Uncontrollable

Abby:

The morning I realize my last semester of my senior year is most definitely not going to be the cakewalk I’ve envisioned is a rainy, gloomy one. How fitting that the weather matches my mood, I muse as I enter the guidance office, prop my umbrella in the corner, and shake away errant drips from my long black curls. I was going for soft waves, a sexy beachy vibe. Now, thanks to my wet ten-minute walk across campus, I’m left looking more like a bedraggled castaway. So much for making the best of this interview… or whatever it is.

Will my counselor even care if I looked half drowned and mostly frozen after trekking through the January Pennsylvania rain? It’s not like it’s a real interview or anything. Just a work study placement as part of my financial aid package. And I’m pretty sure those are guaranteed anyway. Even though I have zero work history.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve never had a job interview before. Or even a job, for that matter. Sure, having a job as a teenager is supposed to give one life experience or whatever, but my parents were pretty insistent that I focus on my education instead. And up until last semester, I did my part.

Then I went and failed two classes.

I approach the kiosk at the guidance desk and sign in, then find the nearest empty seat and wait to be called. A handful of other students wait ahead of me, so I pull out my phone and scroll through my newsfeed to kill time. I’m not in any hurry to meet with my counselor.

Or start working. Especially considering I have to take two extra classes this semester if I still want to graduate on time.

But my father insisted. And by insisted, I mean he cut me off. No more tuition money, and definitely no more spending money. Luckily, he prepaid my dorm through the end of the year, so at least I’ll have a roof over my broke-ass head.

“Abigail Kincade,” a mature female voice calls from the end of the row of tiny offices the guidance counselors work out of.

I stand, tuck my phone into the back pocket of my dark jeans, and follow the counselor into her office.

She motions for me to take a seat in one of the two wooden chairs by the door. Then she takes a seat behind the dark wood desk that takes up most of the small space. A small bronze nameplate on the desktop reads, T. Sullivan. “So… Abigail…” She tucks a strand of gray-brown hair behind one ear and slides on a pair of reading glasses she picks up from the desk. With her glasses in place, she makes a show of picking up a file and scanning it carefully. “You’re here for a work study placement.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Cutting it awfully close to the start of the semester, aren’t we?” She gives me a pointed look over the top rim of her glasses.

We? Like this is a joint endeavor or something and I’m letting her down with my tardiness.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to need financial aid until this week.” Okay, so I might have procrastinated in applying for financial aid longer than I should have, hoping my dad would change his mind, but when the week before Spring classes arrived and he was still holding his ground, I bit the bullet and applied for financial aid.

She checks her file again. “You’re twenty-one?”

“Twenty-two next month,” I confirm.

She sets the file down and crosses her arms on the desktop. “Normally, students your age aren’t eligible for financial aid without including their parents’ income on the application, but it looks like your advisor pushed your application through.”

“I’m in an accelerated BA–MA program, and he said my enrollment in a master’s program makes me eligible.” And thank goodness for that, because my parents make way too much money for me to qualify for financial aid if I had to list them.

“So, you chose to leave them off your application. Should I assume that’s because they make too much money for you to qualify otherwise?”

Nailed it. But what business is that of hers? “I’m honestly not sure exactly how much my parents make.” It’s not a lie. I know they make a lot, but I don’t know precisely how much a lot is.

T. Sullivan eyes me suspiciously, as though she thinks I’m trying to pull one over on her. Her gaze lands on my knee-high black Louboutin wedge boots, and her eyebrow goes up. I watch as she takes in my smartwatch, my Garavani handbag, the Bvlgari pendant at my throat. By the time her gaze meets mine again, both eyebrows are raised, and her lips are curled up in the slightest of sneers. “And they aren’t willing to help with your… school expenses?”

Holy judgment. Apparently, I should have dressed like a vagrant if I’d wanted this go smoother. My cheeks prickle with the heat of anger, and I bite back what I really want to say, opting instead for, “Not anymore, ma’am.” Though I can’t quite keep my teeth from gritting as I answer.

She glances down at the file again, then back at me smugly. “I see you failed two classes last semester. I supposed your parents are hoping to teach you some responsibility.”

This time, I don’t answer. If I open my mouth right now, nothing nice is going to come out. This woman’s attitude has me seriously chafing. Aren’t guidance counselors supposed to help students?

The silence stretches so long, she eventually clears her throat and refocuses her attention on my file. “It’s pretty late in the semester; work study placements are slim.”

And there go my hopes of having any food or fun money this semester. Grants will cover my tuition, but I refuse to take out student loans, not when my dad is just trying to prove a point to me. I’ll prove a point right back by starving before I cave enough to take out student loans. Seems this meeting was a waste of time. I uncross my legs and prepare to stand.

T. Sullivan holds up a finger to stop me. “But I was able to find an opening. And I think it will be perfect for you.” She looks me over again, this time managing to mask her distaste better than before.

Hope swells in my chest. I might actually be able pull off this whole handling my own education thing this semester. Won’t that show the old man. “That’s great! Thank you!” I gush, almost forgetting that T. is about as likeable as a pile of fire ants.

She pulls a form from a stack on the shelf next to her desk and writes something down on it. “Take this upstairs to room 320. I’ll email ahead to let them know you’re coming.” She slides the form across the desk and then turns to her computer. “Have a nice day.” Something in her tone tells me she does not, in fact, want me to have a nice day, but at least I have a job.

“You too,” I call halfheartedly as I stand and retrieve the form. I head out of the guidance offices and make for the south stairs of the student services building. I’ve never been to the third floor, so I have no idea where T. is sending me. A quick read of the form shows a generic guidance document authorizing me for a work study position as… I can’t make out the words in Sullivan’s chicken-scratch handwriting. Student something, but that’s all I can get out of it.

By the time I arrive on the third floor, I’ve mentally run through all sorts of jobs. Maybe they need a receptionist for one of the student services desks. Oh, or maybe something in the library. I’m not overly excited about having to work, but I don’t think I’d mind the library so much. I count down the room numbers on my way to the correct one. 332, 330, 328… finally I find 320 and pause.

Campus Security. My mind blanks for a moment as I try to figure out why I’m here. Then it clicks, and I reach for the door handle with a smile. They must require a background check for whatever job I’ll be doing.

Inside, the security office is smaller than I expect. The door is flanked by a pair of chairs on either side, and across the small space are two desks, facing the door, with a window beyond that looks down to the parking lot. A wiry, thirty-something man with more mustache than head hair looks up and greets me with a warm smile. “You must be Abigail,” he says as he stands and rounds the desk.

“That’s me!” I answer cheerfully.

“Nice to meet you. I’m John, one of the senior security supervisors. Let’s get you a chair.” Even as he says the words, he pulls over one of the chairs from next to the door and sets it in front of his desk. “Have a seat.” Then he returns to his own chair.

I sit and wait as John shuffles through some paperwork, then checks something on his computer. After a moment, he returns his attention to me. “Do you have your form?”

“Right here.” I hand it over.

He scans it and adds it to the paperwork in his hands. “Great! So, Theresa forwarded your class schedule, and it looks like you only have morning classes Monday through Thursday, is that right?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Good. I can work with that. So, twenty hours is the max per week, but we don’t typically schedule work study participants for more than fifteen. Does that work for you?”

“Sure,” I answer, even though I’m not entirely sure why Security John is telling me all of this instead of Theresa. Isn’t this more in the guidance purview?

“Can you start next week?”

“Start…?” I still don’t even know what the job is.

“I’ll have you start slow; you’ll train for few weeks under my best guy. He’ll show you the ropes, and when you’re ready, I’ll give you your own post.”

My own post. Oh shit. “As a security guard?” It all makes sense now. I’m not here for a background check. This is the job. Theresa “T.” Sullivan recommended me for a job as a security guard.

Something in my tone gets John’s attention, because his expression turns serious. “Student building monitor. You did know that was the position, didn’t you?”

I shake my head. “She never said what the job was.” I feel more than a little silly admitting that I didn’t even know what job I was here for.

John nods and leans back in his chair. “In a nutshell, student building monitors help promote campus safety by helping our office to maintain a security presence on campus.”

So… a security guard. That was definitely not the job I had in mind.

“Does that sound like something you would be interested in?” John prompts.

I briefly consider saying no. Hell no. But then I picture myself having to go back downstairs, face Judgy Sullivan, and ask for a new assignment. And who knows what job she’d come up with for me then. Nope, my best bet is to stick this out. It’s only one semester, just sixteen short weeks until I graduate.

Plastering on my best fake smile, I tell him, “Absolutely!”

John’s expression brightens, and he holds the paperwork out to me. “Excellent! Let’s get this paperwork filled out, and I’ll introduce you to the guy you’ll train with.” He slides a pen across the desktop, and I grab it and set to work on the paperwork. It’s all basic stuff, background information about me, details about the job, dress code, responsibilities, etcetera.

I’ve just flipped to the last document, an employment contract, when the door behind me opens.

John smiles brightly. “Here’s the man of the hour! Abigail, this is your trainer.”

I turn to greet him, preparing my fake smile again, but it freezes in place and then melts off my face.

There, standing in the doorway, looking better than I remember, is the one guy on campus I’ve gone out of my way to avoid for the last three years. Ever since he broke my heart freshman year.

“Hey, Abby,” my ex-boyfriend, Paul, says, looking for all the world like he’s wishing he could get as far away from here as possible.

I’m sure my expression matches.

“Oh, good. You guys know each other.” The sheer level of John’s obliviousness is almost amusing.

“Yeah, we know each other,” Paul answers.

Talk about an understatement.

Paul:

For two and a half years, I’ve loved my job. Now, nervous energy roots in my stomach, threatening to grow into a ball of frustration every time I think about anything even remotely related to campus security. I have to force myself to show up to work Monday afternoon. Every cell in my body wants desperately to stay away, and I strongly consider calling in sick.

But the promotion I’ve been working toward is on the line, and with the completion of my master’s work looming just a year away, I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize the next step in my career. A position as Full Time Security Supervisor, overseeing junior specialists and student monitors would look great on a resume. I’m not going to throw that away over a ghost from my past returning and reviving old memories.

I even arrive fifteen minutes early, figuring Abby will probably be early as well. Doesn’t everyone try to be early on their first day of work? But at 2:59, when she’s still not there, I start to wonder if she’s decided not to show. Maybe I got lucky and she decided to do us both a favor and not take the job. I even start running through what I’ll say to John when I call him to fill him in.

The new girl flaked is what I settle on. It’s short and to the point and doesn’t give away how relieved I am to not have to train her. At 3:05, I pull out my phone and prepare to send the message off to my boss. And then the door opens.

In strolls Abby, dressed ridiculously inappropriately for roving campus. Her heels are shinier than a new car, at least three inches tall, and razor thin. As if the shoes aren’t silly enough, she’s paired them with a tight black skirt and gauzy pink blouse, just sheer enough that I can make out the slightest hint of a black lace bra beneath. Not that I’m looking at her bra.

I’m definitely not looking at her bra. I look away from her entirely, down at my phone, and do my best to pretend utter disinterest in her.

She comes fully into the room and stops in front of where I sit. Don’t look up; don’t look up. I look up, my gaze traveling over her form to her face like a starving man looking at a gourmet meal. Shit.

“So, how does this work?” she asks when our gazes meet.

I get up from my chair so I’m not at eye level with her body and take several steps away from her. “Once you’re trained, John will probably just give you a post, a place where you will spend most of your shift, just keeping an eye out for anything weird or any students that might need help. He’ll probably give you something easy like the library or the music building. My usual post is Student Services and Administration, with rounds through the west parking garage before and after. So, that’s where we’ll start.”

Abby nods. “Do I get like… a taser or anything?”

I chuckle at the question, and she narrows her almond-shaped brown eyes at me, her dark brows furrowing in displeasure. I recognize that look and know the temper that lurks behind it. Out of self-preservation, I cut my laugh short and force a serious tone. “No taser. If you want to carry pepper spray, you can, but it’s not a requirement of the job. We’re not allowed to carry weapons though.”

“Pepper spray, no weapons. Got it.” She motions toward the door. “Shall we?”

I hold up a hand and motion toward the mini kiosk on John’s desk. “You need to check in first.”

Abby rolls her eyes and moves to John’s desk, bends at the waist to get closer to the screen. And fuck if my body doesn’t immediately react to the sight of her round ass swaying in the space between us, barely covered by that scrap of a skirt.

I do my best to shove away any thoughts of my hands slipping under the material and settling on those cheeks, and I definitely am not remembering the time I took her from behind in front of my dorm window to indulge the exhibitionist fantasy she wanted me to act out with her. Despite the fact that the idea of people seeing us isn’t exactly my schtick, I can’t deny the experience was hot. Sex with Abby was always incredible. Even our most mediocre encounters were leaps and bounds beyond anything I experienced before. Or since.

But that’s over. Has been over for a long time, and I definitely should not be drooling over her ass right now. I’m supposed to be training her, not fantasizing about her.

She finishes signing in and turns back to face me before I have a chance to adjust myself. All I can do is hope she doesn’t notice the semi I’m sporting. Maybe my dark jeans are thick enough to hide it.

I breathe a soft sigh of relief when she sashays past me and then follow her to the door, hold it open so she can go through. We make our way to the elevator, and she presses the button. Then we wait in silence. When the elevator arrives a few seconds later, I motion for her to enter first, then join her, pressing the button for the first floor on my way into the carriage. When spend the entire ride, short as it is, in more silence, and when we step off the elevator, she waits—silently—for me to indicate which direction we’ll be heading. I point to my left, and we walk side by side down the hall to the west exit.

By the time we reach the outside, I’m wracking my brain trying to think of something to say. I’m not usually bothered by a lack of small talk, but this silence between us is stretching to a level way beyond awkward, far past uncomfortable, and bordering on painful.

“So, the parking garage is just over here.” I point toward the looming structure.

Abby snorts. “No shit.”

Yeah, I guess that was a pretty dumb thing to announce, but my pride still prickles at the idea of her laughing at me. I clench my jaw tight to avoid responding.

The afternoon sun does little to warm the January air. Despite my hoodie and the thick denim of my jeans, the chill nips at my skin, but if Abby is cold, she doesn’t let on. Her heels click-clack across the sidewalk pavement in time with my own rubber-soled footsteps, as we move quickly toward the garage. Even though the garage is technically open air, maybe it will be at least a little warmer inside.

I lead the way up the entrance ramp and into the structure, stopping halfway down the first row of parking stalls at the elevator. “I usually start at the top and work my way down,” I inform her. The garage has four levels, and even though it takes the same amount of time to make a circuit of each, there’s something psychological about counting down that makes me feel like the rounds go quicker. “I typically like to take the stairs up, but given your poor choice of shoes, the elevator seems like the better choice.”

Abby’s gaze snaps to me, and fire blazes in her eyes. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

I shrug as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. “Nothing, if you’re going out to dinner or a movie. But we’re walking around campus to ensure safety and security. Something more practical might be a better choice tomorrow.”

Abby’s jaw sets stubbornly, as she joins me inside the elevator. The doors close behind her, and we jerk into motion. She visibly tenses at the strength of the movement and grabs for the handrail on the wall behind her but doesn’t otherwise say anything.

And even though I’ve just finished insulting her fashion choice, I suddenly feel the need to reassure her. “Don’t worry. That’s just how this elevator moves.” It’s one of the oldest buildings on campus, and I’m pretty sure this elevator is older than my dad, but it's safe.

She lets go of the handrail but still looks skeptical.

When we arrive on the top level, I motion for her to step out first. “See, perfectly safe.”

“Uh huh.” She doesn’t sound at all convinced. Each time we get back on the elevator to go to the next level, though, she looks slightly more at ease with it.

Between Abby being late, her sex-kitten heels slowing down our progression, and the extra time we spend getting on and off the elevator, we end up getting to Student Services almost a full hour later than I usually do.

Embry, the student receptionist at the check-in desk smiles wide when she sees us, “Hey, Pauly, I was beginning to think you weren’t working today.”

“Hey, Em. Just running a little late.” I greet her back as I lead Abby past the desk. “How’s everything?”

“Oh, you know… boring as usual!”

I laugh. “Just how I like it.”

Embry gives a little wave as we head toward the business office.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Abby turns to me and says, “Pauly?”

I shrug. “It’s what she calls me.”

If I’m not mistaken, Abby’s voice sounds a little sour when she responds. “And you call her Em.”

Is she jealous? I choose not to respond and instead launch into an explanation of how I typically start at the back of the building, in the business office, and work my way forward until I’m back at the student support center.

Where I spend the rest of my time chatting with Em. I leave that part out, though, and decide to forgo that part of my rounds while training Abby. I’m not into Embry like that, and I’m pretty sure she’s not into me either, but I don’t need my jealous ex-girlfriend hanging around making things extra awkward. I just need to switch up my routine for a couple weeks until I finish training Abby, and then I can go back to business as usual.

By the time I lead Abby back to the security office to sign out, I’m no longer sure I will survive the next couple of weeks. I’m strung about as tight as I’ve ever been. Every time her luscious hips swing a little too close and brush against me, every time the scent of her tropical shampoo and coconut body oil invades my nostrils, hell… every damn time I look at her makes me want her. That’s exactly the reason I’ve avoided Abby in the years since our breakup. I wasn’t over her. I’m still not over her. I may never be over her.