Colors of You: Baxter Academy ~ The Academy, #1

By Jane Charles

Alexia Deme likes her quiet life as an art teacher at the Baxter School of Art, a high school for the talented and troubled. It was a long journey to get here, but she's finally on her own and where she wants to be. Though nothing is ever permanent, this might be the first place she can stay for a while. At least she thinks so until that peace is disrupted by a fleeing felon, turning her world upside down and bringing the past to her present.

It was a normal, typical day when Officer Kian O'Brien got the radio call and took off after a fleeing suspect, over the walls of the Baxter Academy of Art and to the side of Alexia Deme right before she nearly collapses in his arms. In one moment, everything in his life is altered and the more Kian comes to know Alexia, the more he cares.

But, can he keep her from fleeing when the past comes back to haunt her? He's not ready to let her go, but can he convince her to stay?

***Recommended for adult readers due to language, sexual content and adult situations***
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Charles
• Release date: Dec 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502216403

Jane Charles

Jane Charles has lived in the Midwest her entire life. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Out of boredom on a long road trip she borrowed her older sister’s historical romance and fell in love with reading. She long ago lost count of how many fiction novels she has read over the years and her love for them never died.  Along with romance she has a passion for history and the two soon combined when she penned her first historical romance.  What turned into a hobby became a passion, which has been fully supported by her husband, three children and three cats. JaneCharlesAuthor.com Jane can be contacted at: [e-mail] Twitter and FB: JaneACharle  

Book preview

One

H ey , Miss Alexia, when you gonna let me tag this wall?

I roll my eyes and lean back against the stone wall, setting my charcoal drawing aside for the moment. Louie always asks to tag the ten foot walls surrounding the school whenever it’s nice enough to be outside. As its November, days like this are nearly non-existent. But, by some fluke it’s warm. So much so that the kids are wearing short sleeves and modest shorts. Naked trees are outlined by a hazy sky and the ground is covered in a blanket of red, brown, orange and yellow leaves. This just might be my favorite time of year.

Those dull stones are borrrring. He stands back and studies them. What color do you call that anyway? Dirty white?

I can only laugh at Louie. He likes color. Everything he paints is bold and bright. That’s one thing we have in common. These walls could use some color. A magnificent piece of art that would make people stop and take notice.

It is a cream, ecru or light stone, Marissa answers without taking her eyes from the watercolor she was working on. Her voice is as crisp as the air should be. It is calm and soothing. I would appreciate you not defacing it.

I call it boring as hell. He flops down next me. Come on, Teach, let me tag it.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Louie always makes me laugh and I find it hard to believe he is only eight years younger. It feels like there are decades between our ages.

"Her name’s Miss Alexia, not Teach, Carlie disciplines. Show some respect, dumbass."

You calling me a dumbass? Louie laughs. It’s over seventy degrees and you got those long sleeves on. Bet you’re sweating like a motherfucker.

Louis! No longer finding him funny. It’s one thing for the kids to give each other a hard time, tease and have fun. It’s an entirely different matter to mention a sensitive subject. In Carlie’s case, she wears long sleeves to cover the scars on her arm. She may have stopped cutting, but white lines are still there and she doesn’t like to see them.

I know very little about the students’ backgrounds. It isn’t my business. I am here to teach art, at least until the end of the December. I still haven’t heard if they’re going to keep me on. It makes my stomach churn. They need to keep me. I love this job and have no clue what else I would do. Well, I do have other skills, but I don’t exactly want to rely on those and I make a shitty waitress.

As far as the kids are concerned, we’re told only what’s necessary. In Carlie’s case, we’re to watch for any signs that she may be cutting again. How the hell I’d be able to tell that is beyond me. She’s always covered from head to foot regardless of the temperature. If she’s cutting, I’d never know it. All I can do is what I’ve been told, and that’s to keep a careful inventory of our art supplies. The brushes and paints might be innocent, but I also have X-acto knives, scissors and any number of items that could be harmful, whether the person wants to use it on themselves or someone else. So far, at least since May, the only thing that’s gone missing is a stack of post-it notes. For all I know, those could have been taken by anyone, or fallen behind a cabinet.

Besides, Carlie meets with a therapist or psychologist twice a week. Aren’t they supposed to be watching for these things, questioning the girl, or even inspecting her body? I really don’t know how it works. I just teach art. I am not a therapist by any stretch of the imagination.

I asked when I got here where these kids would be if they didn’t have this high school and was told that they’d have been released from wherever facility or home they’d been a resident and returned to their parents, guardians or foster care. But, because of their talent, they were accepted to come here instead. The kids still have issues and meet with therapists, but for the most part, seem to be doing okay. Well, at least to me they seem to be doing fine.

Sorry, Carlie, Louie says after a moment and I know he feels bad. He’s got a good heart, despite what nightmare he might’ve lived through before coming here.

Marissa purses her lips and looks away from her painting only long enough to glare at Louie.

Louie shrugs and goes back to his drawing. That art would be epic, I’m telling ya.

I’m sure it would be. I’ll speak with the dean.

He looks up at me with a gleam in his hazel eyes.

But don’t get your hopes up.

He snorts. "I learned long ago never to get my hopes up, Teach."

He says this so matter-of-factly that it’s almost painful. For many years I never allowed myself to get my hopes up either. A part of me is still afraid to.

There’s a blare of sirens coming from somewhere in the distance. The students stiffen, look up and listen. Fear registers in some eyes and while others only seem slightly curious. Anxiety sweeps through me. It’s automatic. For too many years I ran whenever the police were near and I suspect a number of these kids have as well. No one is painting or drawing anymore, just listening. Do they have the same instant reaction as me? Never, ever trust a cop, or fucking pig, as my father was fond of calling them. From before I could remember, if the cops were around, you ran. It was instilled in me before I could walk.

A few of the students lay their brushes aside and I push down my own anxiety. I haven’t needed to run from the police in six years, but it’s instinctive. I wonder if this is something that I’ll ever get over.

A highway runs along the other side of the wall and this isn’t the first time we’ve heard sirens, but there’s more than one car and they’re getting closer. Even though I know we’re safe, I can’t relax. I listen, waiting for them to pass.

I wish we had some loud music, Mick complains. He’s Louie’s best friend, at least since shortly after they both arrived at the school. I am actually surprised he isn’t begging to tag the wall right along with Louie.

Me too. Marissa’s hands shake as she dips her brush into the water.

Emma unplugs the earphones from her iPod and classical music fills the air. The school provides iPods to all the music students. I can’t believe that’s where a portion of our funding goes.

I normally don’t allow the kids to have them in class, but today we’re working on individual projects and it’s more relaxed. Besides, Emma works better with music playing, so I let her keep it today.

What the hell is that? Carlos asks.

Pachelbel! Emma answers as if it’s obvious.

Tires squeal and something crashes into the other side of the wall, right behind me. Had the car taken the tight curve too fast and wrecked? It wouldn’t be the first time, but nobody had ever struck the wall before. Usually they hit a tree or one of the guardrails.

I jump up. My pulse is racing and my heart may very well pound right out of my chest. We’re safe. We should be safe, but something in my gut warms me otherwise. Nothing good ever happens when the cops were around.

More tires squeal and the sirens stop just on the other side of the wall. Everyone, inside. I urge them toward the art building. Even though the wall around the school is ten feet high, the safety and security I felt not ten minutes ago is gone.

The kids drop their brushes and jump to their feet. Some run, others walk more casually. I wish they’d hurry. I can’t go in until each of my students are inside, safe and secure.

There’s a scuffling sound on the other side of the wall and I hold my breath, wishing I didn’t have to be so close to it, but I have to stay between the kids and the potential danger.

Something heavy drops onto me, knocking me to the ground. The back of my head slams into the stone and pain shoots down my arm.

Just as quick, the weight is gone.

Miss Alexia, Carlie cries, rushing to my side.

You fucking asshole, Louie yells. I want to tell him to just get inside, but I can’t focus long enough. Everything is happening in a fog, quickly but in slow motion, a mass of confusion as my brain tries to focus. I can’t seem to voice the words in my head.

Get him, Mick yells and I struggle to get my bearings.

I finally pull myself to my feet. My eyes are a bit blurry but I can see a man is running away with Louie and Mick chasing after him. Don’t, I scream just as Louie lunges, grabbing the man around the thighs, bringing him to the ground. Something flies out of the stranger’s hand, but I can’t tell what it was.

Get the gun, Louie yells.

Oh my God! The man has a gun! My chest tightens.

Before I can respond, Mick races forward and kicks the gun further away so that the stranger can’t reach it.

Thank God he didn’t touch it.

I start forward as Louie rolls the man over, straddles him and then draws back his arm before hitting him in the nose. Blood splatters everywhere and Louie is yelling in the guy’s face. You hurt Miss Alexia, you son of a bitch.

Stop, I cry.

Louie doesn’t seem to care and hits him again.

Officers rush by me from behind as more cops start pouring in from the front of the campus.

Hands in the air, one of the cops orders.

I blink, trying to clear my vision again as I stumble forward.

Mick, Louie and the stranger are now down on their knees, hands locked behind their heads. This is all happening too fast.

Stop, I shriek. The boys didn’t do anything wrong.

We’re taking them in, an older cop bellows. He yanks Mick off the ground and I watch as the cop cuffs him like a common criminal. Louie is being cuffed by another cop. Mick doesn’t deserve this and neither does Louie.

They’re innocent, I cry, swaying slightly. Why am I so dizzy? I need a clear head. I need to stop them before they harm the boys.

We’ll question them at the station, one of the cops tells me.

Don’t worry none, Miss Alexia. Louie gives me a lopsided grin. We’ll be okay.

How can he smile? Doesn’t he know what this could mean? He’s come too far and if he’s charged with something he’ll get kicked out of Baxter.

You can question them here. I’m finding it hard to breathe as panic takes hold. They didn’t do anything wrong.

We only need to get their statements.

An officer steps in front of me and puts a steadying hand on my arm. I look up into his light blue eyes.

Do you understand? He’s looking at me with such concern. All I can do is nod as stars begin dancing in my peripheral vision.

Igrab the young teacher’s arms as her legs give way. Slipping an arm around her waist and supporting her the best I can, I lead her to a cushioned, iron-bench beneath a shade tree. Blood drips from the back of her head and soaks into my shirt. She sits and puts her hand down at her side as if to support herself. I settle beside her for fear she might fall over. She needs medical attention and I radio for an EMT. Not only is her head gushing blood, but she’s unstable, and it looks like her right wrist is swollen and injured. I don’t have the medical knowledge to know if it’s a break or a sprain.

Look at me.

She slowly tilts her head up then squints her eyes at me, trying to gain focus. They are such a beautiful, dark brown, framed with such thick lashes. I blink and look more intensely, studying the size of her pupils since she did hit her head pretty hard.

An ambulance will be here in a moment.

Don’t need one.

I don’t argue the point. She’s in no condition to make any decisions right now.

Her glance drifts lower as she sways, and her gaze locks on the badge at the left side of my chest. Fucking pig.

Okay then, I laugh to myself. This one obviously has no affection for cops, but I won’t hold it against her. Besides, in my short one year career, I’ve been called much worse, though nobody’s ever called me a pig before. That’s what my dad was called, and usually by people who were old enough to have been at Woodstock.

Why don’t you lie back? The way she’s swaying from side to side, she won’t be able to hold herself upright much longer.

No. She glares at me. The boys. Bring them back.

They’ll be returned after questioning.

She groans and lays back and then winces as her head comes in contact with the cushion. They didn’t do anything wrong.

She’s right. There’s no reason the kids had to be treated like criminals, but that’s an issue I’ll take up with my sergeant later.

There’s no color to her lips and she’s grown pale. I hope the EMTs get here soon.

Bring them back, she mumbles, nearly slurring her words.

Her eyes are drifting shut. Shit. I can’t let her pass out. Isn’t that the first rule of a head injury? I promise, I will. She’s still bleeding and I know heads can bleed a lot, but what if it’s worse than I thought? I shift and turn her so her legs are resting on the cushion and she’s practically lying down. I squat on the ground beside her. Her breathing is even. That’s good, but she needs a doctor now.

She opens her eyes slightly. I don’t trust cops.

I’m not surprised. She had just called me a fucking pig. You can trust me.

She snorts. That’s what they all say.

Her arms stiffen and she grabs the cushion, sitting forward as she groans. I know the look and sound too well, but can’t move quick enough to avoid her puking in my lap. Given her feelings for cops, I don’t ever expect an apology.

After changing my uniform I march to the kitchen in the Sheriff’s department and slam the door behind me. Sergeant Lawrence Bailey dumps his third pack of sugar into his coffee. I can see the other two wrapper discarded on the counter. Just thinking about drinking something with that much sugar makes my teeth ache. Bailey’s the officer who brought the boys in and is a major asshole. Last week he gave a guy a speeding ticket for being five over the limit. The man was taking his pregnant wife to the hospital because she was in labor and Bailey just took his sweet time running the plate to make sure the guy didn’t have any warrants. The Sheriff was not happy to get that complaint. Was it necessary to cuff them?

Bailey snorted. Hell yeah! You know what kind of kids they are?

I fist my hands and anchor them at my hips. Otherwise I might flatten his mammoth nose.

Degenerates, hoodlums, gang members, thieves, thugs, and probably a few rapists and murderers too. I don’t trust a single one of them.

People like Bailey, who don’t think anyone can change or deserves a second chance, piss me off. He knows as well as I do that Baxter is for kids to move forward and put their past behind them. He thinks they’ll end up in prison anyway so why waste the time or money.

You’re a kid yourself, Bailey says as he turns to me and sips from his coffee.

You’re still all touchy-feely and shit like that. Get over it. Liberals like you are ruining this world.

He knows nothing about those kids or the life they had before coming to Baxter. He doesn’t get that they’re more victim than felon. I force down my rage and resist the overpowering urge to punch him. You don’t know anything about those kids.

Don’t need to. Know enough already.

We’ve had this argument so many times and I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath. His ignorance and failure to look beyond his narrow-minded prejudice pisses me off. I should know by now that he’s thick headed and will never change. I fucking wish he’d retire and move away. Or at least slither back to the rock he sleeps under each night and never come out again. "Have you ever once bothered to even talk to one of those kids? Did you ever actually look at the success rate of Baxter? Dozens of those students have gone on to college and have good jobs.

He snorts. It’s just a matter of time. They’ll fuck up soon enough and end up in prison.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he expects the same of me, but Bailey doesn’t know that I was once a student at Baxter and I’m sure as hell never going to tell him.

Sgt. Peters knocks as he sticks his head in the door. Sheriff wants to see you, O’Brien.

I nod and follow the man out of the room. It’s for the best that I walk away from Bailey before I screw up my career because of that jerk.

I stop at the door of Sheriff Dengler’s office. He’s just saying goodbye to someone on the phone so I wait until he hangs up.

Come in, O’Brien, and shut the door.

I do as he asks but don’t sit. I’m rarely summoned in here and it makes me a little uneasy. Reminiscent of the many times I had been called to the principal’s office in high school. Had Bailey made a complaint against me? It wouldn’t be the first time. Had I screwed up on an arrest? It could be a number of things, though I don’t think I’d fucked up anything.

I just got off the phone. The mayor called a meeting with Mrs. Robak of the school, the County Attorney and the Council.

This isn’t good if all of these people are involved.

Have a seat. Sheriff Dengler motions to the chair in front of his desk.

If he wants me to sit, it can’t be too bad, can it?

Due to the incident today, an emergency meeting was called and a vote was taken.

My palms begin to sweat but I resist the urge to wipe them on my brown uniform pants.

There’ve been discussions about having a liaison serve the school, town and sheriff’s department.

I nod, though I can’t understand why the Sheriff is telling me this, except maybe because I was one of the first ones there this afternoon. I’ve only been with the department for a year and at twenty-four, I’m the youngest deputy.

He leans back in his chair and studies me. It’s been decided that one of my officers will be given that position, though he’ll still be a patrol officer. He’ll simply refocus his job when things happen with the school that need attention, whether it is a difficulty, be a presence at art exhibits and theatre productions, and any other instance that may come up. He takes a drink of dark black coffee. The position will be for communication, conflict resolution, general interaction, or someone to investigate when there have been unpleasant situations. We’re still drawing up the job description so it’s more clear.

I’m still not sure why he’s telling me all this, but I sure as hell hope he isn’t considering Bailey.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. I want that person to be you.

Me? This is not what I expected to hear and I’m a bit shocked, actually. I’m not sure I’m qualified.

Sheriff Dingler chuckles. I’d prefer that you had more experience, but of all my officers, you’re the best fit.

It’s not exactly a promotion, but I can’t help but feel a little proud that I’ve been chosen.

Mrs. Robak insists the officer be young or the students will never trust them. He takes another sip of his coffee. I choose you, because you are not a stranger to the school.

Oh God, had the sheriff told the others that? It’s my secret, and only a select few know. It was necessary to explain when the background check was conducted before I could be hired. None of the cops I work with know and I want to keep it that way.

To be fair, I listed my youngest officers in the department who could fill the position. He grins. When I mentioned you, Mrs. Robak’s response was ‘I want O’Brien’.

Two

Ican’t start heaving again . I’ve already puked twice. The first time was when I woke up in the moving ambulance. Then the second time was when the nurses, doctors and techs messed with my hand and arm, and I got sick all over again. The nurse said the vomiting could be from the concussion or pain meds. Since I’ve never experienced either before, it could be either.

What happened to the boys? My brain is a bit foggy but I’m certain the cops took them away.

Why can’t I remember the details better? The last thing I remember before waking up in the ambulance was Louie being cuffed.

My stomach rolls and I take deep breaths. Throwing up sucks and if the pain meds are the cause, they aren’t worth it since they aren’t doing their job. My wrist throbs, my head aches and the numbness is wearing out at the back of my skull where they put five stitches. Supposedly my wrist is broken, but they won’t cast it until an orthopedic surgeon looks at it. It’s wrapped and immobilized so I can’t use it, but they don’t want to do too much to it because of the swelling.

Since when does a specialist have to look at a broken wrist? I thought breaks were cast and left that way until it healed.

I glance about, wishing they would just let me leave. I need to check on Louie and Mick. Are they still with the police? Have they been returned to the school? What if they’ve been charged with a crime? They’d done nothing but try to protect me. Yes, it was stupid and they should’ve just let the man, whoever he was, run off.

That stranger had a gun!

I shudder at the thought of any one of the students being shot. If Louie hadn’t tackled him, the man would’ve been caught in the middle of the campus anything could’ve happened, and none of it good.

As stupid as Louie’s actions were, he may very well have saved the lives of students and teachers. He should be considered a hero, not taken away like a criminal.

I shift to get more comfortable and lift my hand. Pain shoots up my right arm. Shit. A bag of ice rests on top of my right wrist and my fingers are an odd bluish color. Are they broken too?

How am I going to paint, draw, or write? Will I lose my job because I won’t be able demonstrate something?

If my stomach wasn’t already empty, I’d be sick again. I can’t afford to lose my job. They still hadn’t decided if they were keeping me past the end of the year. If I can’t do anything before then, I may have just worked my last day.

What the hell am I going to do? I might have my degree, but I don’t have my teaching certificate yet, and there aren’t many jobs out there for artists. I guess I fall back on my previous profession and read tarot cards and palms. That could get me by for a while, but that’s about it. It wouldn’t be enough to pay the rent, but I could sleep in my car.

I certainly can’t go home. Not that I’ve ever actually had one, and I have no clue where I’d look for my family even if I did want to find them.

I’ve never been in the hospital before. This one experience convinces me that I never want to be in one again. It’s cold, sterile and devoid of all color, with the exception of the cerulean worn by the nurses and doctors. Cerulean is one of my favorite colors. It probably won’t be after today.

I hate being confined to this hospital bed. I don’t even have a window to look out of, only a glass door where I can watch the medical staff go about their business. Occasionally someone’s pushed by in a wheelchair or on a gurney, but that’s about all the excitement to be had. An IV is dripping some clear liquid into my veins and round white things are stuck to my chest, sending signals to the little machine. None of these things are foreign to me. I’ve seen them used in TV shows, but this is the first time I’ve experienced them up close and personal.

A young nurse pops her head inside the door. Your room will be ready soon.

Room? I’m already in a room. Why can’t I just go home?

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