Page 145 of Rebellious

“I could’ve shot you in your fucking back.”

“You wouldn’t,” Diesel said, shrugging.

“That peace agreement won’t save you from everything, adoptee,” Cleaner called.

Jana couldn’t see Diesel’s face but his shoulders tensed.

“It has nothing to do with the peace agreement, Cleaner,” he said evenly. “I don’t like back shots. I can’t look into someone’s eyes once the bullet hits them and watch their life drain away. Or test how quick I am on the draw. It’s no fun and it’s a chicken shit move. I’m many things, but I’m not a coward. And neither is Bash.”

He turned again and guided Jana out the door.

After another long night of gate duty, Easton arrived at Ridge Moore much later than he had the day before. He ignored the disapproval of his personal secretary and the other three women in the office. They ignored his peace offering of European pastries and gourmet coffee, so he set the bakery goods and cup carrier on a long table with a very small clearing. Forms filled most of the surface.

“Help yourselves,” he announced, not receiving an answer. His smile pasted in place, he unlocked his office door and walked in. Somehow, he’d forgotten the musty odor he’d endured for hours yesterday. Something he couldn’t stomach today, so instead he flipped on the lights, set his briefcase under the desk, and removed his suit jacket and tie.

After rolling up his sleeves, he walked out of the office and locked the door behind him.

“I’ll be around,” he said in that same cordial tone.

His secretary pointed to a wide cabinet with two drawers. “Walkie Talkies are in there. Dr. Marvey didn’t like them. He preferred we reach out on his cell phone if a problem arose, but we don’t have your number.”

“Uh, what’s your name?”

Offering a little sniff, she removed the lanyard from around her neck and held up the badge. “Clara, Mr. DeLuca,” she said loftily, scraping her fingers through her short salt-and-pepper hair.

“Please call me Easton.” He snatched a form from the long table, turned it to its blank side and scribbled his cell phone number. He laid it on her desk. “I will make sure to set up the Walkie Talkies. If you need me, don’t hesitate to call me.”

She looked at the number, then lifted her gaze to him, studying him as if he was an unidentified bug species that she debated on murdering. “Will do.”

“I’m Micheala,” the youngest one in the group announced. She was the receptionist. “Thank you for the pastries. I took one of those soft, sweet Croissants.”

“It’s a Cornetto,” Easton told her. “My favorite. My mother always made them from scratch. I have yet to find any that can compare to hers.”

She glanced at him through her lashes, an invitation he studiously ignored. Office flings were never a good idea, especially since she was his subordinate.

“Call me if something needs my attention, Clara,” he threw over his shoulder, heading for the door.

“Yes, sir,” Clara responded as he stepped into the school’s entrance hall filled with bulletin boards, a cast bronze mascot, and trophy displays.

He wasn’t sure which direction to go. He probably should make the rounds in each classroom and introduce himself to the teachers and students. No one indicated whether he’d have a formal introduction.

Or, maybe, he should find a store and buy air freshener, then sit his ass at his desk and acquaint himself with the school’s rules and bylaws. He was just so fucking exhausted, working gate duty until 4AM again this morning.

Diesel was trying to kill him. Motherfucker.

He’d fantasize later about all the ways to fuck up that asshole. Right now he had to figure this shit out. He’d accepted Outlaw’s offer because of the money. However, he hadn’t thought they’d just order him to the school to fill the role.

Billson crossed his mind. The man seemed to take Diesel with a grain of salt, knowing how to appease him and what to say to survive his bad fucking temper.

Turning, Easton headed for the doors that led to the quad and walked out into the bright day. The mid-April sun was strong. Glad he left his jacket, he stood on the perron and admired the beauty of the trees, lush lawn, and the architecture of the buildings. Serving as school administrator was a much better way to spend his day than doing Bash’s bidding with tasks usually involving Tio. This filled him with purpose. That filled him with disgust.

If he knew what the fuck he was doing. What the fuck was wrong with these motherfuckers? They could’ve hired someone to train him at the very least.

No, what the fuck was wrong with him? Money wasn’t everything. He could’ve turned the job down. He still could walk away. Except he never ran from challenges and maybe he could help CJ find his footing at school and beyond these walls.

The idea renewed his determination to succeed and he bounded down the steps, too late realizing the fucking buildings only had signs with this hall or that hall. There were too many fucking dead presidents and historical figures and too many goddamn subjects for him to equate science with this person or social studies with that one.

In the end, he stumbled upon Wilhemhein’s class by accident, where CJ sat with two girls at a lab table in the back of the room. He searched for Ryan but didn’t see him. Interesting. Didn’t they know it would be easier to protect the kids if they had as many of them as possible in one spot?