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Resting my elbows on the counter, I fingered the envelope between my hands and smiled down at her.
Here it goes…
“I’m looking for some information on a student.”
Dee frowned. “Information on a student?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, widening my smile. “Shannon Lynch.”
Who had I been fooling, with distracting myself with reality TV?
I was an obsessive bastard by nature, with a one-track mind that was currently—and solely—programmed on her.
I had to know more. I needed more.
I wasn’t thick enough to think this didn’t matter. Or that my reaction to McGarry in the changing rooms earlier didn’t matter.
It mattered that she was able to do this to me. It mattered that, hours later, I was still thinking about her, wondering about her, and inevitably worrying about her. It mattered that she mattered when no one ever mattered to me before.
Fuck, now I was confused about all the matters.
“Oh, Johnny.” Dee pursed her lips, her frown deepening, as she drew me back to the present. “I’m not sure. Mr. Twomey made it clear that you are to have no contact with the Lynch girl—” Her voice broke off and she reached for her notepad. “See?” She tapped her finger on the scrawled pad. “It’s written down and everything. Her mother was demanding you be suspended for that incident on the pitch today. She’s calling it assault. It took a lot of persuading on Mr. Twomey’s part to stop her from phoning the Gardaí—”
“Come on, Dee,” I purred, smothering my outrage with what I hoped was charm. “You know me. I would never intentionally hurt a girl.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she breathed, blinking up at me. “You’re a good boy.”
“And you’re very good to me.” Leaning closer, I covered her hand with mine and whispered, “So, all I need you to do is tell me what you know about her—or better yet, let me see her file.”
“No way, Johnny.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “If anyone found out, my job would be on the line—”
“You think I’d get you into trouble, Dee?” I coaxed with a small shake of my head. “It can be our little secret.” God, I was a complete fucker, playing on this poor woman’s emotions.
But I wanted that file, dammit. I had a burning curiosity to find out about Shannon—more specifically what happened to her at her old school.
Mr. Twomey’s words had planted the seed inside my head, and I was dying to find out.
“I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t help you this time,” Dee replied, lips pursed. “I need this job.”
Frustrated, I shook my head and wrestled my temper under control before trying again, “Can you at least give me her locker number?”
Dee’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you need that?”
“I just do,” I shot back, tone a little harder now.
I was pissed off.
I wasn’t used to being told no.
When I asked for something, I usually got it.
It was a shitty way to be, but that’s how life went for me.
“I already told you,” she retorted. “Mr. Twomey said you’re not supposed to go near her—”
“It’s her locker number, Dee, not her fucking home address,” I snapped, irritation growing. “You’d swear I was a fucking murderer or something—the way you’re all acting.”
With a heavy sigh, Dee nodded dejectedly and walked over to the filing cabinet. “Alright.”
