AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Still, it doesn’t sound like they socialized in the same circles,” Joan added. She and Filipe shifted to head toward their respective cars. She opened her car door. “Do you think it’s a long con? It isn’t everyday a struggling deli owner marries a billionaire.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “I have my suspicions, but truthfully, I’ve never seen my dad like this, and he can smell a con artist from a mile off.” Mentally, I added, It isn’t like the Vaulteneau name is squeaky clean, either. People don’t accidentally become billionaires. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid.”
“Speaking of a long con, we’ll let you go so you can prepare to escort Zoey to all the ‘It’ parties tomorrow,” Filipe said, cocking an eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t take me two days to get ready for a date, asshole.”
“Indie film fest or a small gathering at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”
I flipped Filipe off but he took it in good stride, as I knew he would. Filipe had no ties to celebrities, but Joan’s family was Hollywood blue blood. The fact that she eschewed all that made her something of a rebel for celebrity gossip. She just wanted to surf, rock climb, and donate all her money to protect the environment. She’d flashed and mooned the paparazzi so many times that reputable celebrity magazines refused to buy pictures of her. The paparazzi didn’t just leave Joan alone, they actively avoided her for fear she might ruin good shots of other celebrities.
After a few minutes of additional good-natured ribbing, we made plans to link up next week. Filipe offered me a salute while Joan kissed the air, and they sped away, leaving onlookers to gawk.
On the drive home I tried to work through all aspects of my life. Coach’s pressure. Dating Zoey. Welcoming two new additions to the family. On top of that, I had to prepare for finals.
That left very little time for swimming and that’s all I really wanted to do.
5
CIARAN
The bell rang for sixth period when I knocked on Mr. Jones’s door. The sign outside his office read Andrew T. Jones, Guidance Counselor.
“I don’t like it when you ignore me, Ciaran,” Mr. Jones said by way of greeting when I entered his office. His voice was hard, demanding, and it sent a shockwave of confusing pleasure to my dick. “Lock the door.”
I did as he asked.
I was here in my free period, when students could go the library, one of the labs, or visit one-on-one with one of the counselors, just like he’d instructed me yesterday. I was wearing a loose T-shirt and baggy athletic shorts, for which I was profoundly grateful, otherwise Mr. Jones would have seen the evidence of my reaction.
Not that he didn’t know. He’d made his intentions known last year and I’d been making small overtures letting him know that I was receptive, but nervous.
He addressed me as Mr. Galbraith in the presence of others.
When it was just the two of us, he called me Ciaran in a low, almost growling tone, as if he relished the taste of my name on his lips.
Keir-en, he’d enunciate in a way to convey the existence of a secret world inhabited only by the two of us.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you, sir. With the AP exams and taking care of the deli, I’ve been busy.”
I fidgeted with the straps of my backpack before I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts.
He sat behind his desk but leaned forward to inspect me from head to toe, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. The desk was piled high with books, student folders, stacks of college brochures, and a coffee cup. He closed his laptop and set it aside.
His office was in the back of the administrative offices. A large window with gauzy curtains faced the teachers’ parking lot. Beneath it sat a leather couch big enough for two. The other wall contained a series of cabinets and a bookshelf chock full of books. Beside that stood a full-length mirror.
My reflection showed that my curly blond hair was mussed up and that my face was flushed with anticipation and nervousness. The closet in the corner of his office was cracked open. I spotted his athletic gear. He’d told me once that he’d played soccer in college, and because he was still in peak physical condition, he’d scrimmage alongside the students from time to time. I wasn’t much of a runner or a soccer player, but I enjoyed swimming at school and the local YMCA.
At twenty-eight, he was one of the youngest counselors at the school, but he’d started working here three years ago and was assigned as my mentor when my mom informed the principal that it’d be helpful for me to have a positive male role model after Grandpa Tommy died.
In the intervening years, he’d been to our apartment a number of times and I’d been to his high-rise condo on West Flamingo Road, which was Mom-approved. He must come from money to be able to afford this, she’d conjectured when he’d invited us over for dinner.
“I accept your apology, Ciaran, but I thought we were friends,” Mr. Jones remarked. His desk chair squeaked as he stood. He moved to the couch and patted the space next to him.
When we first met, I was a freshman, and he remarked about how his office was private, that the only room to share a wall with his office was a cleaning supply closet, that I shouldn’t be afraid to discuss anything with him.
Nothing can be overheard, he’d explained at the time. He wore an unassuming smile. No one will hear your secrets but me.
“We are friends.” My backpack slid to my feet at the floor as I sat beside him, sinking into the couch. I was keenly aware that he was now mere inches away. I knew what he was getting at. He insisted I use his first name when we were alone. I amended by saying, “Drew, we are friends.”
