Page 18 of Halo

Skye hums approval. “Fuck, you’re good. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna cut ya early. There’s no point in keeping you here another hour … unless you want the extra cash.”

Leah shakes her head. “That’s fine.”

“Cool. Cowboy Ken? Can you walk her out?”

Already planning on it. I nod.

Leah grabs her purse, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Thank you.”

We step outside, the rain lighter, but still a constant pour. I open up my umbrella, before offering her my arm. She stares at me a beat before taking it, tucking herself close to my side. And my God, her hair … even after hours of working in a place that reeks of barley and vomit, it’s something sweet and gentle, like a flower. And suddenly, I need an entire garden of this scent.

We make it to her Corolla, and I help her inside, keeping her dry. My fingers linger across her arm, her soft skin intoxicating. I cup her elbow, her eyes meeting mine. Somewhere in the silence, a magnetism grows between us. I can’t help myself as I slowly lower myself closer to her. She nips at her bottom lip, her eyes bouncing down to my mouth, a silent invitation for a kiss.

But I don’t want just a kiss. I want more. I want to taste her. I want to relish every part of her body. I want her laughter to turn into moans—into screams.

Fuck. What am I doing?

Chapter 4

Leah

It’s okay-it’s okay-it’s-okay …

At least, that’s what I keep chanting over and over in my mind.

My knee bounces erratically, knocking against the metal siding of my desk. It creates a rhythmic clink with my school-assigned keys suspended on my lanyard. My knuckles blanch as I grip the edge, breathing through another wave of cramps. My muscles clench, holding still as the deep shredding sensation wreaks havoc in my lower abdomen.

“Leah?”

Oh, thank you, Lord …

Straightening my posture, I force a smile to greet my good friend and colleague. “Hey, Chelsea—” I swallow a whimper—“sorry for making you do this.”

“Girl, why are you apologizing?” She hands me a plastic shopping bag. “I told you I needed to go to the store anyway. With Julian cutting sugar from his diet, I have to sneak my candy bars during school hours.” She chuckles, ripping open some chocolate.

I quickly unpack, tearing open a new bottle of ibuprofen before storing the new box of maxi pads in my desk drawer. Normally, I am well-prepared, more than the average endo-sister. But after taking this side gig at the bar, my typical Tuesday grocery-shopping has been disrupted, and I completely forgot I was running low on supplies.

“I can’t thank you enough. How much—?”

She waves it off. “Don’t you worry about it. Let’s get you through the next few hours.”

Chelsea Santiago is a gem of a teacher who works in second grade. I did my student teaching with her two years ago to finish my elementary education degree. When her school offered me a job in kindergarten, Chelsea requested me for her twin daughters, Birdie and Vera—bold move on her part since I was a brand new teacher. However, she knew me; she had witnessed first-hand my classroom management skills and my ability to pivot. My many, many years of teaching Sunday school, children’s church, and vacation Bible school have come in handy.

Today is parent-teacher conference day. Fortunately, I’m not having to herd eighteen very rambunctious five-year-olds, most of which have never had to walk in a line before or raise their hand to speak. The flipside is I’m up close and personal with their guardians, and I need to appear pulled together even though my insides are protesting.

I breathe a sigh of relief after swallowing a hefty dose of pain medicine. Tenderly cradling my abdomen, I lay my head on the stacks of papers, folders, and spiral notebooks blanketing my desk. My eyes flutter closed, the anticipation of relief icing the agony raking across my nerves.

“How many more meetings do you have?” I ask.

Chelsea glances at her watch, the gentle jingle of her bracelets clattering against one another. “I have one in fifteen minutes, and then two more after that.” She takes another bite of her candy before asking with a semi-full mouth. “How about you?”

“Four.” I wince, trying to keep the whine from my tone.

“Any difficult conversations?”

I hum. “One. I’m supposed to meet with Ms. Stone.”

“Oh. Grady’s mom?”