ake

 

 

 

 

“Yo, Beck!” James, one of the ten Bells Park police officers, welcomes me as I walk into the station. The usual smell of stale coffee greets me, and I fight back the momentary depression that overtakes me every time I enter this old, grimy building.

The carpeted floor is worn and stained, and all the desks are cheap, the fake wood exterior chipped and peeling. The walls should have been repainted a decade ago. I didn’t go into this field for the glamour, but this place needs to be gutted.

I grunt in James’ direction, then head to the break room where I pour some lukewarm and watery coffee into a mug that looks clean enough.

Back at my desk I sit down and wait for my computer to boot up.

“How’s that fucking drug class going?” James wheels his chair up to my desk and grins.

“It’s fucking great.” I sip the shitty coffee.

“Not regretting your decision to come out here?” He sits back in his chair and adjusts his belt. “Fucking beer,” he says, patting his belly.

“Yeah, it’s got nothing to do with the two greasy breakfast sandwiches you eat every morning.”

“Ha!” James is a great guy, and even though I haven’t known him very long, I like his sense of humor and laid back attitude. He’s about my age, twenty-five, and from the beginning he’s been easy to get along with.

“And no, I’m not regretting coming here.” I’m not sure that’s true, but it’s too much to think about. I told my uncle I’d help him out while he’s building up the Bells Park police force, so I’m sort of on loan from the Chicago PD. I need to stay till the job is done. And honestly, I’m not ready to be back in Chicago yet.

“Who’s going to tell you to stop eating shit and lose weight if I leave?” I joke.

“Fuck you,” says James cheerfully. “Oh hey. The high school called. The principal, uh…” He rolls back to his desk to pick up a scrap of paper on which he’s written some information. “Joan Evans? She’s wondering if you can give her a call. About the drug class.”

“Yeah?” Immediately I think of Melanie, and I get the weirdest sensation of feeling turned on and sad at the same time. I’ve never felt that before.

Part of me remembers her as Aria. No. Scratch that. Every single cell in my body remembers her as Aria: the way she smelled, the sounds she made, the silkiness of her skin, the way her body moved under mine. I’d be a fucking liar if I said I didn’t think about that. Often.

But her house. Run down, like most of this shitty town. Her mother a drunk, or that’s the word on the street. No dad at all. Her job at the thrift store on Main Street, where she can’t be making even minimum wage. The fact that she was even in Lucky’s that night, and how different she looked then—grownup and sexy—from how she looked curled up in the beat-up chair in the antique shop.

Hardly a trace of makeup on her face made her appear years younger. Made her look her actual age, that is. Jeans and sneakers and a sweatshirt with a skull on it. Hair pulled back in a ponytail.

It’s hard to reconcile the two versions of her, and my heart could break—or my cock could explode—thinking about it too much.

“I’ll go down to the school and talk to her,” I hear myself saying. What the fuck, Jake? You don’t need to go there.

James shrugs. “You could just call.”

“Not going to sit around on my ass and get fat like you,” I joke. But that’s not why I’m going. Fuck if it’s not because I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of Melanie while I’m there. I’m dying to know which version I’ll see at school—the seductress from the bar or the teenager from class? I don’t want to admit it, but she’s gotten under my skin. And I want just one more glimpse of her, one more chance to peek into her life.

“Later.” I head out the door.

~~~~

Columbus High School, like everything else in the town, needs work. First, there’s the name. I thought it was a well-known fact that Christopher Columbus was an asshole, not a hero, so I’m surprised the name hasn’t been changed.

A cracked running track surrounds an overgrown football field, and the bleachers look like they’re ready to collapse. The only thing that keeps them still standing, I guess, is the fact that probably nobody attends the games anymore.

“Poor kids,” I mutter as I head to the front door and hit the buzzer.

The inside, though old, is surprisingly clean, and an attractive woman in her forties clicks down the hallway in a business suit, hand outstretched and a smile on her face.

“Hi. I’m Joan Evans, principal. Thanks for coming.”

“Detective Beck.” I shake her hand.

“Let’s talk in my office. Would you like some coffee?”

“Please.” Anything’s got to be better than the swill at the station.

She leads me into the administrative section of the building, stopping at the secretary’s desk to request some coffee. Then we head into her office.

“Please sit, Detective Beck,” she says.

“Jake. Please.”

She smiles. “Jake. I wanted to touch base with you regarding our student, Melanie Cannon, who’s in the drug program you’re teaching?”

I shift slightly and nod.

“She’s… well… I suppose I want to let you know that if there are any issues or problems, I’m willing to help solve them. I want her to complete the class with you so her record’s clean. But she doesn’t have much support at home, so I’m offering my assistance.”

I clear my throat. “Right. She seems like a good kid.” My mind, against my will, flashes back to her on my bed, pale skin on my sheets, dark red lips slightly opened, back arched… Not now, Jake. Not the fuck now.

“She is. The fact that she’s in the drug class at all might seem to indicate otherwise. But to be honest, I don’t think the drugs that were found in her locker were hers. I think she’s covering for someone.” The principal shakes her head. “Anyway, she’s one of our best students, straight A’s. And she’s been accepted to University of Chicago. A local group gave her a full scholarship. I don’t want that to be ruined. She’s only got a couple of months left till graduation.” Her voice holds a plea and a spark of determination.

“University of Chicago.” I’m impressed.

She nods. “Melanie’s extremely intelligent.”

“Well, we’ve only had one class so far, but she was fine. Did everything she was supposed to.” Of course I don’t mention the fact that I knew she’d been smoking in the bathroom. Or that we fucked.

Principal Evans nods. “I’m not asking for preferential treatment for her. Of course I’d never do that. But I’d like it if you’d call me if anything happens. If she misses a class. Or acts out. Anything. Will you call?”

“If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.” It’s obvious the principal cares a lot about Melanie, and I feel the same way, the need to protect her, like despite her tough exterior she’s actually fragile, something valuable that could break at any second.

The secretary sticks her head in. “Coffee?” She hands one mug to me and the other to the principal. Then she reaches into her pocket and dumps a handful of individual creamer containers and sugar packets onto the desk before leaving.

I sip the black coffee, relishing the fact that it’s actually hot, not lukewarm like back at the station.

Principal Evans studies my face for a few moments as if deliberating whether or not to say something more. Her eyes are kind and intelligent, and I hope she’s not intuitive enough to understand that something happened.

“I don’t know if you know this.” She sets her mug on the desk. “I think it will help you understand Melanie’s situation a little more. The scholarship she received? It’s from an organization that helps students with an incarcerated parent get through college.”

“But her mother…”

Principal Evans shakes her head. “Her father. He hasn’t been part of her life for years, as I understand it. Not consistently, at least. One of those part-time parents who comes around just enough to get a kid’s hopes up. Then takes off again.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “What’s he in for?” This wasn’t in Melanie’s file, but I’m already itching to get back to the station and do some research.

“This time? Burglary. Armed burglary? Is that a thing?”

I chuckle. “Yeah. That’s a thing. So he’s been in prison before?”

“A few times.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head slightly. “So it’s a struggle for Melanie. Everything is. She needs to get out of here. We—the responsible adults in her life—need to help her.”

Fuck. Me. Responsible adult? Talk about guilt. I manage to nod, keeping my face earnest and neutral.

She stands. “I hear you’re on loan from Chicago. Care for a tour of the school while you’re still here in Bells Park?”

I should say no. Because the only reason I want to say yes is the off-chance that I’ll catch a glimpse of Melanie. I nod. “Sure. I’d like that.”

“Great!” Principal Evans smoothes the pale green skirt of her suit and strides out of the office, gesturing for me to follow. She’s so efficient and confident I can’t help feeling like I’m back in high school, and I bite back a laugh at the thought.

We pass rows of rusty lockers in the quiet hallways; the kids are in class. Giant framed photos of graduating classes decorate the walls above the lockers. The older ones are in nicer frames, and the more recent are cheaply mounted, like the frames are from the dollar store.

As if reading my thoughts—or following my gaze—the principal says, “There’s less money these days for extra. The school needs so much physical work, but we’re struggling to get money from the state. Enrollment is way down because the population in our town is down, and there’s talk of closing this school and busing the kids over to another suburb.”

“This town.” I shake my head.

“It’s changed a lot ever since all the industry pulled out.” She sighs.

The bell rings suddenly, and within two seconds the class doors open and students rush into the halls, laughing and talking. “Hey, Principal Evans!” they say, waving and smiling at her as they walk past.

“They seem to like you,” I say. “Everyone hated the principal when I was in high school.”

She laughs. “Yeah. We had to let our school counselor go last year—funding issues—so I’ve filled that role too. Get to know the kids pretty well that way. Luckily I actually have a background in social work.”

I’m about to answer when the words get stuck in my throat. Melanie’s walking toward us, head down, staring at her beat-up red Converse sneakers, brow furrowed in concentration. Her long dark hair hangs down on either side of her face, shiny and soft, as I well fucking know. A worn-out Station Gray concert T-shirt hugs her curves, and her light blue jeans are torn up.

“Congrats on getting the highest score on the Trig test, Melanie.” Principal Evans smiles and it’s clear how much she cares about Melanie.

Melanie looks up, and I’m left breathless by those hazel eyes again, guarded but gorgeous. She grins at the principal in the split second before she sees me. And then she freezes, her cheeks turning pink before she glances down at her shoes again.

“You know Detective Beck, right?” asks the principal.

“Yeah. He’s, um, teaching the drug class thing at the library,” she mutters in her quiet, throaty voice.

“We were just talking about you.” Principal Evans puts a hand on Melanie’s shoulder.

Melanie looks up at her, and all I see is her face, pale and pretty, framed by her dark straight hair. “Yeah?” Her voice is wary, with a trace of belligerence, but she’s polite.

“We both care about you, and we’re here to help you. If you need anything, please ask. OK? We just want to get you out of here and into college. Got it?”

Melanie’s lips form a small smile. “Got it. Thanks.” Her gaze skips from Principal Evans over to me, and she gives me a smile too. A tiny one.

And I realize how screwed I am. How my heart twists in both compassion and lust. How fucked up it is that before me stands a troubled girl, and all I’ve thought about over the past two weeks is how good it felt to be buried deep inside her. But I can never touch her again.

The loudspeaker crackles. “Principal Evans? You’re needed in the office, please. Principal Evans.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to cut the tour short. They never call me unless it’s an emergency! Can you find your own way out, Detective?”

“I can.” I nod. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be in touch,” she says as she hurries away, her heels clicking.

I turn to Melanie, who’s chewing on a fingernail and gazing up at me. She looks nervous.

“I can, uh, walk you to class,” I say.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.” She shrugs.

“You into Station Gray?” I nod at her shirt as we walk down the hallway.

“They’re pretty cool. Yeah.”

“I saw them in concert. My eighteenth birthday. It was actually their last major concert.”

“Really?” She looks up at me, real interest flashing in her eyes. “Wow. I’ve never seen them perform. I got this shirt online. And now they don’t tour anymore, so.”

“They play together, still. But it’s all hush-hush. Secret concerts in bars.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “God, I’d love to hear them live. So which is your favorite song?” She says it like a challenge, like she’s testing my knowledge. But her eyes are lively, eager.

“‘Needlepoint.’”

“Uh, don’t you teach a say-no-to-drugs class? You know that song’s about heroin, right?” She gives me a sly smile.

I laugh out loud. “Yeah. Funny story. So, my grandma heard the song once, and she liked the line Sharp and pretty, thing of beauty and the title and thought it was about, you know, needlepoint? The kinds that old women do? So she played it for her friends at their sewing club. It’s kind of like their theme song now.”

“No way.” She laughs, covering her lips with her hand as she does. “I love that so much!”

“It’s pretty great.” I chuckle.

We stop outside a classroom. The door’s open, and I see the students, most already sitting in desks.

“My eighteenth birthday wasn’t as cool as yours.” She frowns and hesitates, before adding in a lower voice, “I mean, except for the part about meeting you.”

I shake my head. “Melanie,” I warn, ignoring the flicker of heat that surges through me at her words, glancing around the hallway.

“Sorry.” She puts her hand up in apology, and gives me a look I can’t interpret. “I just… most of it sucked. Like always. My mom, every year for like the past three years, says she’ll take me out for Thai food for my birthday. Cause it’s my favorite? We’d have to drive two towns away, because this shitty suburb doesn’t have any decent food. But by the time I get home from school, she’s had too much to drink and says we’ll go on the weekend instead. Except we never do. She still owes me for this year, and last year, and the one before that too. So birthdays kind of suck. And no Station Gray concerts for me.” She bites her lip and looks away, her face flushing.

Jesus fucking Christ. If she’s trying to make me feel sorry for her? It’s working.

I have no idea how to respond, but I’m opening my mouth to say something—comforting, I hope—when the bell rings.

“Gotta go,” she says and disappears into the classroom without a look back.