Twisted Proposal (17 page)

Five minutes later, he dried off my hand and wrapped it in a dark blue handkerchief. For the first time in two days, I paused to take a good look at him. If I wanted a guy from the rich side of town, he was standing right in front of me. Flawless skin and hair and eyes that seemed to peer into your soul. No imperfections.

“I want to know what my father’s up to. Tell me why I’m here,” I pleaded.

“You know I can’t tell you that.” He kissed me and a rush of adrenaline, mixed with desire, rocked my body. I returned the intense kiss. He lifted me up on the counter and I slid my non-sore hand down his flat abs and inside his pants. I pushed my tongue inside his mouth. He moaned. One of his hands went up my shirt and l wrapped my legs around his waist, grinding against him.

Everything was moving so fast. There was no way I was having sex in a public bathroom, so I settled on a hand job. Right before he came, I bit down on his lip. He tried to pull away, but I squeezed my legs together, locking him in. He was trapped. I released him, and he fell against me, breathing hard.

I pushed him away and began washing my hands.

“You fuckin’ bit me.” He probed his lip to make sure I hadn't broken the skin. I hadn't.

“And you liked it.” I grabbed a few paper towels and unlocked the door. Morgan nearly pitched forward on her face.
Had she been listening?
She had a strange expression on her face. Disgust? Fear? Jealousy? The last possibility gave me a chill, because it made the most sense.

“He’s all yours,” I said as I breezed past her to the table.

“Where did you go?” Zach asked as I sat down.

“The bathroom.”

“Did you see Jackson or his step-mom? They disappeared after you.”

“Nope,” I lied. Zach gave me a sharp look; he knew I was lying. I grabbed one more bite of spaghetti and then tossed my napkin on the chair. “Are you finished? I want to go home.”

“Wait, Miss?” The old man who was sitting next to us rose slightly and motioned for me to come closer. 

“Uh, yah?” I hoped he wasn’t going to give me his phone number.

The old man glanced toward the bathrooms. “You should stay away from that boy. He’s nothing but trouble,” he whispered, then returned to his seat just as Jackson walked in.

“Where are you going?” Jackson asked. He spoke to me but kept his gaze focused on the old man.

              “It’s time for us to leave.” I grabbed Zach and marched down the stairs to the waiting Bentley.
Should I be ashamed of what I just did
? At least I knew one thing: I was pretty sure Morgan was fucking Jackson.

Chapter Seventeen

Back at the house, Zach and I went our separate ways. I showered and was going to take a nap, but Stuart was waiting for me when I came out of the bathroom.

“What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I had wrapped the handkerchief around my knuckles so no one could see how swollen it had become.
I should probably get some ice.

“We have a meeting at Briarwood Academy in an hour, so you need to change into this.” He handed me a gray skirt and a white blouse. It was hideous. “Wear black shoes.”

              He left without another word.

I stared at the ugly outfit.
I hoped this wasn’t the uniform.
But I did as I was told and changed.

“Dean Marshall is doing me a great favor by meeting with us so late in the day and on a Sunday,” Stuart explained when I walked into the living room where Petra and he were sitting on the couch.

              “Are you trying to embarrass me?” Lexus shrieked, as she dashed into the room.

              Petra stood. "What now?”

              Lexus turned toward me, her eyes blazing. “Why didn’t you tell me you had lunch with Jackson? I’ve lived here my whole life, and you’re here for like two minutes and already had lunch with him and his mother. This is
so
unfair!” She glared at me once more and stomped off.

              “You had lunch with the Van Burens?” Stuart questioned.

              I shifted my feet; the shoes pinched my toes. “It wasn’t like it was planned. I think Jackson’s following me or something. You wouldn’t know anything about that, Stuart, would you?”

He didn't answer.

              “Nonsense, why would he follow
you
?” Petra snarled before she disappeared into the other room, probably going to comfort Lexus, who seemed to fall apart over every little slight.

              “Come on. Let's go.” Stuart said leading the way.

              We had just reached the foyer near the front door when Zach came running toward us. “Hey, Addison, you remember that old man at the restaurant?” 

              “You mean the one that kept watching at us at lunch?”

              “Yeah, him." He glanced curiously at my outfit. "You going to Briarwood?"

              "Zach--" Stuart began, but I cut him off.

"The old man? What about him?" I asked.

              "He was talking to you, right? What'd he say to you?" Zach asked.

“Why?” I asked Zach.

              “Because he’s dead now. You might have been the last person he spoke to.”

              For a second I couldn’t believe it. “How...how did he die?”

              “Oh he fell down the steps; Blake said there was blood all over the place.” Zach said going back to his chair.

              I caught my breath and leaned against the tall table with the lilies. I couldn’t shake the memory of the way Jackson had stared at the man. He had been so jealous, like he was threatened by the old guy or something.

“Are you ready?” Stuart asked, interrupting my thoughts.

              “What? Yeah, I guess.” I turned to Zach. "I've gotta go, but let's talk later, okay?"

              "Sure." Zach grinned. "Spooky, huh?" He headed toward the game room.

              “Petra, honey, we’re leaving,” Stuart shouted, but she didn’t reply. He sighed, and I followed him outside. Even though the sun was shining, I shivered.
What if Jackson pushed that man down the stairs?

”It will mean a lot to me if you were accepted," Stuart said as we got into his dark blue Town Car. "I've been trying to get my kids into this school for some time now. But their grades weren’t high enough.”

“What’s so special about Briarwood?”

              “It’s one of the top schools in the state. Get good grades here, and you’ll be accepted by any college you want.”

              “Oh.”

              “And now that we're alone, we need to talk about your little drinking problem.”

              I squirmed in my seat. ”I don’t have a problem.”

              “Well, if you get into Briarwood, you can’t be going to school drunk. They won’t have it. I won’t have it. Get it together, Addison. Otherwise, things are going to be a lot harder for you than they have to be.”

              “Is that a threat?”

              He frowned at me and turned on the radio. I guess the discussion was over. So much for me thinking my occasional drinking was invisible. I wondered if he had noticed the drinking or if Jackson had mentioned something to him. We drove the rest of the way in silence except for the annoying pop music coming through the car speakers.

              As we passed through the dark green painted gate that protected the school, I felt the uncertainty of the day replaced with anxiety. Briarwood Academy reminded me more of a college than a high school. I glanced around, taking in the well-kept campus. There were at least four large two-story red brick buildings, with the largest resembling a church with its tall steeple.

Green grass and shade trees lined the wide walkway, and I imagined my mother and aunt in their school uniforms going to class.
This was it!
I recognized the bench from the photo I had back at home. Now I knew I had to get in to Briarwood
.

Stuart parked in one of the visitor lots, and I watched as a few students passed us. None of them were wearing uniforms, it was Sunday after all.

“Come along. W
e
don’t want to be late,” Stuart said.

We entered the Lucas James Administration Building and walked down a hall with a freshly polished wood floor that smelled faintly of lemon and wax. I stared at framed pictures of the current and past students and tried to find my mother’s signature blonde hair but didn’t see anything that stood out. It seemed everyone was a blonde here.

              “Do you know where we're going?”  I asked after we had stopped for the third time at an office that wasn’t the Dean’s.

“Yes, I’m just being sure.”

“Right.” He was uncertain about something, but I continued to follow him. A few minutes later, arrived in front of a solid oak door with a brass nameplate on it engraved with the name, "Dean Marshall." Stuart took a deep breath and knocked.

              “Come in,” a woman’s voice called and we entered an office and were greeted by a receptionist.

“We’re here to see Dean Marshall?” Stuart stated.

“Of course, just one moment,” the woman stood up and disappeared through a door, shutting it softly behind her.

“Are you sure we have an appointment?” I asked, my stomach doing flip flops.

The lady returned smiling, “Dean Marshall will see you now,” she said holding the door open. Stuart took the lead. I trailed behind him.

A plum-colored Persian rug covered the majority of the floor, and a few tired houseplants tried to make the place warm, but they didn’t help.  An air of coldness smothered the room; even the books that lined the walls seemed frozen in time. It was as if the sun never shined in this space.

The screech of a high-pitched whistle made me jump. A sterling silver teapot on hotplate in the corner spouted steam.

The old woman behind the desk rose, retrieved the pot, and carefully filled her China tea glass before walking past me to retrieve a tea bag from an ornate tin canister sitting on a window sill. I hated the way she blatantly disregarded me; it was as if I wasn’t even there.

She returned to her desk and continued writing and stirring her tea.
How rude!
I managed to keep my composure, unlike Stuart, who fidgeted and squirmed. I shot him a nasty glare, but he cleared his throat.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” the woman said with a hint of annoyance.

“Of course. Take your time,” Stuart said and slid into one of the dark brown leather chairs facing the desk. I remained standing.

The woman glanced at me and then sideways at Stuart. She rose and rested her skeleton-like hands on the edge of her desk. No smile graced her aged face, and her dark eyes seemed to soak up all the life in the room, leaving a foul taste in my mouth.

“Mr. McDaniel, I presume?” she asked, extending her stick-like hand. Stuart took it.

              “It’s very nice to meet you,” gushed Stuart.

              “And you’re Addison?” She didn't offer me her hand.             

“Nice to meet you,” I forced. She surveyed me like a piece of property as she returned to her chair.

              “I must say you resemble your mother.” She jotted something down on a yellow legal pad. “Mr. McDaniel, did I say you could sit?” 

              “Uh…” Stuart started.

              Dean Marshall lifted and eyebrow at him.

              “No, Ma'am. You did not.” He stood, embarrassed, playing with his tie. I think I liked this lady.

              “You both may sit now,” she instructed, and we did. “Now tell me, Mr. McDaniel, how is it that you've never brought Addison here before? Don’t tell me she’s been attending the worthless public schools?”

              “Her mother died and…” He glanced over at me. “And now she lives with me. I was thinking with her test scores, she might be able to attend this school.”

              “You have two other children, correct?”

              “Yes.”

I could see beads of sweat forming on his brow.

              “What makes you think she’s any different?” she inquired, as she sat back and crossed her arms.

              “Well I--“

              “You didn’t raise her,” she answered, cutting him off. She turned toward me. “Where are you from?” Her cold eyes bored into my soul.             

“Illinois, near Chicago,” I managed.
Why was it so hot in here?

              “So because she scores a
little
high on some basic tests and on the honor roll in
public
high school, you think she is deserving of a Briarwood Education?” she challenged, shaking her head. “Shame on you, Mr. McDaniel, you should know better than that.” She slid on her reading glasses.

              “You’re right. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Stuart rose and motioned for me to do the same.

              “Sit down, McDaniel. I didn’t say she wasn’t in. She’ll need to pass the required assessment exams. I’ll have the scheduling department make an appointment for you.” As she made the call, I met her stare; I wanted her to know that I wasn’t afraid of her, even if my insides were shaking.

              “I’m finished with you, Mr. McDaniel. Please wait outside.” She waved a hand for him to leave.

              “I’ll see you when you’re finished,” he told me. Then thanked Dean Marshall for her time and rushed out the door.

              “I’m Dean Marshall, and you may call me Dean Marshall, nothing else. I’m here on a Sunday, because your father has some very powerful friends who tell me you might have potential in the world of academia. What do you think?”

              “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

              “At least you’re modest. Before you came to live with your father, where did you attend school?”

             
Was she joking,
I’m sure she had all of my records sitting right in front of her. “I’m sure already know that I was at the top of my class at Roosevelt High.”

              She chuckled. “You’re correct. I understand you were planning on applying for the accelerated pre-med program at Stanford?”

I didn’t respond.  Now I was in shock. It didn’t surprise me that she knew I was interested in pre-med, but only Dr. Franklin and Elizabeth knew that I wanted to get into Stanford’s accelerated program.

              “I can tell you’re going to be a lot of fun. We need that around here. I sometimes think everyone is sleepwalking.” She leaned forward. “So that being said, what kind of doctor are you planning on becoming: general practitioner, anesthesiologist, surgeon, perhaps?”

“General practitioner and possibly working in the ER. Maybe some research.”

              “Fast pace and under pressure your thing?” she said, smiling.              

“You could say that.”

              “Interesting…”

              She wrote something else down, which bothered me. Who knew what was on that piece of paper.  Minutes later, she pushed back her chair and towered over me. “Do you have any final deciding factors for me to consider?”

              “No. I’ll make it to Stanford with or without this school,” I wanted her to know that I didn’t need her prep school. Her eyes widened, and she pursed her mouth in disapproval.
Maybe that wasn’t the best idea in the world.

              “How would you feel about a tour?” She smiled.

              “Okay,” I forced out.
Maybe I was wrong about her.