Forbidden Heat (Firework Girls #1) (21 page)

I put my hands to my face. God, what did I just do?

I feel Jack pat my knee gently. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

I shake my head back and forth, my hands still on my face, feeling the tears swelling and threatening to break free. Jack pats my knee again and a sob breaks out of me.

“Shhh,” he says. “It’ll be okay, honey. I promise.”

But I can only crumple over my lap and cry. Jack rubs my back as I cry harder than I ever have in my life.

By the time we get back to the apartment, I’ve cried every last tear in my body and I’m spent. I’m leaning back against the seat, my head leaning on the door frame, staring out the window.

Jack turns off the truck and I sit there while he goes around to open my door. He holds his hand out to me and I take it. Feeling too heavy-limbed to carry my own weight, I slide out of the truck and lean against Jack. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, supporting me.

“One day,” he says gently, “this will only be a memory.”

“And where will I be on that day, Jack?” I ask dully. Alone? Without Shane?

He’s silent a moment as we approach the front door. He doesn’t know any better than I do.

“Happy,” he says at last. “You’ll be happy on that day.”

He tucks his head down to catch my eye. I give our Jack a weak smile as a reward for his efforts, but I really don’t believe a word he’s saying.

The dean calls early the next morning before I’ve even gotten out of bed. He informs me Shane has accepted the terms, and that I’m to stop attending his class.

“You’ll turn your final essay in to me,” Dean Jennings says brusquely. “I’ve just emailed you what you need to know. You’ll see I’ve altered the assignment to make up for you missing the last classes.”

“Okay.” Maybe I should be happy or relieved or something but I’m not. I’m glad Shane gets to keep his job. I truly, truly am and I don’t regret asking for that at all.

But this no contact thing... I feel I’ve been given a death sentence.

“I need to hear you promise me you won’t try to contact him,” Dean Jennings says. “Not in any way. And you should know, I will consider any
accidental
meeting to be deliberately breaking your promise whether it was accidental or not. Any messages delivered by friends. Any notes in a bottle.
Anything.
If I find out about anything, the deal’s off.”

“I understand. I promise. I won’t try to contact him.”

He sighs on the other side of the phone. “Fine. See that you don’t. Goodbye Isabella.”

“Dean Jennings?”

There’s silence, but he’s still there.

“I’m truly sorry I let you down.”

Silence again.

“Goodbye, Isabella,” he says, softer this time.

I look at my phone until the screen goes black, then I pull up the dean’s email. He’s more than making up for me missing the last several weeks of class. My final paper is to be 25 pages long with no fewer than seven sources and properly-formatted footnotes.

The topic?
The Ethics and Consequences of Teacher-Student Sexual Relations.

Great
.

I turn off my phone and stare at the ceiling, numb to the world.

The numbness lasts for two whole days. I only force myself to eat something small and tasteless when I’m too lightheaded to function. I largely stick to the apartment and barely even notice the stares on campus. When someone makes some stupid comment, I don’t even feel it.

In fact, I don’t feel anything at all. It’s goddamned glorious.

When the dam finally breaks, I’d give my entire world to go back to being numb.

Sam’s the first one to come home and discover me sobbing helplessly in the living room.

“Oh, honey,” she says, coming to my side. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this,” I sob. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” she says gently.

I shake my head stubbornly.

Sam sits next to me on the couch, tucking her knees up to her chest just as I’m doing. She puts her arm over my back. “You can get through this. You’re strong. You can do it.”

I can’t even answer. I just keep crying. She sits with me quietly, letting me cry myself out. At last I’m empty and quiet, my arms are wrapped around my ankles and my chin is resting on my knee.

“It’ll all blow over in a few more days,” Sam says. “People will go back to their own lives and forget to bother you. Just ride it out.”

“It’s not that,” I say dully. “It’s Shane.” My voice quivers a bit as I say his name. “I can’t stand being away from him.”

Sam rubs my back quietly for a moment. “It stopped being just fun for you,” she says softly. “Didn’t it?”

I nod.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. Sam, who thinks it’s a tragedy to fall in love.

I turn my head to look at her, resting my temple on my knees. “I’m not.”

She gives me a sympathetic look.

“I’d do it all over again,” I say. “If I could.”

Sam leans against my side and we sit there as silent tears run down my cheeks.

“Maybe this isn’t the end for you guys,” she says.

But all I hear in my head is Shane’s voice the last time I talked to him. Maybe it wasn’t hard for him to agree not to see me, because he was done anyway.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.” But I’m not feeling as hopeful as I wish I could be.

That evening we Firework Girls are gathered around the kitchen island addressing envelopes for Chloe and Brad’s wedding. They were going to secretly do it without me, to avoid hurting my feelings, but I found out and offered to help. I want to. It’s nice to think about something besides my own problems, even if just for a little bit, and it’s not Chloe’s fault this is happening. I don’t want to ruin things for her.

As I grab another envelope and check the list of addresses for the next one, we hear the front door open and shut.

“Jack?” Ashley calls.

“Yo,” we hear from the living room.

Sam hops up and scurries into the front room.

“Maybe Jack can take us to a frat party this weekend,” Chloe says, adding another completed envelope to the pile. “I don’t want to just sit around.”

“Aren’t you going out with Brad?” I ask.

“He’s so busy with school work right now. He’s got this final project that’s just killing him.”

We hear urgent whispers coming from the front room.

“Hey, what are you two whispering about in there?” Ashley asks, leaning back in her seat so she can peer into the living room.

“Nothing!” Sam calls, in her I’m-up-to-no-good voice. She and Jack come into the kitchen. They’re both eyeing me.

“What?” I ask.

As Sam settles back in her chair, Jack comes up to the island and sneaks a cookie from the plate in the middle of the island. “Nothing.” He slides next to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. “How’s my girl?”

“Fine,” I say.

I’m determined to be fine. I’ve been crying enough lately. Right now I’m just going to sit here with my girls and help Chloe with her wedding plans.

“Oh, hey,” Sam says to Jack, bouncing back out of her seat again. She crosses to the counter and retrieves her tablet. “I have something for you.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, pulling her to his chest and saying in an exaggerated Don Juan voice, “How long I’ve been waiting for this moment,
mi amore.”

“Cut it out,” she says, pushing him away and smacking his arm. “Look.”

She flips around her screen. “It’s a logo for your company.”

He takes it and looks at it. “Wow. That looks awesome! Wait, what company?”

“If you’re going to freelance, you need a company. That means logos and shit. Here look,” she says, taking the tablet back and tapping the screen. “I made you some letterhead and business cards too.”

“I don’t really have a
company,”
Jack says, as if the idea of committing to a company is as abhorrent to him as the idea of committing to a marriage. “I’m just doing some random jobs for random people.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Okay,” she says, patting him on the arm. “Well, when your
non-company
decides to interact with your clients, I mean, your
random people,
this is here if you want to use it.”

“What’s that?” he asks pointing.

“For your email signature. And this could be your website banner.”

“Oooh,” he says, taking the tablet back from her and ogling the screen. She looks up him with a satisfied grin.

He gives her a nervous glance. “But I’m not really starting a company.”

“Okay,” she says lightly. “No problem. You don’t have to start a company. It’s just stuff to look pretty. No need to panic.”

She climbs back into her seat and winks at me. I smile.

“I’m not panicking.”

“Just let me know if you want me to change anything....”

“No, it’s great. Really, Sam. Top notch.”

She smiles, addressing another envelope.

“Maybe I
could
use the website banner,” he says vaguely, wandering out of the kitchen still looking down at her tablet.

“Whatever you want sweetie,” she says, grinning.

By the time we’ve finished addressing the invitations, all three hundred and three of them, and are settling down to watch a movie, we discover what Jack and Sam were whispering about when he first got here.

“Um...” Chloe says in a strange voice. We all look at her. She’s scrolling through something on her phone. She looks up at Sam and Jack. She’s just staring at them with this weird look. I can’t tell if she’s angry or amused or what the hell’s going on, but she’s not saying a word. Just staring at them.

“What?” Ashley asks.

“Have you been on the student group page lately?” Chloe asks.

Ashley’s face hardens. “Hell, no.”

But Sam and Jack grin at each other like little partners in crime and go back to watching the screen.

“What?” I ask.

Chloe clears her throat dramatically and starts to read. “Many thanks to an anonymous source for identifying the cowardly picture taker, famous Hartman womanizer Justin Kirby.” Chloe lets her phone drop a bit as she looks at Sam. “Posted four hours ago by Samantha Lawson.”

Sam’s grinning like a lunatic. “Keep reading,” she says.

“Oh, I have,” Chloe says. “Here’s another. ‘Justin Kirby. Isn’t that the guy with a subscription to the Mickey of the Month Club?’ Posted by—”

“Jack Thomas Anderson,” Jack says proudly. “Keep going.”

I sit up straighter, looking between Sam and Jack, and Chloe, who gives me a slight grin before continuing. “Well, after a few commenters wondering if Sam really knows who took the pictures and other people saying your friends are just throwing things out there, coming to your rescue, things take an interesting turn.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, there are several derogatory comments toward our fair friend Justin Kirby. It seems more than a few guys on campus think he’s a man whore—”

“Hey, hey,” Jack says raising his hands. “Nothing wrong with being a man whore.”

“...and an ass pirate,” Chloe continues.

“Ass pirate?” Ashley says. “Is that a clever way of saying he’s a fucking rapist?”

“There are all
kinds
of comments about Kirby’s reputation for preying on women,
and
...” Chloe says meaningfully, looking at me, “there’s even a few women who admit he’s taken advantage of them.”