Page 6 of Midnight Curfew

I let them pay me anyway, though. It keeps things clear.

Holding the check over the fountain, I flick it into the flame of the fire pit, the blue paper turning black and the writing disappearing in a moment.

Quirking a smile, I walk out of the driveaway and down the quiet midnight lane.

Maples and oaks line the neighborhood street, and old-world gas lanterns cast a dim glow in the dark night, marking the gates for other estates. An occasional palm tree rises to block the stars, but we can’t see them anyway through storm clouds that roll in like clockwork every June. The heat cooks the cypress, palms, and magnolias, mixing them with the scent of wet earth and hot pavement, and in twenty minutes I’ll wear the smell, too, because it soaks into the skin.

Iron hates this time of year. Florida summers swelter.

But the streets grow emptier the closer we crawl to July and August, the CEOs taking their families to cooler temperatures and the ones who remain slowly going insane with irritability and cabin fever. There are road ragers losing control of their tempers when some BMW-driving dick rides their ass on the freeway. A wife’s back drips with sweat when she’s had more than enough bullshit from a cheating husband and finally stands up for herself.

More murders happen in hot weather than in cold.

What I know is there’s beauty in every season if Iron would only look.

Hands in my pockets, my palm pressed against my phone, I stroll through the town. St. Carmen was settled after Sanoa Bay hundreds of years ago. The Spanish and Portuguese claimed our pristine little isle, colonizing not only the land but the Seminole tribe that inhabited it, and when the British, Dutch, and French gained control for a bit, our Bay became centered on survival instead of preserving cultural identity. Our ancestors learned to fight for the land instead of fighting one another. We’re still united in the same battle today.

I pass through the village in the center of town, the two-story police station done in the quaint Spanish style with clay tiles on the roof even though almost no Cubans, Dominicans, or really anyone of Spanish ancestry lives on this side of the tracks. When the founding fathers of St. Carmen settled this land, they really wanted the Bay first and foremost. The ocean is damn near out our back door, and they needed a marina for their yachts, docks for trade, and hotels with ocean views for their tourists. They never got it, though.

Yet they still try.

Ultimately, they’ll win.

They’ve been slowly erasing us for decades. Making it hard for our residents to live here, depleting our population. Hell, we can’t even put Sanoa Bay on the address anymore; it’s all technically absorbed into the St. Carmen collective. We still call ourselves Bay, though, and so do they. They want our land; they don’t want us.

I guess that’s why I love summers the most, because almost all the rich pricks of St. Carmen are out of town once storm season starts, their white mansions empty. The rain-covered streets sound a little quieter, and it’s a short break from collecting the one thing I want that money can’t buy. Spoiled souls.

It really never gets old, but it’s time to focus on other things for the summer.

Cutting a left, I catch the lamplight of Marymount Academy peeking through the trees. I make my way into the circular drive, veering to the side of the building. Movement catches my eye, and I spot three girls in shorts and tank tops playing around on the lacrosse field.

Back when Liv attended school here, I showed up to support her games only so I could scope out my next conquest in the stands.

The students, who will soon be on their way to Europe or some summerhouse in Newport, notice me and stop moving in the middle of the dark grass.

Then the girl lying on the field, propped up on her elbows, curls her fingers in a suggestive little wave. The others break into laughter.

Jesus. No one who knows me thinks I should be around teenagers, but I give myself some credit now. Saints that age are just a cause for pity.

Their lives will be a pristine cage lined with chinchilla and happy pills. The most destructive thing I could do to them is give them a book.

Taking out my keys, I tap my wrist that doesn’t have a watch and then unlock the door to the school building. I don’t give a shit if they’re on school property after hours, but the cameras are watching, and I need to look like I’m telling them to go home.

“Have a good summer!” one of them sings, followed by a laugh.

“We won’t tell if you won’t, Mr. Jaeger,” another one taunts.

Stepping inside, I slam the door. Mr. Jaeger. It still sounds foreign, as if I’m in trouble instead of in a position of respect.

Silence and blackness envelop me, and I close my eyes for a second, sinking into a world that belongs only to me. At least at this time of night.

I may never have watched Liv’s games while she went here, but I really do fucking love this place. I start walking, down a hall, then another one, letting my eyes wander through the windows of all the classroom doors and over the walls lined with framed photographs of prestigious alumni. There’s something about being in a school I didn’t get until a couple of years ago. The books full of words and ideas, the computers with their programs and fast technology, the desks with their journals, the lockers with their secrets and stolen items and the occasional hidden flask…Everything here is so personal. More so even than in a home, because we don’t hide our shame close to those who love us. We hide our needles in haystacks. A lot has happened in this place, and I’d love to hear these fuckin’ walls talk more than the walls in any house.

I walk along the atrium, which is located at the center of the school and filled with trees, flowers, and palms swaying in the fresh air carrying in from the open roof high above. The red tiles under me have been swept of their usual petals and leaves; the gothic arches and columns around the square courtyard seem to move with the shadows of the clouds floating over the moon.

Heading straight, toward the stairs, I grab the banister and twist my head left. Four figures loom at the next corner of the atrium.

My heart thumps in my chest, and I pause, staring at their dark forms. Although I can’t make out their faces or even determine the color of their suits, they’ve noticed me and are now intent on my direction.