
Colton’s answer was just quick enough. “Ice cream? Oh,” he chuckled once. “Well, is it a date if her sister and two-year-old niece were there, too?” He shrugged casually, hoping this looked nonchalant enough. “I haven’t seen them in quite some time, and her sister heard I was in town. I didn’t realize it would be a problem, sir.”
Dean Mitchell’s face was a mixture of disapproval and confusion.
“But she is one of your students, isn’t she?” he asked diplomatically.
Colton smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Yes, she is.” The Dean waited for him to explain. “It was McDougall’s class, sir. I had no idea she was on the roster until she turned up in the class.”
“I realize she is a friend, Colton, but you must know how we feel about favoritism…”
Colton rushed to explain. “I do, sir, but she is graduating at the end of term… if she had dropped, she would be missing a credit to graduate. That is the only reason I didn’t come directly to you.”
Mitchell sat back in his chair, twirling his pencil between his fingertips. Colton knew enough to stay quiet for while the jury was still out, but inside his mind was screaming with tension and stress. After what seemed like years, the Dean leaned forward in his chair.
“If I hear any further rumors, I will not be lenient again, you understand?” he asked him seriously. “This school has a flawless reputation, and I need to know that my staff - whether tenured or adjunct - feel the same way as I do about keeping it that way.”
Colton swallowed, his mouth dry, and he nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
He didn’t remember the remaining conversation - it was altogether possible that he had mumbled his way out of the small corner office - but after the door had closed behind him and he had safely distanced himself from the Dean’s office, his walk slowed as the reality hit him.
He pressed his back against the rough brick of the wall, dragging his hands down his face as he thought about Claire and what he’d have to tell her.
This wasn’t going to be easy… not easy at all.
*****
“…Alright everyone, that’s it for today,” Colton said to the classroom, a couple of minutes before the official end of class. “We’ll have a test next week, so please make sure you’re prepared up through chapter twenty,” he warned loudly over the scraping of chairs and shuffling of papers as everyone prepared to leave.
He could feel anxiety starting to overwhelm him as he saw the numbers start to dwindle. It was now or never.
“Miss McTavisham, if you could stay for just a minute?” he called just as Claire had begun to stand up. He kept his face neutral when he looked up at her, and he noticed her cheeks begin to flush as she nodded. He focused on breathing, holding the panic at bay. He moved around to the other side of his desk and began placing his things inside his briefcase. She walked down the steps slowly until she was on the opposite side of his desk.
“Yes?” she asked crisply, her lips twisting in a poorly concealed smile. For a moment his panic subsided at just the sight of her. He momentarily forgot the reason he hadn’t slept for the last two nights. All he wanted was to drop his things and pull her into his arms - swing her up on to the desk - and kiss her senseless… to Hell with the consequences. He was so tired of worrying about the consequences…
Instead he pulled his eyes away from her and concentrated on placing his folders into his briefcase more slowly. When he spoke it was low enough that no one would be able to guess what he was saying unless they were right next to him.
“Can you meet me out at the courtyard in ten minutes?” he asked, keeping his eyes away from the trap of hers.
“Yes,” she answered, sounding almost as if she were the one questioning him. He knew her well enough to hear the slight trepidation she hid in her voice. He looked up at her briefly and tried to use one of his most reassuring smiles. It felt forced: He could tell she didn’t buy it.
She turned to leave and he felt his resolve starting to crumble. He didn’t breathe until he heard the click of the door shutting behind her.
“You’re an idiot,” he muttered to himself roughly, stuffing the rest of his things into the briefcase.
Ten minutes later, after having dropped his things off in his car, he made his way to the courtyard of the school. Looking around, he was momentarily pleased with his timing; in between the afternoon and evening hours, the school was pretty much deserted except for a few stragglers, which meant they could bet on not being interrupted.
She was sitting waiting for him on a bench that overlooked the meticulous gardens. He made his way to her slowly, a strong feeling of déjà vu coming over him. He tried his best to ignore the leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach, and instead focused on the thought that she might handle the news better than he was expecting.
He very nearly snorted in derision at the idea. After all, this was Claire… the redheaded spitfire with a tongue as sharp as a blade when she wanted it to be. Since when had he known her to do anything he was fully expecting?
She heard his approach and she turned to smile at him despite the incredible nausea that suddenly washed over her, leaving a sheen of sweat on her upper lip and forehead. She’d been feeling under the weather yesterday and today; her stomach heaving and pitching at the slightest movements and at the most inopportune times throughout the day. She swallowed and concentrated on breathing, and the nausea began to fade just as quickly as it had come.
He sat on the bench next to her, his expression grim, and immediately she was on the defensive. Panic fanned quick and hot in her chest - had she said or done something wrong on the phone? Her thoughts scampered over their whispered conversation rapidly, trying to find where the problem could be.
She found none, but his strange change in behavior worried her. She decided to be the first to break the tension.
“So why such a public place, Mr. Walker?” she asked, a slight sarcasm in the title, trying to get him to smile.
Instead, he pressed his lips together and leaned forward on his knees, watching the leaves flutter in the spring breeze and he drew a breath. Dread filled her as she waited for him to speak, and she looked away from him, praying it wasn’t what she thought it was going to be.
“I can’t see you anymore, Kitten,” he said quietly. He heard the air leave her lungs as she turned to look at him.
“What… did you develop a conscience over the weekend?” she asked acerbically.
He looked up at her to see her face drawn tight with anger and something else… fear? Her eyes were narrowed and suspiciously glassy. She looked extremely pale. He sat back against the bench with a heavy sigh.
“Claire, you know I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t have to…”
“Save it,” she interrupted, her voice shaking slightly. She tried to gather her things hastily in her anger, afraid of falling apart in front of him. She could feel foolish tears building up quickly. “I just wish you’d stop messing around with my head - ”
She was angry - angrier than she’d ever been before - and the force of it was bringing her along on an emotional roller coaster. She went from feeling angry to immense hurt in all but a millisecond, and the changes felt overwhelming to her. On top of that, she was nauseous again, and her eyes began to water at the injustice of everything. She felt like she was being overly dramatic for some reason she couldn’t explain and it was scaring her; frustrating her. Was it even possible for someone to feel all of this at once?
She stopped suddenly and closed her eyes tightly as she swallowed, tears leaking from under her lashes in a torrent. It took him a moment to realize that her tears weren’t angry tears - something he’d been ready for - but tears of anguish instead. He was temporarily shocked by her sudden emotional state. Claire never lost control of her emotions like that - something that Colton had never fully understood, but had just accepted. Not once in the years that he’d known her had she ever cried in front of him in anything other than anger. Seeing it now alarmed him.
“Claire…” he started, his hand reaching to touch her cheek. The breath she took was jagged: She couldn’t let him touch her. If he did, she would fall apart even more, and that was something she was trying very hard not to do, even though she was failing miserably at the moment.
“No… please, just let me go,” she pleaded with him, reaching around to grab her bag. He realized she was about to walk away from him this time without even hearing an excuse. He couldn’t allow it.
“Dammit, Claire, won’t you even let me explain?” he exploded.
She whirled around, her eyes snapping behind the brightness of her tears. “No,” she said flatly. “I don’t need you to explain, Colton, I already know!”
And with that, she stood up and turned her back on him, her sole intent to put as much distance between them clearly written in the straightness of her spine.
“Claire, wait,” he growled, jumping up and chasing after her. His hand caught her wrist and he pulled. She gasped as she turned around - he had tugged harder than he’d intended - and he immediately released her hand so as not to hurt her. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, in reference to her wrist. She misunderstood it for his explanation.
“ ‘You’re sorry,’? That’s the best you can come up with?” She was outright sobbing now, clearly in over-reaction mode. “How about I’m the one that’s sorry, Colton… Sorry for ever having met you! Sorry for ever… for ever having lo-” She broke off mid-sentence, shaking her head. She’d almost admitted to loving him… she’d promised herself she wouldn’t admit that to him until he’d said those words to her first this time. The thought that now she’d never get to hear those words spun unendingly through her mind, and she choked back another sob.
She made to spin around again and his arms shot out instinctively to stop her again.
She struggled, shrugging his hands off of her. “Let me go!” she said again, but he ignored her, turning her around to face him.
“Someone saw us, Claire,” he ground out at last, jarring her slightly so that she would look at him.
She stared at him, confusion written clearly over her features. He glanced quickly around them meaningfully, and then back down into her tear-streaked features. All of the fight had left her and he relaxed his hold on her arms.
“Someone saw us,” he said again, more gently. “They saw us together at Marty’s, and they emailed Dean Mitchell about us. I just barely escaped with my job - I had to lie through my teeth to convince Mitchell that you and I were just old friends. He wanted to have you dropped from the class.”
She exhaled sharply, realization coming to her rapidly, despite the whirling of her thoughts. “But if I’m dropped, then I can’t graduate…” she started, her eyes wide. He nodded patiently and shushed her with a finger to her lips tenderly.
“I know that, don’t worry, he’s letting you keep the class,” he reassured her, pulling her back to the bench. She sat numbly. Colton continued, his voice soft.
“I’m not doing this because I want to, Kitten, you have to know that. It’s because I…” he laughed once, gesturing with his hands feebly. “I need my job…”
She nodded, looking down at her hands in her lap. She held back the urge to cry again, frustrated at her lack of emotional control. “I’m sorry I over-reacted,” she whispered. His hand squeezed her knee lightly, something he used to do when they would sit out by the water talking late into the night. The familiar gesture made her smile wistfully and she sighed wearily. “I just…” she started, floundering.
“…Don’t trust me yet,” he finished blandly for her. She looked up at him sadly. She didn’t need to affirm it.
He smiled wanly, his eyes catching hers. He reached over and swiped a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed, his voice low. “We just have to keep it platonic while they’ve got someone watching my every move,” he said, smirking.
His words reminded her of one of the many questions that had flown through her mind when he’d first said they’d been caught. “Did he say who it was that had seen us?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t a name I knew… he said it was a past student of his. ‘Mr. Clarke’ he called him… What?” He looked at her sharply when she gasped loudly.
Disbelief flooded her as she recognized the name. She knew he’d had Mitchell as his Political Science professor more that once; he even used him for a reference when he was applying for jobs… But why would he stoop so low as to turn them in, even if he was still angry? She had never known Finn to be the vindictive sort. The idea made her blood boil angrily and she blinked back even more ridiculous tears - tears this time of fury - and her fists clenched at her sides.
“I know who it was,” she whispered tautly.
And then she flung herself from the bench, launching herself towards the bushes where she promptly emptied the contents of her stomach.
=========================================
Oh. My. Holy. PETE.
This took me forever! FOR-EH-VUR!!!! My computer crashed multiple times just for my benefit, I got new responsibilities at work that require me to actually sleep for concentration, and on top of all that, we had a crazy-ass week and weekend and were home for about 25% of it (in which I took most of the pictures and finished up the editing... like, worked my TAIL off to get this up before I head in to work on Monday!!! lol)
Why the rush? Because I know the next chapter is going to be even a bigger bear to take on, and next weekend is both my mother's birthday and Father's day (don't forget, kiddos!) and thennnnn the weekend after that we are going "camping" (in a cabin?? I've only ever camped in a tent, so this will be like staying at a five star hotel with a loo ten yards away and a bath house about a third of a mile walk heh. Oh, and In-Laws in the next bedroom... so no romance on our first camping trip together, but oh well. It will still be fun.) So it will probably be a bit before the next chapter is up :( But don't worry!!! As soon as I'm back and made sure work hasn't imploded in my absence, the next bit will be up. Fortunately I have a few paragraphs already sketched out for chapter 70 :)
Thanks again to EVERYONE for your continued support in this... you have no idea how much your wonderful responses encourage me. I have been plagued by self-esteem issues since I was in elementary school (or maybe since I was three and fell off my swing and I thought it was personal...? Who knows...) and to hear that y'all love this just makes me happier than a cat on catnip. You all have helped me realize that this really is something I want to DO with my life. It's a wonderful feeling.
So thank you. <3
((WARNINGS: Language, adult themes, lots of wordages - like, 5k again.. sorry))