Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (10 page)

T
he Cure's "Friday
, I'm in Love" blares from my earbuds as I watch the last of my kids rush out the schoolyard gates—toward their waiting parents' open arms, toward summer break, toward freedom.

To think, only a week ago I felt the same way: so excited for summer, for warm days and balmy nights. I was going to work on my tan in the city parks with Kat, clean my apartment out (amazing how much crap I can cram into one tiny room), maybe hitch a ride with rich friends out to a house in the Hamptons or the beaches in Montauk.

But now Kat's busy with her new man, her new life—and while I'm sure I'd be welcome in whatever she's doing, I don't want to see
him
.

Chase.

I still can't believe he just walked away.

"Fucking coward," I mutter.

"Miss Sinclair?"

I jump, almost knocking a pile of textbooks off my desk. It's my boss, standing hesitantly in the classroom's doorway. I rip the earbuds from my ear and fumble with my phone, trying to stop the blaring music.

"Principal Barnes! I didn’t hear you." I lamely hold up the headphones. God, for a thin, slightly bent man, he always makes me a little nervous. Maybe it's the way he stares just a little
too
intently at me. And not in a good way, like Chase did…

Jesus, Elle, get a grip.

Put him out of your mind, just like he put you out of his life
.

Easier said than done. I keep imagining Chase is watching me. Lame fantasies, I know, but ever since he came to my school, I think of him every day when I walk home. I wonder if he's keeping tabs on me, from some hidden corner across the street, down the way.

I feel like someone's watching me. But I'm sure he's not.

He said goodbye.

I need to get that through my thick, stubborn skull.

"How—how can I help you, Principal Barnes?" I gesture anxiously at my classroom. "I was just cleaning up before heading out." The students' last day is today, and so is mine. My co-teacher has a car, so she drove all our extra supplies home for the summer. But because I didn't have to move any boxes, I got clean-up duty.

I considered it a fair trade until my boss showed up.

"I need just a moment of your time, Miss Sinclair."

"Of course," I say, despite my feelings of unease. He nods and gestures for me to follow him, which I do. He walks slowly but steadily down the long, empty halls, until we reach the main offices.

"Where's Wendy?" I say. For once, his ever-patient secretary isn't perched at her desk. In fact, none of the admin staff are here. It's weirdly quiet.

"She left early. Family vacation," Principal Barnes says. "Why don't you go take a seat in my office. I'm just going to grab a cup of tea. Would you like one?"

"Um, sure," I say, even though I'm a coffee gal. He busies himself at a tea-and-coffee station set out on a gleaming wood buffet. Man, wait till I tell Mrs. Metcalf the principal has a coffeemaker that works,
and
an espresso machine.

I glance through the open door into Principal Barnes' luxurious office. With its wood-burning fireplace, ancient wood desk, and overstuffed chairs placed around a thick wool rug, the room reminds me more of an Ivy League college president's office than an elementary school principal's.

That, or a room straight out of a Harry Potter novel.

I step into Principal Barnes' haven. That's odd—there's an interior door against the back wall that I've never really noticed before. And it's just closing, as if someone had just walked through it five seconds before I stepped inside.

But Principal Barnes said no one else is here.

That familiar feeling of dread, like a sudden chill on a summer day, creeps up the back of my neck. It's the same feeling I've been getting all week, when I walk home from the subway late at night.

Like someone's watching me.

"Please take a seat."

I jump, but it's obviously just Principal Barnes, carrying a tray with a porcelain tea pot and two tiny white cups.

I perch on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs. The gloom of the office, contrasted with the bright, cheerful world I can see through the windows, is making me feel stifled and scared. But there's nothing to be frightened of.

Principal Barnes always makes me feel odd, with his intense way of staring at me and his multiple offers for "mentorship," but I can't imagine him actually
attacking
me or anything. And even if he did, the man's all skin and bones. I probably weigh fifty pounds more than him. I can take him.

I glance out the open door, at the empty office.

I sure wish Wendy or one of the other ladies were here, though.

"Any plans for the summer?" Principal Barnes hands me a cup of tea. It's scalding, and even the thin, ceramic cup is so hot it hurts to hold it.

I shake my head. "Just catching up with friends. I might look into some courses for the fall." That's not exactly a lie. I'll have to take some Masters-level courses to keep my teaching certification. But I've already picked out the ones I'll take: the cheapest ones available.

Principal Barnes nods and takes a sip of the burning-hot tea. His pale skin is papery, wrinkled. He takes another sip. Does he not feel any pain?

"And are you happy here, Miss Sinclair?"

I pause, not sure what he's really asking. "Of course. I think we've had a really good year, and I'm hoping the test scores will show—"

He waves his hand in the air, and I fall silent. His hair is thinning, a slight comb-over his only nod to vanity. He pushes his glasses up his nose, and that's when I realize his hand is trembling.

I start to sweat, and not from the burning-hot cup in my hand.

"I'm sure the test scores will be more than adequate." His light brown eyes hold mine, and he sets his tea cup absently on the polished wood of his desk.

It's going to leave a mark
, I think.

"I've had an alumnus reach out to the school. He's living overseas—in Paris—and he has a young daughter. Just four years old. He's looking for a nanny for her, but not just any nanny. He wants someone educated, well-qualified. He wants only the best."

Principal Barnes tilts his head down, and peers at me over the rims of his glasses. "Naturally, I thought of you."

"Paris?" I squeak, accidentally grasping the hot cup in my hand, then wincing. "Am I being
fired
?"

"No, no!" Principal Barnes shakes his head, too vigorously. "Nothing like that. We love having you here." He tilts his head down again, peering at me over the steel rims of his glasses. "
I
love having you here."

Okay, creepy.

"But I would be remiss if I did not pass along this opportunity. Mr. Dumont is a well-respected scientist; he's doing cutting-edge work in cancer research. And his wife, sadly, passed away a few months ago. His daughter, understandably, is devastated."

"Oh, God," I say. "That's awful."

"Celeste is a sweet child, but struggling without her mother. Mr. Dumont works long hours and barely sees her. He's thinking about bringing her to the States in a few years, but the girl barely knows English, and she's acting out, probably seeking her father's attention—"

My heart is breaking for this child already.

But what an odd offer.

"But perhaps they need someone who's more experienced in nannying?" I say. "I'll be honest, Principal Barnes. I can't cook to save my life, and I know a lot about
education
, but perhaps they also need someone who will stay with her for many years?"

Principal Barnes smiles kindly at me. "Of course, of course. It was just a suggestion. Mr. Dumont asked me to ask around. But, do think about it, Ms. Sinclair. They are willing to pay quite a good sum.
Quite
a good sum. To be honest, it is almost double what you make here. And you would not need to cook—Mr. Dumont has a full staff. Your room and all meals would be provided and prepared for you. Your only responsibility would be the child."

I carefully place my cup of tea on the side table. After an exhausting day with closer to thirty kids,
one
is sounding pretty good right now. And double my salary? But it would totally derail my career. "Are you sure you're happy with my work? You're not trying to—get rid of me?"

That would make two men in one week, if he was.

"No, no, of course not. Don't think that! I was just passing along an opportunity. But I'm curious: you have no plans? Is there…someone in your life? Someone special, keeping you here?"

The smile he gives me is so ingratiating and strange that I begin to feel ill. Is he hitting on me? While also trying to get rid of me? It just doesn't make sense, but it all feels
off
.

"No," I force my voice to remain calm. "No one special. Is that all? I really should finish cleaning out my classroom."

Principal Barnes nods and smiles. "That is all. Of course. Have a wonderful summer, and I will look forward to seeing you in August. But—if you change your mind—you have my number."

I stand as he brings the cup of tea to his lips. This time his hand doesn't shake.

But as soon as I step out into the hall,
I
begin shaking. I don't know what the hell's going on. It takes me another hour to pack up my stuff, straighten up and calm the fuck down.

I
'm
lucky to live just ten minutes from school. I walk down Montague Street, Brooklyn Heights' main thoroughfare. There are no skyscrapers here. Instead, the street is lined with groomed trees and twinkle lights wrapped around the patios of the Polish diners, sushi bars, and Italian restaurants; happy weekend revelers mix in with the little old women walking their dogs and gossiping, ignoring all of us newcomers to the city.

It feels more like I'm walking down a street in Europe than in Manhattan—not that I've ever been to Europe. I've always wanted to go.

So why did I turn down a chance to work in
Paris
, of all places
?!

Because of my career, which I maybe don't even love? Because, after my military-brat upbringing, I just want to stay in one place? Because I'm a coward?

Because of Chase?

I have to stop thinking about that jerk. That hot, delicious jerk with the most talented hands and tongue…

I consider stopping in one of the local bars. I never have problems finding people to talk to in bars—but what woman does? I can make small talk as easily as I can breathe. That's my style. Kat says I'm a natural social butterfly. In my darker moments, I wonder if I honestly have a problem connecting with people, since I tend to skim along the surface.

Kat is shy and has few friends, but they're
good
friends. I have a million and one "friends," but do any of them really care about me? And it's all my fault. I get skittish when people get too close.

I turn off the main street and down another tree-lined—but quieter, and more residential—road. Here the apartments and bazillion-dollar brownstones are three stories high. The sun's setting, and now that everybody's turning their lights on, from the street I can look in at the fancy architecture, the amazing paintings, and sometimes the people—lucky and safe and warm—inside their homes.

I always love these glimpses into other peoples' lives. But tonight it just makes me feel lonely. I don't even have a cat or dog to come home to.

Mental note: do
not
buy a cat when in this melancholy mood. I'll just end up buying, like, three. That, combined with my apparent inability to actually have a deep, lasting relationship—and my damn cat pants—will turn me into Brooklyn Heights' resident Cat Lady before I'm twenty-five.

I hang a right onto my street, and that's when I first hear them: footsteps. Not that someone walking in a residential area is unusual. But my spine tingles, and that creepy feeling I've been having all week is back. I glance behind me, but don't see anyone. But it's that
feeling
again.

I can't help myself: I walk a little more quickly.

My apartment is off an alley at the end of this road, right before the street dead-ends onto walking paths for the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. "Alley" makes it sound sketchier than it is—it's actually a lovely cobblestone street, lined with apartments and a cute bakery on the corner.

But tonight, with the sky getting dark and the wind picking up in the distance, and—surprisingly—no one else around, I feel lonely.

Scared.

Stalked.

I veer right suddenly, into the small private garden of an expensive brownstone. It's really just three feet of grass, and flowers, and the owners' garbage cans. But I step in and crouch down, behind the cans. I feel ridiculous, but also…the hair on the back of my neck is standing up.

I try to slow my breathing. I listen.

Wind. Cars on the expressway a mile away. Nothing else.

I take out my phone, put it on mute, and text Kat again. No answer.

On a whim, even though it feels odd, I text her husband, Gray. He'd basically given me the most intense interview of my life when I first met him; I'd wanted to laugh.
I'd
known his wife since high school. Even if he'd known her since they'd been kids, he'd left her behind, and
I'd
had her back. Still, I respected him for putting me through the wringer. All he'd wanted to know was if I was a good person who wouldn't ever hurt the love of his life.

I guess when you're in the mob, you suspect everyone.

After I stood up to Gray's bossy ass, he'd actually smiled—the first time I'd ever seen the giant Russian grin—and then he'd grabbed my phone and programmed his number in it. Told me to call him if I ever needed anything.

But tonight, no answer to my texts.

I bite my lip and hold my breath. Someone laughs and a car honks, a million miles away. Then I hear them again—footsteps. This time faster, closer. I desperately rifle through my purse, trying to find my keys. How are you supposed to hold them to defend yourself? In a fist with the big key sticking out like a giant stinger?

The footsteps are so fast now they're almost running, and I make a fist and cringe, ready to lash out—