sure Chloe, for all her sex appeal, understands that.
The elevator doors swing open and I jog onto the Bart, dragging my thoughts with me. Away from the office, away from the trip we're planning and the case details we've been obsessing over, and especially away from Chloe, who to be honest, I have needed to get out of my head for a long time. I can’t imagine the last time I fantasized about a woman this much. Possibly never. Every night in the shower, I’ve got pictures of her spread-eagled on my bed in mind, as I wrap my hand around my rock hard dick.
I blame that fucking red-hot lipstick. The librarian glasses, as austere and severe as she is. The pencil skirts that hug her ass, the derisive sneer that curls her lip when she’s making some cutting comment about the girls who trail me around the office, wide-eyed and pliant.
Chloe isn't like them. Chloe doesn't give a shit what I think about her. If anything, she seems to actively want me to hate her. After the relentless fawning and indulgent laughter of the other girls, the ones who bat their eyes and twirl their hair and find excuses to touch my arm every ten seconds, it's almost refreshing to find someone who doesn't like me.
Even if sometimes I want to toss her out a damn window. Like right now.
I force thoughts into the background now. More important thoughts— thoughts about where I'm headed, what's waiting for me on the other end of this rushed, last-minute train ride, flood my brain instead.
I've spent too much time lately ignoring the important things. And part of me can't help but feel responsible for this whole situation.
By the time the train pulls up to my destination half an hour later, my intestines have worked themselves into knots of concern. I check the text message again, willing myself to have misunderstood it, or maybe read too much into it. But no. There those same words are, in black and white.
Can you come meet me? They let us go early . . . I didn't get the spot.
This is my fault. Goddamn it. If I had had more time, dedicated a little more energy where it was truly needed this week. . . I grimace as I cross the street from the station, up the hill to the familiar, shabby facade of the high school where I started volunteering last year as a career mentor.
Sitting on the stoop out front, head bent, arms crossed on his knees, still dressed in the well-tailored suit I picked out for him, and insisted on buying for him despite his protests about the cost, is the kid I've come to think of as my younger brother. My fourteen-year-old mentee, Travis. Brother from another mother, he usually calls me, in his usual buoyant, happy tone.
Today, though, he looks far from his usual self. "Travis?" I keep my voice low, casual.
His head jerks up, fast, like he's ashamed to have been caught with it down. His eyes are bright red where the whites should be, and there are telltale streaks down his cheeks where I know tears must have carved their tracks recently. He's scrubbed them away now, though, and he makes a valiant effort to force a huge, fake smile, so I don't say anything about it.
"Hey Max," he says, and the little hitch of a waver in his voice makes my heart break all over again. Fuck. How did I let this happen? "Thanks for coming. Um. Sorry it was late notice. . . "
"Don't sweat it." I offer a hand, which he grabs, and haul him to his feet. "I needed a good excuse to get outta the office today anyway. You're the one doing me a favor."
Travis sucks in a deep breath, and I pretend not to notice that he still sounds a little sniffly. "So I guess I bombed the interview, huh?”
We'd been prepping for this interview for months. It was a unique chance for him to get into a much better private program at a nearby school, a program for gifted students that met once a week and gave students courses in a specialty they could choose. Chip off the old block that he is, my little bro was interested in their Introduction to Debate course. And by
The elevator doors swing open and I jog onto the Bart, dragging my thoughts with me. Away from the office, away from the trip we're planning and the case details we've been obsessing over, and especially away from Chloe, who to be honest, I have needed to get out of my head for a long time. I can’t imagine the last time I fantasized about a woman this much. Possibly never. Every night in the shower, I’ve got pictures of her spread-eagled on my bed in mind, as I wrap my hand around my rock hard dick.
I blame that fucking red-hot lipstick. The librarian glasses, as austere and severe as she is. The pencil skirts that hug her ass, the derisive sneer that curls her lip when she’s making some cutting comment about the girls who trail me around the office, wide-eyed and pliant.
Chloe isn't like them. Chloe doesn't give a shit what I think about her. If anything, she seems to actively want me to hate her. After the relentless fawning and indulgent laughter of the other girls, the ones who bat their eyes and twirl their hair and find excuses to touch my arm every ten seconds, it's almost refreshing to find someone who doesn't like me.
Even if sometimes I want to toss her out a damn window. Like right now.
I force thoughts into the background now. More important thoughts— thoughts about where I'm headed, what's waiting for me on the other end of this rushed, last-minute train ride, flood my brain instead.
I've spent too much time lately ignoring the important things. And part of me can't help but feel responsible for this whole situation.
By the time the train pulls up to my destination half an hour later, my intestines have worked themselves into knots of concern. I check the text message again, willing myself to have misunderstood it, or maybe read too much into it. But no. There those same words are, in black and white.
Can you come meet me? They let us go early . . . I didn't get the spot.
This is my fault. Goddamn it. If I had had more time, dedicated a little more energy where it was truly needed this week. . . I grimace as I cross the street from the station, up the hill to the familiar, shabby facade of the high school where I started volunteering last year as a career mentor.
Sitting on the stoop out front, head bent, arms crossed on his knees, still dressed in the well-tailored suit I picked out for him, and insisted on buying for him despite his protests about the cost, is the kid I've come to think of as my younger brother. My fourteen-year-old mentee, Travis. Brother from another mother, he usually calls me, in his usual buoyant, happy tone.
Today, though, he looks far from his usual self. "Travis?" I keep my voice low, casual.
His head jerks up, fast, like he's ashamed to have been caught with it down. His eyes are bright red where the whites should be, and there are telltale streaks down his cheeks where I know tears must have carved their tracks recently. He's scrubbed them away now, though, and he makes a valiant effort to force a huge, fake smile, so I don't say anything about it.
"Hey Max," he says, and the little hitch of a waver in his voice makes my heart break all over again. Fuck. How did I let this happen? "Thanks for coming. Um. Sorry it was late notice. . . "
"Don't sweat it." I offer a hand, which he grabs, and haul him to his feet. "I needed a good excuse to get outta the office today anyway. You're the one doing me a favor."
Travis sucks in a deep breath, and I pretend not to notice that he still sounds a little sniffly. "So I guess I bombed the interview, huh?”
We'd been prepping for this interview for months. It was a unique chance for him to get into a much better private program at a nearby school, a program for gifted students that met once a week and gave students courses in a specialty they could choose. Chip off the old block that he is, my little bro was interested in their Introduction to Debate course. And by
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