Mr. Judge: A Man Who Knows What He Wants

I swallow, her words sinking in. She’s right. There’s no reason to think Judge Prescott gave me any special treatment.

Falling asleep last night was difficult. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him staring at me, his jaw set sternly and his ice-blue eyes piercing me.

And then I felt him, a phantom of lust invading my mind, his firm hand sliding around my waist. I felt the tips of his fingers brushing my lips, my collar bone, and sliding lower, causing me to shiver.

But again, there’s no reason to think he’d want that.

There’s every reason to think he wouldn’t. He’s at least in his mid-forties, maybe older, the sort of experienced man who’s probably been with dozens of women. And then there’s his captivating appearance, the casual confidence in his every gesture, the complete opposite of the anxiety that takes hold of me more often than not.

“How are your studies going?” Mom asks, as she takes the lasagna dish and leans down to put it in the oven.

“Fine,” I tell her. “I just wish I could get a job too.”

“Have you been looking?” she asks.

I nod. “It’s tough out there at the moment. I went to drop off my resumé at a restaurant and the lady there said shove it on the pile. There were at least fifty there, Mom. But I’m going to keep looking. I want to help.”

Mom waves a hand as she rises from the oven, her cheeks slightly red from the heat. “We’re doing fine.”

I nod, knowing mom can be proud about money. But there’s no denying how badly we need to hire a handyman.

The faucet is loose and looks as if it’s ready to fall away from its setting at any moment.

The wallpaper above the burners has started to peel and flake away. There’s a patch of dampness on the ceiling, underneath the bathroom, which my mom and I have silently agreed to ignore.

Mom works full-time as a call center agent at an insurance company. She paid for the first semester for my online graphic design course, but the next payment is coming up and I’m dreading asking her for help.

I need to do something, to be of some use.

“I’ll look again tomorrow,” I tell her. “I’ll catch the bus into the city in the morning.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Mom says. “But don’t stress about it.”

I don’t mention asking my dad for help. Any time I ask about my father, mom becomes cagey, her face draining of color as she looks anywhere but at me. I know a few things about him, like they weren’t together for very long, and – from the way mom sometimes references him – he wanted nothing to do with me.

Mom leans on the counter, tilting her head, a see-all smile on her face. “What are you worrying about, huh?”

I try for a smile of my own, but it comes across as shaky. “Who said I’m worrying?”

“Oh, just everything about you.” She walks around the kitchen divider and lays her hand on mine. “I promise you, Piper, everything’s okay in the money department. We’ve always made it, haven’t we?”

“You’re right.” I give her hand a squeeze. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking for a job. I should’ve kept that cleaning gig.”

Mom frowns. “The one on the other side of the city, where you had to catch four separate buses just to get to? You were waking up at four AM just to make it there in time. How are you supposed to focus on your studies then?”

I sigh. “At least it was a job. And my studies… Well, they’re not that important. It’s just an online course.”

“It’s not just anything,” Mom says sternly. “It’s college-level qualification. After this, you’ll be able to get an internship at a graphic design company. Or maybe you’ll start working freelance and design book covers, magazine illustrations, anything. The sky’s the limit. Don’t devalue it, Piper.”

Her words bolster me.

“I think I’m just tired,” I murmur.

It’s the truth. After trying to get to sleep for several hours last night, I gave up and sat at my small desk, working on some of my personal sketches.

I’m working on a graphic novel about a woman who can use the powers of her mind to dream things into existence. It’s a nice break from my coursework, but last night I couldn’t focus.

It was like my hand developed a mind of its own.

Without thinking, the pencil moved across the paper.

First, it was Bones, the little dog springing to life on the page. I stared down at him, a soft smile on my face.

He’s safe now and going to be okay.

But there was a niggling doubt at the back of my mind.

He was going to a shelter. What if nobody adopted him?

I already asked mom if we could, and she gave me a look. She didn’t have to say anything. I could read it well enough.