Page 129 of Midnight Curfew

“I have to have a chaperone for every ten students, legally,” she points out. “Since I have twelve, I need another adult.”

I hover over the signature line.

Buses…

And hotel rooms.

They’re going to be staying overnight in a hotel. For the first time all day, my heart starts racing. Glancing at my watch, I see my pulse rate rise from seventy-eight to ninety-one.

I clench the pen. “He’s already agreed?”

I hear her hum. “No one says no to me,” she jokes.

Whipping my hand across the paper, I swipe my signature.

But I don’t give it back right away, standing up straight and capping the pen again. “I don’t need to remind you,” I tell her, my eyes lowered, “of the clause in your contract regarding fraternization with faculty, do I?”

Finally, I lift my gaze and watch her smile fall and her nervous eyes search the rest of the table. Her cheeks flush. “No, sir.” She squares her shoulders. “My relationships here are appropriate.”

I hand her the signed form and watch her quickly exit the room.

Milo leans in. “It’s in our interest if her relationship with him isn’t appropriate.”

Yeah, I know. It just came out.

Dallas will only be able to hold off his own nature for so long, and I’m not paying for them to screw in a king room with an ocean view.

Picking up my cap, I fit it back on my head. “Rosenthal’s bachelor party Thursday?”

They nod, confirming, and everyone gets up.

Jerome and Vincent take off, Milo following me for some reason.

Approaching room 244, I see the lights are off again, Dallas organizing a stack of small novels on his desk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sophia is at the windows, painting, but I lock eyes with him. The first time I’ve seen him since Friday night.

His wrinkled white shirt outlines the muscles of his broad chest, his tie loose around his neck. Is the hickey I left still there? Above his collarbone?

He doesn’t blink, and I note how his left eye is still bruised.

I hold back the smile of satisfaction. The swelling in my lips has gone down, so he didn’t do nearly as much damage. I’m sure my friends noticed some lingering bruising, but I didn’t give them a chance to pry. Nor would they probably. It’s not unusual for sons, daughters, and wives in St. Carmen to cover up some kind of violence happening at home.

I turn to my stepsister. “Sophia?”

She doesn’t face me, of course, painting in long, steady strokes.

“Sophia?” I ask again, politely.

She continues on with her task, and I step up behind her where she’s perched on the windowsill.

“Anna-Katherine?” I say in a soft voice. “We have to go.”

She turns her eyes on me, smiling. “Beautiful, right?”

She gestures to her work, and I give it a once-over.

“It’s lovely,” Milo tells her, joining me at my side. “Maybe I should have you come to my office and paint.”