I lean against Trips, slipping my hand under his shirt while he wraps his arm around my shoulder, the action so routine now that I wonder how we got here. But I don’t question it. I don’t want to.
Tracing my plan across his abs, he squeezes my shoulder or kisses my head to tell me when he’s ready for the rest of the message. I finish up at the same time Falk hands back our secret coffees, the only caffeine I get, two mornings a week.
Once I take a sip of perfection, I set the drink aside. This is more important. Then, I unbuckle, and straddle Trips. His eyes get big before he sees my face, then his lips twist into a stifled laugh. “I’m bored,” I pout, like Walker’s muse back in Chicago. But this character is so much more. And it’ll be hard not to laugh playing her.
“Come on, you know this isn’t the time,” Trips says, even as he sets aside his drink and grips my thighs, pulling me tighter against him.
“Clara,” Falk warns from the front, his confusion almost making me break character.
Instead, I lean all the way back, trusting Trips to keep me planted on his lap, staring at the skittish guard upside down. “I want to play,” I say, reaching out and tapping his nose. He goes to snatch my hand, and I use the few skills I was taught to slip free from his grasp, slapping his cheek for the slight. “This one looks fun,” I say, forcing my out of shape abs to tug me back upright.
“Clara, we don’t play with the help,” Trips says, a smile still hinting on his face.
It works. He’s supposed to be the psycho son. And I’m his parent-approved partner. “But honey bunny, I’m so so so bored.” Trips chokes on his laugh, eyes bright at his new nickname. “They lock me up and only let me out for school and dress fittings. I miss the fun we had together. They let you out for all kinds of fun. I smell the blood on you when you get back. It just isn’t fair.” I’m channeling every kid I’ve ever nannied for when they’re hot, hungry, and unhappy with whatever the plan is for the rest of the day. I’m going full-on brat mode.
Spinning in his lap. I lean forward, staring at my victim. “Look at him. Doesn’t he look like he’d be fun?”
The guard glares at me, as if a look from him is enough to intimidate me. Maybe a year ago, it might have been. But I’ve seen more violence and evil in the last year than I thought I’d see in a lifetime. This guard hasn’t broken me. He hasn’t assaulted me or threatened the people I love. He has no hold on me, and his censure has me grinning for real. “See, so much fun. He tried to intimidate me.”
Falk catches my eye in the mirror, and I can see him piecing it together. He doesn’t know why I’m taunting this man, but he’s going to let me do it. “Ms. McElroy, I need you to stay buckled. Mr. Westerhouse would be upset if you got hurt,” he says, playing along as best he can.
“Oh, pish-posh. You’ve been trained in war-level defensive driving. I’m fine.”
Now he, too, is trying not to laugh while my victim is shifting in his seat, my steady gaze fraying his nerves.
“Do you think he’d scream?” I muse.
“What’s your plan?” Trips asks.
“Hmm.” I tap my finger against my lips, Trips’ hands warm on my thighs. “I think I want something bloody. It’s just been so long. Guns are too…clean, you know?”
“Fists?” Trips asks.
“Falk, do something,” the other guard whispers.
He glances at the other man. “They’re just words. If you can’t take them, you won’t last long here.”
“Ooo! Do you think I’d get to be the one to, you know,firehim?” I ask, finger guns aimed and let loose at his forehead.
Falk pulls into the parking garage at campus, the sudden dark giving me a chance to lunge toward the other guard, who flinches away by instinct.
Trips and I laugh while Falk parks.
“No, not fists,” I say, continuing the conversation. “If I want it bloody, a knife’s the way to go.”
“Paint me a picture,” Trips says as we unload, wrapping his palm around my waist, his coffee in his other hand. I take a long sip of mine, letting him keep me close while the guards take their places behind us.
Walking confidently ahead like the guard isn’t worth keeping an eye on, I do what Trips suggested. “I was thinking I’d go slow. It’s been so many months since I’ve really had a good time. And I’ve always wanted to see how long someone’s intestines are when they’re free and floppy, you know? Do you think they’re stretchy? Like those balloons clowns use for balloon animals?”
“Oh God,” the guard mutters from behind me.
“In my experience, they’re not like balloons,” Trips says, and I realize I should be more upset that I don’t know if he’s playing along or answering my question.
“Darn. But I bet they’re really long. If I cut it just right, I bet I could stretch it pretty far before he bleeds out.”
A student next to us on the sidewalk steps around us, and I can practically see them wondering if we’re lost theater kids or legitimately crazy.
“I bet you could.”
