Page 8 of Midnight Curfew

And it’s all men, no women, even though the school is coed. That’s the way it started more than a hundred years ago, and they’re big on tradition in St. Carmen.

They meet when any topics come up for discussion or decisions need to be made regarding the landscape of the school. The faculty, admissions, construction, renovations, publicity, curriculum…

But this has never been primarily a place of education. It’s a kingdom that keeps the young in the social circles of their parents’ choice, creating a network of relationships the students can call upon down the road in their financial and political careers.

His presence here isn’t a surprise. We expected as much when we put our plans in place.

But still, I have to force my breathing to slow so he doesn’t hear it. He’s changed.

I let my gaze drop down his form, noticing the broader chest, the fucking perfect cut of his black three-piece suit and midnight-blue shirt.

He takes me in as well, and I think I almost see a glint in his eyes when he notices the grease on my white sleeves, a few smudges on my forearms. You’ll never get the Bay off me.

Finally, he turns away, inhaling sharply as he surveys my classroom. “My stepsister tells me how much she loves this room.” He pushes off the doorframe, gesturing to enter. “May I?”

Fuck off.

I won’t say that, though. Not yet. He’s essentially my boss. This whole town is.

Walking across the back of my classroom, he studies the nook in the corner Krisjen decorated with a worn leather couch and pillows slightly hidden from my view behind bookshelves. There’s a carpet on the floor and art on the wall and a green plant, and I’d much rather have had a set of darts or a video arcade to let the students blow off steam, but they seem to like this room feeling like a dark academia library, and I don’t know why I like that they like it.

His stepsister graduated a couple of years ago—finishing high school online—but she spends her days here, “assisting” me.

Really, she just hides. I look him up and down, wondering if she hides from him like she does from his father.

He turns his head toward me. “What does she do in here all day?”

“Ask her.”

“I’m asking you.”

And the last person I’m going to fucking talk about her with is you. “I can’t explain anything for her.” I take a sip of my two-day-old bourbon, disguised in the coffee cup I left on my desk on Friday afternoon after the students left. “Anna-Katherine…”

Callum’s eyes darken at me using her new name.

“…lives in a world no one else sees,” I tell him.

Maybe he thinks I’m fucking her, but I don’t fuck people I like.

He shakes his head, drifting past her favorite place to sit. “No,” he says. “She retains what’s good and buries the rest.”

Is that what he thinks? I can’t imagine he’s spent any time trying to understand her.

But then he adds, “She must feel safe here if she keeps coming back.”

I start to narrow my eyes, but I stop, keeping a straight face.

He strolls, browsing the pictures on the walls, the stacks of books on the window ledges, and the marble busts of strong, admirable men he’ll never be. I want to know if he’ll be here all summer or take off like the rest of them do. It would help solidify my plans.

But I’m not asking him shit.

“What is this?” He gestures to a porcelain sculpture of two men.

I glance at it. “Seneca, the philosopher,” I tell him. “And his student Nero.”

He studies it again, turning a slight smile on me. “Nero doesn’t look engaged in the lesson.”

The two men sit together, the old philosopher on a bench and Nero on what resembles a throne, scowling and slouching with his fists clenched.