I don’t understand what just happened, but I do know one thing: I did not win that round.
We don’t speak on the way home, but when we’re parked on my street he says, “I need to install an app on your phone that tracks your location should I be unable to find you.” He holds out his hand.
So even after what happened today he’s still not quitting. What do I have to do? “If you can’t find me that means I don’t want to be found.”
“If you want some privacy, shut your bedroom door. This is serious. Give me your phone.”
“No.”
“Adrienne,” he says. “Look at me.”
It’s that voice again, the one he used in class that’s so different to his light, professional tone. Harder. Authoritative. In spite of myself, I look at him. My eyes linger on the hard line of his jaw and the severe planes of his face; the expertly trimmed sideburns. His hair is dark and thick, almost black, and neatly combed. I imagine running my hands through it, tousling the short locks. Then I shrug off the thought. So he’s handsome. He’s also a jerk and has about as much personality as a block of granite.
“I told you what you need to do to get me out of your life. Now, give me your phone.”
“How convenient. The only way I’m going to get rid of you is to do what you say.” I turn and glare out the windscreen at the waiting journalists hovering by the front gate. Two stragglers, desperate for anything to put in print. Dieter’s had to park a ways down the street and they haven’t spotted us yet.
“Fine. We’ll discuss this another time. Let’s get into the house.”
“Yes, mein Führer,” I mutter.
I start to open the door but a strong hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me back toward him. His face is very close to mine and his eyebrows bunch at the bridge of his nose in a way that makes my chest flutter.
“My name,” he growls, “is Dieter Vanderbroeck. You will call me Mr. Vanderbroeck, or Dieter, and not snide little nicknames like troglodyte or goon. You will not mock me in front of your classmates. You will respect the fact that I am here to protect you, and you will say thank you when I help you. Do I make myself clear?”
The world shrinks down to the exact depth and breadth of my bodyguard. I’m not used to being talked to this way, but at the same time, nobody frigging talks to me this way. I want to shock him, annoy him, let him know who’s in charge here. Me, not him. What would precious, professional Dieter Vanderbroeck like the least? I know.
I kiss him. It’s meant to be a quick, smacking kiss, a screw-your-rules kiss. But he’s ready for me, like he knew exactly what I was going to do, and he grabs my other wrist and pulls me closer. He kisses me back, hungrily, his lips demanding against mine. A hand snakes around my waist and I’m pulled against his chest, my breasts squashing against him. The heat of him is scorching and his body is so hard as I try to push him away. It feels like he’s trying to take possession of my very soul and I can’t catch my breath.
A moment later he breaks the kiss. “I thought you knew better by now than to provoke me.”
I wrench myself from his grasp, grab my things and fling myself out of his car. Tears are collecting in the corner of my eyes. I will not cry just because he keeps getting the better of me. I will not. I’m in control here. Me, not him.
But my shaking legs betray me.
I’m halfway to the front door and the waiting journalists when I hear the driver’s door slam closed and the sound of his footsteps. The journalists’ questions are like fingernail rakes to my mind. I can feel Dieter’s eyes on the back of my neck, judging me for what I just did, what I said on camera, for my pathetic attempt to get the better of him.
I dig my keys out of my bag and unlock the front door, letting it bang against the doorstop as I run through to the lounge. My father is there, sitting on the couch with a copy of every London daily newspaper and leafing through them. I can see from his polo neck shirt and tufted hair that he hasn’t gone into work today.
“I hate this,” I say, breathing hard. I will not scream and I will not cry. I will handle this like an adult. “I’m not having that man breathing down my neck one minute longer. Fire him. Now.”
My father doesn’t even look up from the page he’s browsing. “Oh, he hasn’t gotten sick of you yet? Wonders never cease.”
The dry, dismissive tone is like a knife-thrust. I don’t know who I hate more in that moment, my father for not looking at me or my mother for not being here at all.
Dieter is standing in the doorway and I push past him as I run out of the room, holding a hand to my face so he doesn’t see me start to cry.
* * *
The next day Adrienne doesn’t have class till the afternoon so I don’t expect to see her when I head downstairs at seven-thirty. I make coffee, go to the French windows and stare out onto the garden.
A split second before it happened, I knew she was going to kiss me. If I hadn’t been so annoyed with her it would have been funny. Was she hoping to shock me? I see it again, that vision I so vividly saw in the car as I pulled her against me, showing her she couldn’t get the better of me: Adrienne across my lap, ass up and reddened from a spanking, a whimpering, hot mess of sorry, daddy and I’ll be good, I promise and please oh please.
It’s a pleasing image. It’s such a pleasing image, in fact, that I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. I’ve always been attracted to challenging women, and challenging women in knee socks and little skirts are my drug of choice. Challenging women in knee socks and little skirts who are in distress are my goddamn kryptonite. I don’t know why I didn’t see till that moment that Adrienne fits exactly that type. Possibly the tantrums and rudeness and my professional lens wouldn’t allow it.
I think about it for several more moments, and then put my professional lens back in place. I want Adrienne to feel happy and supported, so it’s that I’ll focus on. Maybe I can encourage her closeness with her parents again by taking her to see her mother or encouraging her to call more.
I hear someone enter the kitchen, but it’s Mr. Westley, not Adrienne. He seems to be in a talkative mood so I go through and stand by the sink, feigning interest while he tells me about his newspaper. He’s got a copy of the Herald spread out on the counter in front of him and he points out their biggest advertisers, their most popular sections, how much they paid which source for a story. His caustic tone as he spoke to Adrienne the previous day is still ringing in my ears. Oh, he hasn’t gotten sick of you yet? Wonders never cease.