Third Date (5 page)

I hope she's ready for me.

No one's ever ready for me. When I get involved, I change people's lives.

The hard soles of our shoes echoed in the barren and quiet halls. Following the overly round man, he continued with his tour speech. “We tell all the kids when they get here, to think of this school as a baseball field. My office is home plate, and our kindergarten rooms are set in the outfield.”

Nodding with fake interest, I pretended to jot down notes in my file. What he didn't realize was my file wasn't for his school, it was for Kinsley. My notes on the women—
and men
— I've helped, were my lifeline. The smallest detail to some, could potentially make the greatest difference in finding what they're looking for.

And I wanted it all.

From their most obscure tick, to their favorite food, their craziest secret. It was all important, far more meaningful than most could ever understand. That's why I was so damn good at what I did, I paid attention to the details.

In the past, I've even gone as far as to take on those who had stuffed their lives into the giant forms you fill out on those online dating sites.

Fucking waste of time,
in my opinion.

Computer programs can do a lot of great things, but they're not human. Only a living, breathing, thought-filled person could understand emotions, histories, likes and dislikes. That wasn't something you could cram into an endless list of questions, and leave to the device of a data-simulated connection.

But most of the people I've come across were nothing like Kinsley, I already knew that from the first time I saw her.

She was beautiful, truly beautiful in the most meaningful form of the word.

I didn't expect that.

For the first time ever, I had been completely blown away.

Her eyes glistened with a reflective softness, and when I met her gaze, a shiver of gold lightening raced down my spine. The feel of her skin was as delicate as summer rain on a petal; warm and sweet.

I had to reel myself in, remind myself of why I was there. It was a job, that was it.

I felt it, and forced it away.

But the feeling that raked my spine was dangerous; far too dangerous to indulge.

“Here we are, Mr. Torres.” Holding out his arm, the principal folded his lips in a forced smile. “Ms. Davidson is probably in the middle of art class right now, according to her lesson plan.” Raising a fist, he knocked briefly, and popped the door open.

Both of us stood motionless, eyes trying to read the sight before us. From the look on her face, sheer horror had stiffened her muscles to rigid bark.

What the hell is that?

Is that what I think it is?

Kinsley

T
oday felt like it was going to be a great day. I had a new breath of air that cascaded through my lungs when I woke up this morning, a new skip to my step when I launched myself out the door to work.

The sun was shining, the sky was crystal clear and blue as the ocean. And every inch of my body felt lighter, less heavy and shattered than it had been in an extremely long time.

Nothing was going to bring me down today.

I didn't exactly know where the new found feeling crept in from, but I embraced it. And why the hell not?

My friend Lynn was right, Fay had a great life. I had been able to create everything she needed, and now it was time for me try something new. To open myself up finally and try to find happiness for myself, I deserved that.

“Alright guys, I'm excited to see what you made. I hope you all picked a really delicious food, actually I'm sure you all did.” Coasting through the classroom, the small children were all huddled around circle tables, adding the finishing touches to their art work.

Art class was one of my favorite times with the kids. Their creativity shined, their imaginations soared to wonderous places that an adult could never imagine.

Because as we grew, our world and thoughts had changed. Our mind understood the difference between fact and fiction, tangible and dreamy. We had lost our ability to conjure up whimsical fairy tales, and envision the impossible.

But a child, a child's imagination was pure. Imagination ruled their life, and the idea that if you can think it, dream it, draw it... Anything was tangible.

The innocence in their eyes and windmill of churning desire to see the unseen, it was a beautiful thing. And that's what made my job amazing.

“Sara, what did you make?”

The tiny girl popped up, her toothless grin etched across rosy cheeks. “I made an apple, I love apples.” Her eyes fell to the large red fruit in her hands. “I miss apples, Mommy says I have to wait till my teeth come back.”

“That won't be long, Sara,” I said, bending to my knees and scooping the picture from her hands. “You'll be eating these again in no time.” Stepping to the giant cork board against the wall, I pinned her fruit in place.

“Okay...” Scanning the room, I picked another student. “Dante, what did you make?” Folding my hands together, I walked to his table.

“I... I made eggs. Two eggs, see?” Taking a single finger, he jabbed the crayon picture. “One, two. Eggs are good, but my grandpa says they are loaded with clor.est.rolping.”

“Well, it sounds to me like your grandpa is just trying to keep himself healthy. Great job, it's going up.” Sticking it with the small tack, I secured it to the brown cushion.

“Ms. Davidson, I finished mine.” Christopher, a petite boy with jet black hair, stood and walked towards me.

“Excellent, what food did you make?” I asked, wiggling my fingers with excitement.

“Here,” he said, holding out a long piece of construction paper.

Lifting the oddly cut paper, I examined the shape, and colored scribbles.

What is it?

Veering my stare, I twisted it around in different directions, holding it up to the lights, and hovering it over the floor. “Um, Chris...”

My chest pounced with nerves, lip twitching with an uncomfortable snap. I wasn't sure what he had tried to make, but what it looked like didn't resemble any food I  could think of.

Knock Knock

“Ms. Davidson...” The door sprung open, and to my shock, there stood Principal Clint with the one man I didn't think I would see again till the weekend.

Layne.

What's he doing here?

Oh, shit.

Why is he here?

Both their eyes bulged from the sockets, heads slowly tilting to their shoulders. The blood drained from Principal Clint's face as his brows arched in a curiosity that made my lungs trap all the air inside.

My eyes dropped to my hands, the elongated shape of a giant construction paper penis, was stiffly gripped in my fingers. “Mr. Clint, hey—hi—hello. I mean hello, Principal Clint.”

“What's going on here?” He demanded, the whites of his eyes scaled with red veins I could see from ten feet away.

“Well... The kids were all making healthy food pictures to hang in the classroom. Chris here, he made... Uh... Um...” Twisting the curved, fiber erection in my hands, I didn't know what the hell to say. I literally had no idea what the kid was going for with this one.

The peach colored paper was wider and circular at the base, reminding me of testicles, the shape then thinned and morphed into a long shaft that mushroomed at the tip. But what food it was supposed to be— No fucking clue.

My palms began to sweat, chest inhaling short bursts of oxygen as I searched my blank mind for anything to give it a name other than a penis.

But that's exactly what it looked like, and from the looks on Layne and the principal... They saw it too.

“And this food... This food is... Uh...”
Damnit! Anything, say anything!

But what? What the hell is this?

Tugging on my skirt, Chris asked, “Aren't you going to hang my cashew now? I learned from my mom they have a lot of probean in them.”

A relieved breath escaped my lips, as an itching laughter bellowed from my throat. “A cashew, it's a cashew,” I said, bouncing my eyes between Mr. Clint and Layne. “Yes, Chris, I was just about to hang it, thank you.”

I'm definitely going to label these later.

A Cashew, huh?

What did he walk in on one night?

Chuckling to myself with the idea that this poor kid's mother possibly had to explain away a much more difficult conversation, my mind immediately shot back to the fact that Layne was standing in the doorway with the principal.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Clint raised his arm to Layne's shoulder. “Ms. Davidson, this is Mr. Torres from the school department. He'll be spending some time in here today for observation of your teaching techniques. Please be courteous, and remind the children not to bother him too much so he can do what he came here for.” Patting Layne's thick muscled back, the principal swiped a hand over the top of his head, smoothing the lonely patch of hair.

I was speechless, confused, and had no idea what the hell he was doing here, or if I had just been dooped the other night.

Is this really happening?

Thinking quickly, I said, “Alright, children, it's time for snack. Everyone place your picture on my desk and head to your cubbie.” My heels clicked in my ears like a death sentence, each tap bringing me closer and closer to my executioner. “What the hell is going on? You work for the school too?”

A sultry smile spread across his lips, chin tilting in the air. “No, no, no. I just told good old Mr. Magoo that to get in here.”

My hands clutched my sides, hip kicking out. “Do you know how bad that is? You lied to my boss for what reason,
why are you here?”

Layne's thumb skipped like a firm stone across his jaw, riding with precision down his throat. My eyes followed his thick finger, a warm tingle spreading over my belly as he hit the hollow of his neck. “Ms. Davidson,” he said with a smooth baritone voice, “This is all part of our agreement. I need to learn in order to help, this is step one.” Smacking the folder in his palm, a deep chuckle left his lips.

Step one? What the hell is he doing?

“Do you realize that your being here can put my job at risk? Or your freedom? He could call the cops, have me fired. If the principal finds out that you're not who you said you were...” Pausing, I squeezed my lips together. “Layne, this is crazy, you shouldn't be here.”

“That's where you're wrong, this is exactly where I need to be.” Slipping past me, he strolled with finesse through the miniature tables and chairs. “Just go about your class as usual, and pretend I'm not here.” Lowering into a chair that I expected to buckle with even half the weight he was putting on it, Layne pulled a piece of paper from his folder, and a pen from his suit pocket.

He can't be serious.

He really isn't worried about what type of trouble he—we, could get into?

The children all eyed the new stranger, curiosity washing their faces. Every tiny set of eyes were trained on the mysterious man in the back, bodies turned awkwardly to stare at the newcomer to our class.

Inhaling a large breath of air, I clapped my hands loudly. “Okay, kids, everyone put on your listening ears. We have someone special with us for a little while today, his name is Mr. Torres, please say hello to Mr. Torres.”

As if a giant megaphone had just dropped from the ceiling, every tiny voice turned into one large explosion. “Hello, Mr. Torres.”

Layne smiled, waving a gentle hand. “Hello, small humans.”

Small humans? Really?

He can't have any experience with kids.

“Alright, now that that's done, let's get back to work. It's narrator time, everyone go sit crisscross applesauce on the rug.”

Each chair in the room screeched as they were pushed across the tiles, the light patter of feet hit the walls as the children all took their designated letter seat on the rug.

I tried desperately to ignore the man candy sitting in the rear of my room, but I could feel him watching me like a hawk. Each movement I made, his eyes burned into my back, watching, observing, writing.

What's he writing?

What the hell does he think he's going to get from this?

I don't care, I'm working.

A part of me was slightly pissed that he had the balls to invite himself into my classroom only to watch me.

Me.

I was teaching a group of children how to read... How to write... What the hell did that have to do with my personal life?

What did his being here have to do with helping me to date, or even find a reason to want to date again?

Nothing. This had nothing to do with it.

But the entire time he sat there he wrote and jotted down notes. His face made small twitches as he followed me around the room, his hand repeatedly raising to the paper to put down something he thought he saw, or noticed.

At least that's what I figured anyway. I honestly didn't have a damn clue what he was really writing down. And I tried to sneak a peek, several times.

I hate secrets. Why is he blocking the notes?

If it's about me, shouldn't I be able to read them?

But each time I thought I could grab a glance at his hand drawn words, he would cover them up with his palm.

Layne at one point even tisked me under his breath as I tried to manipulate my position to take a glance. “Uh, uh, uh. No peeking, Ms. Davidson.” His barely audible words floated through the air on tiny feathers.

Grimacing, I directed my attention back to the kids and their efforts to practice writing the new sight words we had worked on.

As the lunch bell rang, the children all burst from their seats, running to grab their lunch boxes. Glancing over at Layne, he stood from his tiny refuge in the back, stretching his legs. “Alright, I think I've seen enough for today. I'll call you in a few days and we can set up another a meeting.”

“Another meeting? You'd call this a meeting?” Crossing my arms tight over my chest, my head cocked to the side.

Layne's eyes dipped to my breasts, following my neckline up. His gaze drifted over my lips, my eyes, then back to my lips. With his subtle movements my body shivered, muscles tensing up with electrified jolts that burned into my core.