Absinthe Read online

  Absinthe

  Winter Renshaw

  Contents

  Copyright 2017 Winter Renshaw

  Important!

  Books By Winter Renshaw

  Description

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  25 Things About Me

  Acknowledgements for Absinthe

  About the Author

  Copyright 2017 Winter Renshaw

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio

  COVER MODEL: Mitchell Wick

  PHOTOGRAPHER: Wong Sim

  COPY EDITOR: Wendy Chan, The Passionate Proofreader

  PROOFREADING: Janice Owen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Important!

  If you did not obtain this book via Amazon or Kindle Unlimited, it has been stolen. Downloading this book without paying for it is against the law, and often times those files have been corrupted with viruses and malware that can damage your eReader or computer or steal your passwords and banking information. Always obtain my books via Amazon and Amazon only. Thank you for your support and for helping to combat piracy.

  Books By Winter Renshaw

  The Never Series

  Never Kiss a Stranger

  Never Is a Promise

  Never Say Never

  Bitter Rivals: a novella

  The Arrogant Series

  Arrogant Bastard

  Arrogant Master

  Arrogant Playboy

  The Rixton Falls Series

  Royal

  Bachelor

  Filthy

  The Amato Brothers Series

  Heartless

  Reckless

  Priceless (a Rixton Falls crossover)

  Standalones

  Dark Paradise

  Vegas Baby

  Cold Hearted

  The Perfect Illusion

  Country Nights

  Description

  The name on the screen was “Absinthe.”

  But I knew her as the sultry voice blowing up my phone for late night chats about Proust and Hemingway interspersed between the filthiest little … conversations.

  We’d never met.

  Until the day she walked into my office, her cherry lips wrapped around a candy apple sucker and an all too familiar voice that said, “You wanted to see me, Principal Hawthorne?”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: This full-length romance is steamy, scandalous, twisted, and, at times, divisive. It is a complete standalone and contains subject matter that may trigger sensitive readers. All characters are adults and all interactions are consensual. Please enjoy with an open mind. ;-)

  First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Prologue

  Ford

  “You wanted to see me, Principal Hawthorne?”

  I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere.

  Glancing up from my desk, I find a girl in skintight athletic leggings and a low-cut tank top standing in my office doorway, her full lips wrapped around a shiny sucker and a familiar electric jade gaze trained on me.

  It’s her.

  The woman I spent most of all summer chatting with under the anonymous veil of a dating app—one specifically meant for adults seeking connections but not commitment. I purchased a stock photo for seven dollars, chose a pseudonym, Kerouac, and messaged a woman by the name of Absinthe who quoted Hemingway in her bio when everyone else quoted Nickelback and John Legend.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  “You must be Halston.” My skin is on fire. I stand, smooth my tie, and point to the seat across from me. I never knew her name, but I’d know that voice anywhere. I can’t even count how many times I came to the sound of her breathy rasp describing all the wicked things she’d do to me if we ever met, reading me excerpts from Rebecca and Proust. “Take a seat.”

  She takes her time pulling the sucker from her mouth before strutting to my guest chair, lowering herself, cleavage first, and crossing her long legs. The tiniest hint of a smirk claims her mouth, but if she knows it’s me, she’s sure as hell not acting like it.

  “You want to tell me what happened with Mrs. Rossi?” I ask, returning to my seat and folding my hands on my desk.

  I may be a lot of things; overconfident prick, allergic to commitment, red-blooded American man …

  But I’m a professional first.

  “Mrs. Rossi and I had an argument,” Halston says. “We were discussing the theme of The Great Gatsby, and she was trying to say that it was about chasing the elusive American dream. I told her she missed the entire fucking point of one of the greatest pieces of literature in existence.” She takes another suck of her candy before continuing, then points it in my direction. “The real theme has to do with manipulation and dishonesty, Principal Hawthorne. Everyone in that book was a fucking liar, most of all Jay, and in the end, he got what he deserved. They all did.”

  My cock strains against the fabric of my pants. It’s her voice. It’s her goddamned sex-on-fire voice that’s doing this to me. That and her on point dissection of classic American literature. Sexy, intelligent, outspoken. Three elusive qualities I’ve yet to find in another human being. Until her. And knowing that now, I couldn’t even have her if I wanted her, isn’t doing me any favors. If I don’t compose myself, I’m going to be hard as a fucking rock.

  “Language,” I say. The room is growing hotter now, but I keep a stern, undeterred presence.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m an ad
ult, Principal Hawthorne. I can say words like fuck.”

  “Not in my office, you can’t.” I exhale. “And not in class either. That’s why Mrs. Rossi sent you here.”

  “The jackass behind me was drawing swastikas on his notebook, but I get sent down here for saying ‘fuck.’” Her head shakes.

  “I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Rossi privately.” I scribble a note to myself and shove it aside.

  “You’re really young for a principal.” Her charged gaze drags the length of me. “Did you just graduate from college or something?”

  Six years of school and two years of teaching place me in the budding stages of a career shaping and educating the minds of tomorrow’s leaders, but I refuse to dignify her question with a response.

  “My age is irrelevant,” I say.

  “Age is everything.” She twirls a strand of pale hair around her finger, her lips curling up in the corners. The cute-and-coy shtick must work on everyone else, but it’s not going to work on me. Not here anyway. And not anymore.

  “I said my age is irrelevant.”

  “Am I the first student you’ve ever had to discipline?” She sits up, crossing and uncrossing her legs with the provocative charm of a 1940s pin up. “Wait, are you going to discipline me?”

  I take mental notes for her file.

  Challenges authority

  Difficulty conducting herself appropriately

  Possible boundary issues

  “I’m not going to punish you, Halston. Consider this a verbal warning.” I release a hard breath through my nose as I study her, refusing to allow my eyes to drift to the soft swell of her breasts casually peeking out of her top. Knowing her so intimately over the phone, and being in her presence knowing she’s completely off limits, makes it difficult to maintain my unshaken demeanor. “From now on, I’d like you to refrain from using curse words while on school grounds. It’s disruptive to the other students who are here to actually glean something from their high school education.”

  “I don’t know.” Her lips bunch at the corner, and she fights a devilish grin. “I mean, I can try, but ‘fuck’ is one of my favorite words in the English language. What if I can’t stop saying it? Then what?”

  “Then we’ll worry about that when the time comes,” I say.

  “You could always bend me over your knee and spank me.” She rises, wrapping her lips around the sucker before plucking it out of her mouth with a wet pop. “Or maybe you could fuck my brains out and break my heart.”

  “Excuse me?” My skin heats as she feeds me my own lines, but I refuse to let her see that she’s having any kind of effect on me.

  “You’re him,” she says, as if it’s some ace she’s been keeping up her sleeve this entire time. “You’re Kerouac.”

  I’m at an extraordinary loss for words, trying to wrap my head around all the ways this could go very fucking wrong for me.

  Chapter 1

  Halston

  3 Months Ago

  I’m perched in Emily Miller’s pillow-covered window seat, striking my thumb against an almost-empty lighter, a strawberry mint cigarette pinched between my lips.

  “Are … are you sure we should be doing this?” Her eyes shift toward her door, like her parents are going to magically come home early from work and bust us.

  “Relax.” I hold the flame steady, lighting the tip. “It’s herbal. There’s no nicotine or any of that bad shit.”

  Scooting closer to the open window, I inhale and then exhale, aiming rings of smoke at the pin-sized holes in the screen. Honestly, I find the whole idea of smoking to be completely idiotic … all these people enslaved to these little white sticks of chemicals that turn their fingernails yellow and make their clothes reek. But I was walking over here this afternoon and some fourteen-year-old jackass offered to give these to me if I showed him my tits.

  I snatched them from his hand, watching the shock register on his face, and said, “Let that be a lesson to you.” He stood there, eyes wide and blinking as I walked away. “I’m worth more than a half-empty pack of cigarettes you stole from your mother’s purse. You’re lucky I don’t kick you in the balls, snotface.”

  I almost tossed the pack in some family’s garbage can, but I decided I should smoke one of them out of spite.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck fourteen-year-old pricks who are destined to grow up and become STD-spreading man whores.

  “Here.” I hand over the cig, which now bears my red lipstick, and watch as Emily squeezes it between her thumb and forefinger. I titter. “It’s not a joint.”

  “I don’t know how to smoke.” She bites her lower lip, looking like she’s somewhere between laughing and crying.

  Good God, Emily. Live a little.

  If she weren’t my only fucking friend in this stupid fucking town …

  This is painful.

  She’s still hesitating, her eyes darting here, there, and everywhere. I’m seconds from taking it back and keeping it all to myself when she takes a puff.

  “Exhale …” I remind her when it’s been several seconds too long.

  As soon as she opens her mouth, she starts to choke on the smoke tickling her lungs, fanning her hands in front of her face like that’s going to help. Bolting up, she circles her princess pink room before diving into her en suite and filling a cup with water from the faucet.

  Rolling my eyes, I take another puff. Then another.

  This is dumb.

  I head to Emily’s bathroom, stamp the cigarette out in her pristine porcelain sink, and wash out the ash before flushing the stupid thing down the toilet.

  I don’t apologize.

  Pulling the remaining pack from my back pocket, I go to toss them in her trash, but she grabs them from my hands.

  “Are you insane?!” Her brown eyes are round, shaking. “What if my parents find these?”

  Exhaling, I bite my lip. She’s right. Her parents are dying for an excuse to dissolve our friendship. I see it in their eyes; in their forced smiles and terse body language every time I’m around. But Emily is quiet, nerdy. She doesn’t make friends easily, and she mostly keeps to herself. Doug and Mary Miller were thrilled when we started hanging out—at first.

  But that’s how it always goes.

  If you place Emily and me side-by-side, it doesn’t even look like we belong on the same planet. She’s a mouse; timid, quiet, with brown hair and small eyes. I’m a lion; crazy blonde mane, opinionated, and fearless.

  “Shit, what time is it?” I ask, checking my watch. “I gotta go. Aunt Tabitha’s going to be pissed if I’m late for dinner again.”

  It’s weird actually having to live by someone else’s rules.

  Emily sniffs her shirt not once, but twice.

  “You’re fine,” I say. “If you’re that worried, put something else on.”

  Amateur.

  Emily walks me to the door, and I catch her peeking out the window to see if either of her parents’ cars are in the driveway yet. Maybe smoking in her room was risky. I’d hate for them to ground her. I was planning on a summer of corruption and debauchery, all of which would be in her own best interest.

  She goes to college in a year. I’d fail her as a friend if I sent her into the real world as is.

  Skipping down the front steps of the Millers’ grandiose brick colonial and petting the stone lions as I pass them, I head down the block to my aunt and uncle’s house—my permanent residence until I graduate high school.

  I should’ve finished this year, but when you have parents making meth in your basement and they forget to send you to school for a few critical years, you get a little behind. And when your uncle is the superintendent of Lennox Community School District, you get to take an aptitude test and skip some grades—but unfortunately passing twelfth grade and fast forwarding to a high school diploma wasn’t an option. I might turn nineteen this fall, but at least I’ll have a piece of paper that says I attended the ritziest high school in America—the only one, that I know of, wit
h a full-service Starbucks in the commons.

  When I reach Uncle Vic and Aunt Tabitha’s Tudor-style abode, I’m distracted by the slow beeping of a yellow moving van backing into the driveway next door. There’s a man standing on the front steps in low slung sweats and a t-shirt that shows off his tanned, toned biceps. A White Sox ball cap casts a shadow over his face.

  I can’t even see if he’s hot.

  He waves at the driver to keep backing in, and then he heads to the end of the driveway toward Melissa Gunderman, who’s run-walking in his direction with a pan of what appears to be some type of baked good.

  She didn’t waste any time. Paint’s not even dry with this one.

  I’m sure she’s inviting him to her church singles’ meeting, every Thursday at seven o’clock, and I’m sure she’s giving him her normal spiel. She’s divorced. Has one child, Rachel, who’s eight, about to go into second grade, and extremely smart for her age. She loves to cook and bake, but more than that she loves Jesus and coffee—in that order.