Everything he owns has been confiscated, waiting for the result of the trial.
Joe Causey killed my brother. He hurt Emily Rochester.
And because of him, Paige had to be without her mother for months, believing she was dead.
That alone would be enough for me to hate the man, but he also threatened Jane.
He knows she’s important to me. He’s willing to use her to hurt me. The thought is strong enough that I want to stride into that tall, white brick building and find her, drag her out of her meeting with the admissions counselor and hold her until I can stop this hollow fear inside me.
But I don’t. I continue to lounge against the tree, pretending not to notice when girls give me furtive looks, when they point at me and then giggle with their friends. I suppose some guys would be flattered. Some guys might even see it as an opportunity, a quick fuck with a beautiful young girl. I don’t want that. And the only thing it makes me feel is guilt because I did use Jane. I’m still using her, if I’m honest.
I text Mateo.
“Are you watching the girls?”
“Yes,” comes the answer right away.
He knows what I mean. The girls are Emily and Paige.
Mateo never got along with Emily, but I still trust him to look after her. And he’s like an uncle to Paige.
With the college tour ending late in the day, we’re going to be out of town until tomorrow. At least Mateo’s there to make sure they’re okay, to make sure the paparazzi don’t get too close to them.
That’s part of why I’m here. I would’ve wanted to come with Jane anyway, on her tour, as moral support, but I’m also here to make sure the paparazzi don’t mess with her.
I have no problems introducing them to my fist.
Sunlight glints off glass as the large doors open and Jane emerges. She’s wearing jeans and tennis shoes, a plain T-shirt and a light jacket. Her hair is down, loose in the wind. It’s a casual look, but one that takes my breath away. She’s beautiful. Seeing her again, even after only thirty minutes, makes my heart squeeze with happiness and with fear. I don’t want to hurt her.
A black woman follows her out. I remember her as the advisor who welcomed her. They cross over to me and the woman introduces herself. “Mary,” she says, smiling. “And you must be Beau Rochester.”
I give a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
She’s an older woman. I wonder if she’s judging me. If she knows how wrong it is for a man with my age and my power and my will to be with a woman like Jane.
There’s wisdom in her eyes, though no censure.
“She’s told me a lot about you,” Mary says. “I understand that you’re supportive of her goals. That you talked her into coming to the campus tour.”
I make a short, affirmative sound.
Jane gives me a curious look. I’m usually not so surly with someone who’s being nice, but I can’t help it. Being here makes me restless.
Being on a campus that just emphasizes my wrongness to Jane.
Being out in public where paparazzi could confront her at any moment.
Being faced with this woman, this advisor, who doesn’t really know Jane, but in some ways is in a position to take her away from me.
Mary nods. “I’m glad she could come. She would definitely flourish if she lived here in one of the dorms with easy access to the other students, to the study groups, to the professors.”
“Oh, no,” Jane says. She sounds a little shy but still resolved. “I’m definitely still interested in the correspondence courses. I prefer it that way.”
Mary smiles. “That will be a loss to our classrooms, but I understand you have to do what’s right for you.” They say their goodbyes. I nod to the advisor, who walks away.
Jane looks at me, her expression worried. “Are you okay?”
I ignore the question and point instead to the booths. “Do you want to look around?”
Her dark eyes take in the bustle. “No. Mary gave me the date and time for a meetup with other prospective students who hadn’t made a final decision yet, but…” Jane blushes. “People who she thought were passionate about their education. But maybe we can walk along the path. There’re so many trees here. And old stately buildings. Just imagine everyone who’s learned here over the decades.”
I take her hand and we turn down a wide cobblestone path, dappled with sunlight streaming through the trees. As we leave the courtyard, things become quiet. Buildings surround us.
This is where her classes would be if she came to campus. They’re empty now. School is on break.
She’s the one who reaches for my hand. Usually, I can’t stop touching her. I can’t stop holding her hand, her waist, her shoulder. I can’t stop feeling her smooth skin, but it burns now when she reaches for me. I have to grit my teeth in order to keep holding her hand.
Guilt, that’s what this feeling is.
We walk in silence for five minutes. Ten.
Squirrels wander around the lawn, clearly used to humans. They look at us, interested, hoping we might have a pizza crust to throw their way. The buildings feature architecture from every decade.
“You should come here,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, her voice animated. “I’m really leaning toward this place. I mean, the school in Connecticut had such a strong social services program, but I really feel like there’s something about this one that clicks with me. It’s smaller, but there’s also going to be more opportunities.”
“No,” I say. “I mean, you shouldn’t do the correspondence courses. You should come here. You should stay on campus.”
Her expression falls. “Beau, we’ve been over this.”
“And I’m going over it again,” I tell her. “And again, until you do what’s right for you, instead of what I want.”
She stops on the path and faces me. “What about what I want?”
And then I can’t resist any longer. I touch the soft, tender flesh of her neck and then reach around behind to pull her close. “You’re too young to know what you want,” I tell her. “How do you know you don’t want some frat boy or some brooding artist? You don’t know. You can’t, not until you actually experience this the right way.”
“The right way?” she says, scoffing. “What is the right way?”
“Like everyone else,” I tell her. “You deserve to have this, like everyone else.”
She feels so good against my body. I pull her close and kiss her.
It’s a direct denial of every word I’ve been saying.
The way that I kiss her is full of possession. My words tell her to leave, but my hands pull her close. My words push her away, but my mouth tells her she’s mine.
I slide my tongue against hers in sensual demand.
And she moans into my mouth. Anywhere, anywhere. I can have her anywhere, that’s what she’s telling me, but it feels manipulative. God, I’m a selfish bastard.
I want to take her into a classroom and bend her over the teacher’s desk. I want to spank her until her ass is red. And then I want to fuck her. It would be a game between us, a game where I’m the professor and she’s the student. A game where I have all the power and she bends to my will.