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Authors: Titus Pollard

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BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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Murphy took the paper, stuffed it in his right shoe under the sock. “May I ask why you want this man's whereabouts, Mr. Storm?”
Silence.
Murphy must've seen the scowl on Delvin's face. He returned a fearful look of his own. “You know what,” he said, “forget I asked. It really does not matter. I'll pass your request on to Deliverer.”
“Good.” The fact that Delvin had just commissioned an APB on his former partner from a private cell inside Ashland Prison didn't mean that it carried no relevance, or that it was an impossible feat. He was confident. Alive or dead, Job Wright would be found.
Chapter 12
... Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.
Matthew 5:28
 
 
Amazing. A little more than a year seemed to have gone by as fast as Job could flip thirteen calendar pages. He was grateful that a considerable amount of time and distance had come between his past and present life.
In fact, until that morning, there had been no mention of it. Monica, who seemed to have become adept at raising difficult conversations, tried her hand at a verbal combat while she fixed breakfast. But Job wasn't having it, and she backed down.
He had surged right into his second year at Mountain River after radiant evaluations of his first year performance. The students' response to his teaching style and classroom decorum had been positive; his students helped him shape his classroom mannerisms. The faculty and staff had shown their respect when it came to his opinions and input on matters of curriculum and school improvement.
His end-of-year observations and evaluations came from Bianca Rizzo, who insisted on doing them, which was a responsibility ordinarily reserved to one of her assistant principals. According to Frances, her administrative assistant, Bianca claimed Job as her “personal project.”
After Job's second period class that morning, he reported to Bianca's office to turn in his progress report for the school's VOES program.
Frances didn't bother to escort Job to the principal's office or look up from her work. She angled her head in the direction of the principal's office.
Job hadn't achieved a decent level of comfort when he was alone with Bianca, even after working with her for over a year. He couldn't help but to be attracted to her grace and sensuality—qualities that seemed to be ingrained into her DNA. Nothing would've pleasured him more than to raise the topic of their interactions and hear his own words, “Bianca, I feel the magnetism between us, but nothing's going to happen,” without sounding ignorant or hostile. And he didn't want her response to be misunderstood, unreceptive, or aggressive. He had tried to convince himself that in time, the sparks would go away, but the longer his tenure with her, the brighter his flame. Thankfully, he'd managed to only visualize a transgression and not turn it into action.
“Aw c'mon,” he said to Frances, hoping she would take time and be his segue to meeting the boss. “Ms. Rizzo may be doing something we're unaware of. You might want to look in and announce me.”
Frances took the pencil in her hand and waved it in the direction of the principal's office. Despite his anxiety, he had to go it alone.
Job walked up to the door, and stood face to face with a poster that read,
“MY FACULTY IS MY WELCOMED DIVERSION.”
Although the door was cracked, he knocked. “Ms. Rizzo?”
Bianca's eyes were glued to the television mounted from the ceiling in a corner of the office. Its volume was startling. She nodded indefinably, and without comment, gestured for him to enter.
Job closed the door behind him. “You think you've got it loud enough?” He took a seat in one of the twin burgundy leather chairs, taking a moment to eye her office, a dimly lit space decorated with furniture and other pieces of understated elegance.
It was the first time Job could recall Bianca acting like he wasn't there, her fixation on what sounded like a news commentator's account.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked. Her skin, usually a deep olive color, was a pale, morbid hue. Her hands had cupped around her mouth.
He could tell that she wasn't ready to hear about his group's progress, regardless of how positive it was. He placed the written report on her desk, and then moved around to see what she was viewing that apparently had her stunned.
“I thought I was watching a movie, a joke. It's real ...” Her lips trembled and her voice drifted off as her eyes reddened, lifting up a well of tears.
He stood, reeling in confusion and wondering what kind of predicament he had walked into. “Tell me what you're watching,” he demanded.
She gazed at him, eyes so white and wide, as though she had no pupils or irises. “You don't know?” she screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself. Her skin returned, in that moment, to its normal tint. “I'm sorry, you wouldn't know.”
Just then, the CNN broadcaster interrupted:
... and the second plane crashed into the south tower of the world trade center at 9:03
A.M.
eastern time.
the crash leveled this tower upon impact ...
“New York. Towers. Early this morning,” she said.
Job listened to the broadcast, this time more closely, trying to pick up a few definitive details to place between Bianca's speckled explanation.
“That was over three hours ago,” he said under his breath.
The news commentator repeated the time of the event. Job fought to think of something he could say or do to lighten the moment. He seized a couple Kleenex and handed them to her. “Maybe you should go home. Or I can get Frances.”
“There's no way I can leave school right now. Everyone will be torn up over the news. I've got to help keep things going, keep it together.” Bianca turned around to him, burying herself into his arms, molding into his body. “Hmm.”
She moved against him with such quickness that he was prohibited from making a sensible thought or physically resisting. Her eau de toilette (he was confident that it was Chloé) wafting up his nostrils didn't help the situation.
He felt a rush of the forbidden, an alluring embodiment of wholesomeness. He was thankful her office door was closed with no window, just a solid piece of wallboard. He curled his arms around her, winding his fingertips into the small of her back. He tried to think of himself only as a comfort to her. He limited his thoughts to that.
She purred in response to the closeness.
He managed to wrestle one arm away, lock his hand around the TV remote and turn the volume down. He took her shoulders with a gentle grip and nudged her to an arm's distance, giving her a concerned look. “You gonna be all right?”
Her cream colored blouse was tear-stained. She pulled strands of her hair behind her ears, but her panting caused them to fall back out of place. “Yes. I'm fine.” She wiped her face. “I can't believe people could be so mean.” She pulled in closer, nestling her face on Job's chest.
His psyche kicked in. Skin itching, muscles contracting and expanding.
Please
was all the prayer he could think of.
He had a feeling that she knew the embrace was out of place—using heartrending reactions to the 9/11 attacks as a catalyst to make her advances.
Tempted? He couldn't deny.
Over the past months, Monica had managed to fill him with a paranoia and bitterness from her constant complaints and her undying desire to start a family. She blamed him for it all.
Bianca could be the ideal escape from his tribulations. Her responses at that moment proved to him she'd be a willing candidate.
There was a flip side to his thoughts, which said, “
no
.” Bianca wouldn't be trouble-free. His boss and lover? Disturbing his marriage wasn't worth all that.
Then the unmentionable happened.
Bianca yanked at the cinch in his belt, drawing them waist to waist. She worked her delicate mouth onto his, locking him into a passionate kiss.
The combination of sudden movements threw Job off-balance. Bianca's desk was the only support that kept them from falling, intertwined, on the floor.
Job felt the wetness of her lips as she drained the last liter of innocence and sensuality from his body, a smooth transference of stored-up urgency.
As Bianca backed away, she sighed, slowly opening her eyes. “Oh, God, I've wanted to do that for the longest,” she said, not allowing Job time enough to think coherently. She swayed over to the back of her desk, the small slit on the back of her skirt widened, revealing her thighs. She sat. “See how easy that was? Proof that we can be intimate and professional if we allow, no matter what we do or the circumstance. Don't you agree?”
Shock was the only way to describe how Job felt as he tried to steady himself. “You're my boss.” He shoved his wedding band in her face.
Bianca's forehead creased into confusion. “I am your boss.” Her response was flat, mimicked. “You're merely consoling me in the time of need. I do have feelings that require consolation, sometimes.”
Job listened to her explanation and lost all poise and grace. “I just can't do this.”
I feel like I want to.
“I just can't.”
“I know you think you're going to stick to that position. But time will tell.” She batted her eyelids.
Job knew that was for sensual effect and, in a sense, it was working. “How'll we work together now?” he asked. “What about my job?”
Bianca's visage changed to a blank slate. “Why would I consider firing you? You're doing your job in a professional manner. People like and respect you.”
“I know, but—”
“Oh no, I've got plans for you,” she said in a mysterious tone of voice. “And if, on a given day, you say your final word is that nothing can happen between us, then, your job will remain intact.”
Thank you, Jesus.
He sighed, more for the salvation of his job than anything else.
It was plain to Job that she was a vixen behind wraps, able to do her thing like a hydrant; smooth, able to cease and resume on a whim. If he yielded to her, deciding to make a connection, fine. If not, things would still appear copasetic.
Bianca relaxed into her chair. “I see that I've overwhelmed you. Go to class, Mr. Wright. We'll talk later, for sure, because I have some news that dwarfs your report on the VOES program. But I can tell that you wouldn't be able to handle my news right now.”
Job wanted to ask what she meant by that statement, but he walked out of her office with unanswered questions. For a moment, his vanity did an uprising, believing that with his looks and intelligence, why wouldn't she try and make a play for him? Then he took another look at himself, knowing he didn't want or need the drama. He did realize, however, that his love for Monica was shakier than he thought. He was in a power struggle of the human, magnetic kind.
During lunchtime, Job sat in the faculty lounge wishing the last bell would ring. He remembered opening his mouth to chat with his colleagues, but he couldn't recall, with any amount of certainty, the topics raised or his responses.
He decided to try feeding his nervousness away by bingeing on lemon-filled doughnuts, hoping the sugar rush could help him decide whether to tell Monica what had happened earlier, and if he did, how to explain it. No matter how he tried to spin the story, it didn't come out digestible. In the middle of his indecisiveness, Bianca came through the lounge door with two reams of copy paper in hand.
“Mr. Wright, I'd like to see you for a moment, please. It's nothing earth shattering,” she said, beckoning outside toward the hall.
“Just a minute.” He shoved the last bit of doughnut in his mouth, wiping his lips with his fingertips.
Bianca was in the hall, bobbing her head up and down. Job couldn't help but notice her Ultra Brite smile. “Congratulations, Mr. Wright. You've accomplished what many have tried.”
“Help me out, because I have no idea what you're talking about.”
She let out a breath. “Each year, our school district selects a school to submit a name and application to Disney for a program that honors educators in various disciplines. Teacher of the Year awards. It's a big deal where teachers get a trip to Disneyland, the award itself, money—the works—but you have to be nominated. And the opportunity to choose came around to our school this year.”
It's got to be a catch.
“Umm hmm.”
Bianca looked around. The hallway was clear. “The requirements are that you've got to be nominated by your admin, and there's an extensive form to complete, showing your work, personal accomplishments, et cetera.”
“Oh,” Job said, hoping she didn't catch the foolishness of his thoughts because that wasn't quite the stumbling block he expected to hear. “What do you need me to do?”
“I'll bring the written form around to your classroom in a little bit. You also have an essay to complete, and I've heard the Disney folk are finicky about the appearance of each submission.” Bianca turned. “See you later. This stack of papers is beginning to feel like lead.”
“Okay, but I doubt that I'll be around here too long after school dismisses. I've got to check up on things at home.”
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
11.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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