Nothing hasty

You watch Monica's pretty ass disappear from your doorway with a small amount of regret. She is a good looking young woman and you really needed that fuck badly. Maybe not the student/older man part, but certainly the chance to have that vivacious blonde on her back with her long legs wrapped around your waist did wonders for your ego. Better not get your hopes up Hawk. You warn yourself under your breath. Unless this thing she has for older men is a real thing, the chance that someone as full of life as Monica Fulton will want to hang out with a washed-out marine like you seems slim, she'd do better with someone closer to her age. Maybe one of the other new teachers...

For that matter, this is just a one-year gig for you as well. The last thing you want to do is to get serious with anyone here on campus and get tied down to this sleepy little town. You head back to your shower and find that the water pressure is excellent. You are used to taking short, brisk showers, but after every-thing you've been through today, you find yourself leaning against the wall while hot water massages your back.

What the Hell have I gotten myself into? The thought races through your brain again and again long after the stream of water has washed the soap off your body. Finally after a good ten minutes, you turn the water off and wrap a towel around your waist and wander back into your room to change.

Twenty minutes later, wearing a plain pair of jeans and clean shirt, you climb onto your 1983 Indian Victory and back it out of the garage filled with conservative looking sedans and SUV's. Other than a bright yellow Miata that probably belongs to one of the students, and a pick-up truck even older than your bike that has more rust than paint left on its sides, there is little to distinguish the vehicles parked in the garage. For a moment you wonder which of the array of boring sedans in accepted shades of black, grey, and tan is Ms. Naylor's, and if she drove something like the Miata when she was a student here.

The bike's ignition is smooth, a new battery and an overhaul of the Victory's electrical system three months ago was money well spent. As you cruise slowly up the ramp to the exit you run through your mental check list yet again. At this point the bike is mechanically in pretty good shape and the next steps are cosmetic - new paint, redo the leather seats, and find better wheels to replace the badly pitted ones that were older than Monica Fulton.

Driving out through the high wrought-iron gates you turn right on the quiet road and cruise slowly into town. Once you leave the ivy-covered brick wall surrounding the school grounds behind you start to see houses along the curving drive. The houses are all big, old and well maintained and you wonder how many of the original owners of these houses sent their daughters to the Academy to prepare them for life as the county's finest ladies.

One more turn past a stately railroad station built back when trains were a luxurious form of travel not just for commuting from A to B, takes you onto Main street. A white church with a tall belltower overlooks the center of town from small hill at the far end of the main drag. There are a collection of expensive looking restaurants on both sides of the boulevard and you see several well dress couples walking with teenaged daughters in and out of these establishments. You have little doubt that a good many of the families will be dropping off these young women at the Pink Rose before the end of the night.

You pull away from the center and head down the road into a more commercial section of town past a couple car dealerships and a diner and then, with a broad grin twist at the throttle and roar out onto a state route 47. The road twists through a pretty forest crossed by the occasional stone wall and open hayfields, there is little traffic and you drive a bit faster than you probably should, but there are few things in life better than riding a beefy machine on a winding road on a late summer evening.