Page 33 of Iron Will
“When the bell rang and we were all sitting at our desks, our teacher sat on a stool in the front of the room. She look at us all, one by one. And then she told us that Emma was dead. She said there had been an accident, and that Emma had gotten hurt really bad. She left it as vague as possible, on purpose, I’m sure. So in my mind, I pictured a car accident or something.” I shake my head. “But you know, kids hear adults talking, when they think they’re alone. And a group of us kids heard some teachers whispering about it after school a couple of days later. It turned out, Emma’s mom had beaten her so badly that she died in the hospital from the injuries.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rourke mutters.
“So, my parents…” I continue, bitterness seeping into my voice. “Let’s just say, they’re well-off people. Very prominent in the community. When they heard about it, their reaction… well, it sickened me. Even at my young age. See, I had been friends with Emma for a while. But after the first time I brought her over to my house to play, my mom said I wasn’t allowed to have her over anymore. She was too poor. Her family wasn’t good enough for me to be friends with.”
Anger surges through me at the memories resurface as I continue.
“And when Emma died? They didn’t console me, or try to help me through it. No. Instead, my parents pulled me out of that public school. They enrolled me in a private academy. To keep me away from that kind of riff-raff in the future.”
I turn and stare at Rourke. His features are tense, jaw pulsing. But he doesn’t say a word. He just lets me keep talking.
“Years later — when I was in college and sort of hating the pressure my parents were putting on me to make me into a carbon copy of them — I got to be good friends with a girl who lived a floor below me in the dorms. She told me about her childhood. About how her dad was an alcoholic and physically abusive, and how a social worker had helped her mom and sisters escape from him. For some reason, her story made me think about Emma.” I lift one shoulder. “I guess it just triggered something in me. I went to the School of Social Work the next day and asked for an appointment with an advisor. And the rest is history.”
“How did your parents feel about that?”
I snort. “They’re still pissed about it, to this day. They have no idea what I’m doing, or why I’m doing it. They’re furious that they spent all that money on tuition — thinking they were essentially sending me to finishing school, so I could marry a nice, prominent rich guy. Instead, it turned me into a reprobate.”
He lets out a short bark of laughter. “You’re hardly a reprobate, Laney.”
“It’s all relative,” I tell him with a smirk. “I’m the black sheep of my family. To them, I may as well be selling myself on the street.”
“Your parents are that big a deal, huh?” He lets out a low whistle.
“You have no idea,” I say drily. “Fortunately, my younger sister is more than happy to be the good little girl I wasn’t. And she just got engaged, so I’m hoping maybe that will take some of the pressure off.” I glance up at the clock on the far wall. “Shoot, I’d better go,” I say apologetically. “I’ve got a mountain of work to do and I’ve already taken twice as long as I should have on this break.”
As uncomfortable as I was a few minutes ago, now I’m sorry to end the conversation. Thankfully, Rourke looks much calmer now. And he’s an oddly good listener. I stand and pick up my cup.
“Shouldn’t this count as work?” he suggests, gesturing. “We were talking about a patient, right?”
I laugh. “We were basically talking about breaking the law. Not sure that counts.”
“There’s the law, and then there’s doing the right thing. You’re just letting Mickey suffer the consequences of his actions.” Rourke says, standing as well.
The shop is deserted now, the few customers having left during our conversation. Even the barista is gone from behind the counter, probably in the back doing something.
I turn toward the milk and cream station, leaning over to deposit my coffee cup in the bin next to it.
When I swivel back around, Rourke is there, less than a foot away from me. So close I imagine I can feel the heat of his body on my skin.
At least I think it’s my imagination.
“I…” I begin, and stop. I don’t know what to say without calling attention to the fact that Rourke is close enough to kiss me. I look up at him, uncertain.
But then I don’t have to say anything at all.
Because his mouth is on mine.
The taste of him makes me dizzy. I feel myself falter, but then his arm is around my waist. His other hand moves behind my head, his fingers sliding up to my hair. The kiss deepens, awakening a hunger deep inside me that’s barely contained as I kiss back, my body making its own decisions as my brain takes a back seat. I’veneverbeen kissed like this before — it goes all the way through me, reaching every nerve ending, every cell, waking them all up until my whole body is yielding to his. He pulls me closer against him, and the hardness of his length pressing against me rips a moan of longing from my throat.
When he breaks the kiss, I’ve all but forgotten where I am.
“You’re really something, Laney the social worker,” he rumbles.
The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts us.
Turning my head toward it, I see Blake Barber standing just outside the coffee shop.
His eyes travel from Rourke to me, narrowing as they do. He lifts up an arm and taps his finger on an imaginary watch on his wrist, then stalks away.