Page 31 of Give Me Strength

I look away. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. Your fuck-me eyes are saying plenty.”

“My… what?”

“You’ve been staring at my dick, Ashlynn.”

“I wasn’t,” I mutter, but the protest is weak. So I unceremoniously gather up the loose pages on his bed before plopping down on the foot of his bed. The liquid sloshes around in my mug and some of the now-lukewarm liquid splatters on my hand.

I can’t meet his eyes. I’d rather not, and my flaming cheeks aren’t winning me any points right now. I keep my gaze downcast, perusing the housekeeper resumes, but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my face.

“Leland told the arresting officers that he was simply being a good friend,” he changes the subject, switching into psychiatrist voice with a practiced ease. “He said he was just bringing your homework to you since you’d been out of school for so long.”

“Bullshit. I only missed a few days of school for the funeral, and that was weeks ago. I have since caught up, something he would know if he actually bothered to show up to school, which he doesn’t.”

“I thought you said you aren’t friends.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “I don’t have friends at Bluegrass, and before you make a smart remark about that, know that it’s my choice. If anything, I go out of my way to fly so far under the radar that it’s almost comical. Yet some people just can’t seem to get the hint.” I stand, pull three resumes out of the pile, and hand them to him. Our gazes lock, and an unspoken question passes through his eyes. “These ones seem promising.”

He takes the pages from me and sets them aside, never breaking eye contact. “Everyone needs a friend, Ashlynn. Even if they think they don’t.”

I study his face, taking in the worry lines that seem out of place.

“I have friends,” I eventually say, but it’s more to appease him. “I just happen to be much more selective about who those are. I don’t care for petty teenage drama, cliques, or playing into contrived school politics. What I am, however, is observant, cynical, and a loner. When Dad died, do you know how many of my so-called acquaintances from Bluegrass attended the funeral? None.”

His brow dips again. “No one? Not even your principal? Or any of your teachers?”

I feel my grip tighten around my tea mug. “My life revolves around ballet. But the law says I must get an education, so high school’s just a means to that end.” I can tell he doesn’t like that answer, so I add, “My dream is to become a professional ballerina, not a high school cheerleader. No shade to those who do, but that’s not the life I want.”

I know fully well that that’s a loaded statement, one that’s open to interpretation in a million different ways. And, as a psychiatrist, Gilbert will dissect those words over and over again. With my cynical outlook on life, perhaps he’ll even go so far as to attach some hidden meaning to it, one I haven’t considered could be at play here… and I’m inclined to let him.

It’s his job to dissect things, and it’s’ my job to infuse beauty in the world through dance… all while maintaining a healthy dosage of cynicism. I think my job is so much cooler.

As he watches me, I can see the metaphoric wheels churning in that big, beautiful brain of his. Eventually, he pushes the covers off his body and swings both legs over the edge of the bed.

“I’m taking you to school today,” he says, standing.

I stand too. “Why?”

“I’m going to have a long overdue chat with Principal Richardson.”

“Again, why?”

“For my own peace of mind,” is all he says as he disappears into the bathroom.

Crap.

Did I just poke the bear?

14

ASHLYNN

The drive to school is quiet at first, the morning sun casting long shadows on the road. I steal glances at him, taking in the determined set in his jaw, the way the sunlight catches the light freckles across his nose and cheeks, giving him a boyish charm that contrasts his otherwise serious demeanor.

He’s dressed in his usual professional attire — a shirt, slacks, and a jacket. The tailored fit of his clothes highlights his athletic but slightly lean physique. I glance down at my own outfit — jeggings and a gray t-shirt. My attire is as under-the-radar as it gets. Gilbert’s will turn heads and get tongues wagging.

“If it helps,” he begins, breaking the silence, his voice still carrying that morning roughness that makes my heart skip a beat, “Russ had a view choice words.”

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