CHAPTER ELEVEN- Following the Weekend
A weekend.
For most students, no matter the age, the word "weekend" had a magic all its own, the magic of no teachers, no classes, no responsibilities. No early rising, no apprehension over tests, quizzes or tutoring sessions.
But this particular weekend held a different sort of distraction altogether, and in two very different houses in two very different parts of the same city, the minds of two freed students bound them in a different way altogether, captivated them in a way entirely different than the four stone walls of an edifice of education.
One plotted a way in as the other plotted a way out. One thought of Friday night's escapade and smiled with the prospect of the future, and the other grew more uncomfortable with each growing increment of pure physical want.
One realized he had somehow made a horrible mistake…
And the other realized she hadn't botched up quite as badly as she thought she had.
A weekend.
~~~
It was a bit, she thought, like gathering weapons. Gen left her hair down, parting it to the side and letting the deep red tresses fall over one eye. A bit overdramatic, she judged, and pulled it back from her face, anchoring it in two sections at the back of her head, creating a wide fall of waves down her back. She dressed in her uniform as always, but opted for a last-minute change, digging in the closet for last year's pleated skirt, the one she'd grown just a bit too leggy for.
He'd made her want him, fine, she thought as she fastened the skirt and looked at the length of leg showing. But she'd get what she wanted, whether he liked it or not. A Wesley didn't back down from a fight, and if she had to look at this as a battle-well, then, so be it. She believed in finishing what she started, even if Master Drake Mallory didn't.
She poked her head out her bedroom door and looked around-Rob had supposedly had morning practice, but she'd not put it past him to ambush her in her own home and walk her to school by the hand like a toddler. He'd actually woken her up before he'd left and told her not to accept any rides to school.
The concern was sweet, if a bit misplaced.
The last weapon of her arsenal was the entrance-it was a gamble to show up right on the cusp of being late, especially when her custom was to arrive early, and especially since she had no idea when he'd actually arrive.
On this morning of all mornings, she thought he would show up on time, and for once, she was right. Her gamble paid off.
She trailed a finger down the hot hood of the mean green machine as she sidled past it in the gravel lot behind the school, but she did not-would not-stop. She'd see what he had to say, if anything. She'd see if he would come to her.
She heard his car door open and slam shut, and a smirk pulled at her lips even as butterflies took up residence in her stomach. She may not have been cut out for this sort of work, but she could see why someone like Drake would so enjoy manipulation.
It had the potential to be very gratifying.
He'd been waiting for her, summoning the proper words-he could call a stop to things in a dignified, more mature way, arrange for her punishment to be alleviated, end this farce of a truce they'd somehow made.
And then she'd walked by-no, she'd ambled by his car, milk-pale legs stretching out of that impossibly short skirt, one speckled hand slipping over his still-ticking car, and she didn't so much as glance back at him.
The words he'd prepared slipped straight from his mind, and the only word he could groan was four letters long and neither dignified nor proper.
He jumped from the car as though burned, now righteously determined to have things out, once and for all. He felt as though he were losing his bloody mind, punished all weekend, day and night, with dreams of her. For the first time in his life, Drake wondered if there was retribution for his less-than-admirable actions.
A living hell, as it were.
He caught up with her easily and turned her around by one shoulder, thankful for the privacy his sunglasses afforded him as she turned guileless eyes toward him. The last thing he needed was for that… that ragamuffin to see him ogling her legs. They were a bit too skinny, a bit too pale, he told himself. It didn't matter that he'd had his hands on them, had them pressed to his sides, felt their strength in both flex and release.
"We need to talk," he said suddenly, absurdly relieved that he didn't yelp. Dear God.
"Okay," she said simply, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. For a moment, his eyebrows had shot up, and he looked as though he'd been boxed right in the face. It was a good start.
He had to regain some semblance of control of this circus. "Nice skirt, Wesley. Too poor to afford one that fits?" One aristocratic eyebrow arched as he looked at her over his sunglasses-
And she merely smiled. "Too rich to afford a shirt that buttons, Drake?"
He bared his teeth at her, a quick flash of straight, even white, and then he smoothed it into a grin, remembering his intention to have it done with. "I'm going to do you a favor," he said magnanimously, stepping with her as she headed for the building. "I'm going to see to it your sentence, if you will, is lessened, your obligation fulfilled. Think of it, Wesley. No more tutoring. No more punishment. You can do something useful, like spending your afternoons working in a factory for a few extra pennies."
But she refused to take the bait, to snap back, instead turning her head to cast him a sidelong glance. "I'm afraid I have to turn down your generous offer, tempting though factory work sounds," she said casually. "Are you sure you couldn't be even more generous and let me turn down beds at the Mallory manse?" The casual tone sharpened into one of faux naiveté, and she saw his eyebrows shoot up again. She stopped then, ready to go for the kill.
Gen placed her back to the wall, leaning into it and scratching one calf with her other foot.
His head dipped ever so slightly, his shaded eyes following the rise and fall of the outgrown skirt, and as he was looking down, she stabbed a slim finger hard into the center of his chest, making him utter a surprised, choked gasp.
"You're a bloody welsher!" she exclaimed, punctuating each word with a jab. "You're trying to renege!"
It was worth it, she thought, to see him scramble. He was confused, visibly so even with the enigma of the sunglasses, and for a moment, his mouth parted wordlessly. Then the glasses were gone, jerked off in an angry gesture of futility.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, stepping closer to her and grabbing her hand to prevent one more jab to his chest. Yes, perhaps he had spent the better part of his weekend wanting her hands on him.
But not like that.
And no one, but no one, impugned the honor of a Mallory, least of all a pauper like this. Whether or not they were actually honorable was a whole other story-it was the public flogging of the matter that steamed him.
"Welsh-er," she said, separating the word into two bitten syllables, greatly enjoying his reaction. "I fulfill my end of the bargain, spend a charming evening with you, and in return, you were supposed to do the same. Instead you turn tail and run like a coward when something discomfits you in the least. I don't want your help with my punishment, Mallory. I'm actually starting to think of it as your punishment."
Not entirely true-she had a feeling he'd enjoyed their Friday night a great deal more than he'd ever let on. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have bloody well panicked and all but begged for a reprieve first thing Monday morning.
It was just altogether too delicious. Too bad she didn't have Colin's ever-present camera.
"You're either very daft or very evil," Drake said, forcing his voice to be level. He'd convinced himself he was rid of her, and now she wouldn't have any of it. Realizing he was still holding her hand-her finger, I'm just holding her finger, and it's totally self-defense-he dropped it like a burning coal and thrust his hands into his pockets.
God damn her and that skirt.
"We'll discuss this after school," she said easily, shrugging as though it made no difference at all to her. "We have a session, if you'll recall." She turned away from him them, deliberately brushing against him as she made her exit. "Your house. I promise not to make any snide remarks if you promise not to make me polish the floors." Her voice carried back to him, and it occurred to him that she had a bloody awful habit of walking away from him.
He'd wanted the last word, dammit.
But for today, that was not to be; even as he started after her, one large hand slammed him up against the wall, and a flushed, freckled face that bore at least some similarity to Gen's hovered in front of his.
Yes, Rob had more or less let the matter lay all weekend, hadn't even said a word to his baby sister about it. But then he'd come into the hallway and seen her touching the prat. It was really too much to bear.
"I don't care what your excuse is, Mallory, this is it. Whatever game you're running on my sister is over." It had sounded much more convincing in his head, really, and when Drake's response was an incredulous bark of laughter, it lost some of its appeal.
"Game? No, mate, I'm afraid you've got it all wrong," Drake said, the illegitimate chumminess somehow suiting the moment. "I'm trying to get the hell away from your sister. She's the one running some sort of game. You'd be better off asking her. I want no part of the beggar's carnival or whatever this is."
Rob's eyes widened, then narrowed, and the pink flush on his face darkened to brick red.
First he'd sensed a threat to Gen. Now he sensed insult.
"You think you're too good for my sister, then?" he asked, shoving Drake again. "You think there's something wrong with her, eh?"
It was like bedlam, Drake thought. A total madhouse. Perhaps that's what poverty did, drove a person completely insane.
Of course, he contemplated, there were other ways to insanity. The phantom feel of her thighs around his, the feel of her lips on his throat, the hours spent replaying those few moments…
Drake threw his hands in the air and stepped away from Rob before the idiot pushed him one more time. "Yes! I think there's something wrong with all of you, Wesley! Mental illness clearly runs in the bloody family."
"What have we here? Two young gentlemen bonding in the corridor prior to their educational engagements, I gather?" The voice was amused, mellifluous, and brooked no nonsense. Headmaster Dunmore stood by them, leaning over slightly as though to keep an ear on the conversation. "What lovely sounds two young minds make when working together. I regret I must bring closure to this particular discussion of no small merit and send you both on your way."
It was not time for these two, he thought, readjusting his spectacles with a gentle hand. No, the butting of young male minds, nature's traditional fight to dominance, neither would suit here. Such competition would only make all his efforts fruitless, and time was running short.
"On to your classes then," Dunmore said pleasantly, clapping his hands together. Rob immediately started to comply, and only Drake stood defiantly, arms crossed over his nearly bared chest.
"First chime's not sounded yet," Drake reminded the headmaster snidely, wondering what on earth was going on. He'd not once been at school to hear first chimes. She was screwing things up, and he didn't like it. Power was tantamount to money in his world, and to see a penniless brat like Wesley wield power in any form rubbed him the wrong way.
Actually, it was rather the right way, a sadistic part of him gleefully chortled.
And in front of him, Dunmore merely quirked an eyebrow, raised a finger to the ceiling, and looked complacent as the first chimes rung on cue.
It was not, Drake decided, going to be a good day.