Good Girls Lie(29)
With one exception. Everyone knows Ivy Bound can get too intense. Every year, they skirt the edges of what’s allowable, and Ford has had to have a word with their leaders before. But not recently.
She wonders who’s taken over Ivy Bound this year. If pushed to guess, Becca Curtis would be the most likely candidate.
Becca, again.
Ford makes a mental note to have a private word with the girl in the morning. Ford has been accused of being too lenient in the past, but this is her school. Her duty. The girls are, on the whole, incredibly well behaved. She’s found that giving responsibility and expecting maturity works. Ford’s hands-on approach nips problems in the bud.
She doesn’t want to make the same mistakes her mother did. The school can’t survive another scandal like that.
She sits back in the chair, the sexy line of dialogue she was about to commit to paper retreating. Perhaps writing isn’t the solution to her insomnia. Perhaps she needs a different release.
It’s been a few days; she’s feeling the pleasant pull of abstinence coupled with desire. She checks the clock, it’s just past eleven. Not too late for a caller. Maybe he’ll stop by, unbidden, maybe he won’t. Their affair is casual, mutually beneficial, and totally, completely against the rules. That’s what makes it so fun.
She shoots off a text and immediately receives a smiley face with a wagging tongue and the number ten in response. She likes the fact that he responds so quickly when she beckons. He’s happy to be of service, asks nothing of her in return. He’s not been burned by a woman before, his heart is still open, free. Undamaged.
She texts back—Careful of the stomp—gets a thumbs-up.
It wouldn’t do for one of the girls to spy him entering her cabin in the dark.
She abandons the typewriter, opens her Clairefontaine notebook, runs a finger down the lines, the indentations made by her pen. She knows what the words say, doesn’t bother reading them, comforts herself in the knowledge of their existence. Words are going to get her out of here one day.
The novel she’s working on is good. Better than good, it might even be great. If she can bring herself to finish. And once she’s finished, if she can bring herself to submit. She’s such a private person, she’s afraid of what might happen. To have her words, her story, in the hands of a stranger. To draw out a laugh, to bring a tear to their eye, to make them smile and feel fulfilled—this is her calling. Goode is her job, but her destiny lies ahead.
Who will take over as dean, though, Ford? A Westhaven has always run the school, it’s tradition. You wouldn’t shirk your responsibility to the family, to the school, to our ancestors.
Go away, Mother. You had your chance, and you fucked it up. My school now, my decisions.
Ford will take a pen name, this she’s already decided. Her name is awkward at best: Ford Julianne Westhaven is a mouthful, too long for a cover treatment. F.J. West is her current favorite. Ford is her grandfather’s name, both Julianne and Westhaven vestiges of the school’s founding. She doesn’t know her real father, only remembers the cheerful, kind Santa Claus who raised her while her mother worked and worked, keeping Goode in check.
Cliff Morley died quietly in his sleep when Ford was sixteen. She misses him still.
All she wants is to move forward, to make a life for herself, a name for herself. But Goode has drawn her back into the muck of her mother’s disastrous life choices. She is mired in the past.
Then again, this angst makes good writing fodder.
Ash Carlisle is reinventing herself. Perhaps that’s why Ford can’t get the girl off her mind. A phoenix from the ashes, Ash is, exactly what Ford wants for herself.
Is she really jealous of a sixteen-year-old orphan? Is this the emotion she’s been carrying around, this mild obsession with the girl?
“Don’t be stupid, Ford.” She slaps closed the notebook. Her date is arriving soon.
In the kitchen, she fixes two drinks, an old-fashioned with her new favorite recipe: Basil Hayden’s whiskey, four dashes of orange bitters, a splash of simple syrup infused with cloves, a bourbon-smoked cherry for each glass, plus a lovely round ball of ice that she’ll add when he arrives. Symbolism is everything in a cocktail.
There is a soft knock at the door. Ford loosens the tie on her robe, pinches her cheeks and bites on her lower lip to make it swell, drops the ice in the glass, and answers the door with his drink in her hand.
“Welcome.”
He slinks in the door. Before the latch is set, he has her up against the wall. He is taller than she is by a few inches now, arms powerful and smooth, lips against her neck.
“I missed you,” is all he says. He is already hard and has her legs around his waist and is inside her before she has a chance to blink.
No words needed, no foreplay, no candles and roses. Just raw, hot desire, satisfied. They both take and take and take. They rarely give.
The whiskey sloshes out of the glasses as he strokes her, in and in and in again, until the release builds like a wave, a scream, and he is right there with her, ready to go.
“Come for me,” he says, and she does.
* * *
There is no cuddling. They sit at the table, refreshed drinks in their hands.
She asks about his day. Tells him she’s worried about a student.
He tells her she always feels this way the first week of school, not to be nervous.
He finishes his drink, tossing it back, gives her a long, searching kiss, then leaves, whistling, his whiskey-tinged breath lingering on her lips as the door shuts behind him.