Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

So I raise my chin and shoot back, “Yes, we do. And given that you are the history expert between the two of us, you should know why my history is the way it is, shouldn’t you?” Then before he can say anything, I add, “And my hand that was holding the knife? You didn’t have to manhandle it.”

His eyes flick to my wrist.

I still have it clutched between my fingers. And it’s as if his gaze is so potent, I feel it.

I feel his touch again.

It was searing.

I couldn’t figure it out in the moment but I realize now. I realize that his devil fingers, his devil touch was hot.

It burned me.

“That wasn’t manhandling,” he says, his voice low, his eyes coming back to me.

“It was.” Then, staring into his eyes, “It hurts.”

He stares back. “No it doesn’t.”

No, it doesn’t.

I realize that too.

Because as hot and burning as his touch was, it didn’t hurt.

It doesn’t hurt.

“It’s going to bruise tomorrow,” I lie again, keeping my eyes on him.

He keeps them on me as well. “No it won’t.”

My voice shakes a little when I say, “I don’t ever want you to touch me again.”

Finally a truth.

Isn’t it?

Of course it is.

Of course.

His jaw clenches for a second before he goes, “That we can agree on.”

I feel the clench of his jaw in my chest for some reason and I say, “I was —”

Whatever it was I was going to say is interrupted by him. “I’m going to need you to hand it over as well.”

“Hand what…”

I trail off because I know. I know what he’s talking about.

My purple lipstick.

I wore it in rebellion. I wore it knowing he’d notice and well, he has.

I bring my fingers up to my lips and he asks, “Does it have a name too?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

I swallow, bringing my hand back down. “Wild Child Bad Child.”

Something flickers across his features, something as dark and mysterious as him. “Perfect for you, isn’t it?”

“I —”

“You pick the lock?”

I hesitate for a second before replying, “Yes.”

He stares at me for a moment, his jaw tight, his thumb still on the sharp end of the knife, not flicking though, nor digging, simply there. As if waiting for something. Then, “How’d you get out?”

“What?”

“Out,” he clips, “of your dorm building.”

My heart thumps at his sharp tone. But it’s more than that. There’s an underlying danger in it, in his voice, in that poised thumb. “W-why?”

His eyes flash at my stumbling tone. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.”

“Done what?” I ask, clutching my skirt.

Which I don’t think I should have done; it’s a sign of nervousness.

But the thing is that I am nervous.

Given how crazy quiet he’s gotten right now. How he’s watching me, my every little move. My fists clutching the skirt. The pulse thrumming on the side of my neck.

He looks and studies all of it before he brings his eyes back to me and continues, “Sneaked out like this.”

“I’m not sure why we’re talking about that,” I say, trying to infuse steel in my voice. “I got out. I picked the lock. And now, I’m here. You can punish me if you like but —”

A very large audible breath from him steals my words.

That and a muscle jumping on his cheek.

Taking his thumb off the knife, he commands, “You’re going to sit down with Janet tomorrow and tell her exactly how you got out. I’m going to assume that you have your ways. In fact, you have multiple ways. In and out of both the dorm and the campus.” He pauses and my throat goes dry at all his right assumptions and guesses. “Don’t you? Because you’re not breaking out of your dorm just to go cavorting around campus at midnight. So I want you to tell all those ways to her in as much detail as possible. Meanwhile, I’m going to fire the warden on duty tonight.” Then, “No actually, I’m going to fire every fucking warden we’ve got on duty and the security guards. Because this is worse than I thought.”

After issuing that angry, ominous statement, he leaves the bedroom.

I’m so shocked that for a few seconds, I simply stand there.

I mean, I knew he’d freak out about me sneaking out like this, but come on. This is an exaggeration. I thought he’d be pissed but then he’d get over it and we’d talk.

This is insanity.

I force myself to break out of my stupor and rush out of the room. Back in the living room, I blurt out, “You can’t fire them. That’s crazy.”

I say all this to his back because he’s facing away from me.

He’s standing at the table that holds his vices and from the clinking of glass, I assume he’s pouring himself a drink. I’m proven right when I watch him throw it back in one gulp, his head tilted up to the ceiling, his back rippling with his actions.