Hall, Jessica by Into the Fire

hand.
    Sable shifted in her seat and wrapped her arms around herself.
    Before she'd left the dorm, she'd tucked her new gloves in her
purse so they wouldn't get dirty. Having saved up her tips, she'd taken the
long bus ride to the city to buy them. Ml the other girls wore white gloves to
the senior dances, and Sable hadn't wanted to embarrass Jean-Del by showing up
with bare hands. Bad enough she'd had to make over one of her mother's dresses
to have something decent to wear.
    Thank goodness she hadn't put them on; they would have been ruined
by the mud.
    "Euuww." One of the girls pointed at Sable's mud-smeared
fingers. "If she's serving the punch, I'm not touching it!"
    "I don't want to do this," one of the other girls said,
sounding a little frightened. She was a petite blonde, the quietest one of the
group. "Let's go now."
    The boy with her had scoffed. "What are you, afraid of a
coon-ass?"
    Sable hadn't been foolish and shouted at them. That would have
only made things worse. Besides, she could always wash her hands. She looked at
the girl who had tried to stop them, saw the pity in her eyes. She tried making
an appeal to her. "Please, I have to go. I don't want to be late."
    The girl looked as scared as she felt, but Sable's plea made no
difference to the others. "What's the matter," another girl had
cooed. "Afraid he'll stand you up for someone with shoes?"
    Trying to run only got her shoved back again, and this time she
went down, face first. Mud splattered her face, her hair, and the front of her
dress. While the others laughed, she stayed down, knowing it was over then,
wishing she were dead. This wouldn't wash off. She couldn't go to the dance;
she couldn't be with Jean-Del.
    They would never let them be together. "I promised him I
wouldn't be late," was all she could think. "He's going to be so
upset."
    Everyone laughed as she got up on her hands and knees.
    "I think she needs a little bath," one of the girls
drawled.
    The one girl who had protested tried to stop them. "Don't do
this, she's had enough!"
    The boy carrying the bucket shrugged the girl off and then tossed
the contents of the bucket at Sable.
    She didn't know where they'd gotten the duckweed—they were twenty
miles from the nearest bayou. But suddenly she was covered with the slimy green
stuff, and soaked with the cold, brackish brown water it had grown in. All she
could do was shield her head with her arms and keep her eyes and mouth closed
until it was over.
    Like now.
    Sable knew what she had to do. She had to protect herself
until she could get away. Then she would run—run as fast and as far away as she
could.
     
    J. D. didn't want coffee. He wanted to grab Sable, march her out
of the station, and take her somewhere quiet. Then he wanted to shake the truth
out of her. She was hiding something; he could see it in her eyes—but what?
What possible connection could she have with Marc LeClare? She was dressed like
a businesswoman; it might be just as she'd said—she'd been looking to rent some
property and she'd gone to the warehouse for business reasons only.
    But why did his gut tell him there was more to it than that?
    She's young and beautiful; Marc LeClare was old and rich. Doesn't
take a genius to figure out that equation.
    The thought of Marc putting his hands on Sable made J. D.'s hands
curl over into fists. It had better damn sight be business only.
    "I don't like that look on your face," Terri said as she walked
up and handed him his mug, then sipped from her own. "That look says 'I'm
thinking with the little head. I'm going to do something macho and idiotic and
get myself suspended.' "
    He swallowed the boiling-hot coffee without feeling the burn.
"I'm not thinking with my dick."
    "A rare and valuable trait not often found in the male of the
species. I'll have to alert the media." Terri gestured toward the
interview room where he'd left Sable. "Does she know that?"
    "She's just shaken up."
    "I imagine nearly being burned to death