Truth Be Told (Blackbridge Security Book 4) by Marie James (snow like ashes TXT) 📕

“He’s a very busy man.”

“I can wait,” I tell her, hitching my hand over my shoulder to indicate the three chairs against the wall, two of which are occupied by a couple of surly looking preteens.

She narrows her eyes, as her hand picks up the phone she just got off of. “Your name?”

“Ignacio Torres,” I tell her, mildly thankful she doesn’t recognize the name. I was a hellraiser in this school and the high school next door, but thirteen years is a long time.

She relays the information into the phone before replacing it. Moments later, a pissed-off kid storms out of the principal’s office, the little shit having the balls to shoulder check me on the way out of the office. My eyes follow him out, not pulling away until the front office door slams behind him.

When I look back, the principal is grinning at me.

“Mr. Branford,” I say, walking closer with my hand outstretched.

“You’re grown now. Mike is fine,” he says as he clasps my hand. A wider smile spans his face as he claps me on the shoulder. “Let’s have a chat.”

“For real?” one of the boys in the chair snaps. “Can I just come back after lunch?”

“You may have your lunch in room 103B,” Branford tells the kid.

“Detention?” he snaps before yanking up his backpack from the floor and storming out.

With a sweep of his hand, Branford urges me into his office, and I’m thankful he closes the door behind him.

“Was I that bad?” I ask as he settles in behind his messy desk.

“Worse,” he assures me.

“And the one that shoulder-checked me?”

“That one is a chip off the old block, honestly. His mother does her best, but some boys are just stubborn—like you were.”

“Stubborn?” I scoff, knowing there is a lexicon of words better for him to use, many of them much more derogatory and negative than simply stubborn. “You’re being generous.”

“You were one of the lucky ones, Ignacio. And I’m beginning to think that young man may be as well.”

“So junior high, huh? I figured you’d be retired by now,” I say, needing to change the subject.

I wasn’t Mike Branford’s only pet project, and although I took his advice and got out, many others weren’t so lucky. His hope for that kid gives him a fighting chance, but the cards are stacked against him.

“I’ve been here for six years. I figure getting to the stubborn ones a little earlier in life would be beneficial to everyone. I know it’s not just me, but the high school dropout rate has dropped seven percent in the last couple of years. I like to think I have a part in that.”

“I bet you do,” I say with sincerity.

“Enough about my life. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

And I do. I tell him about my years in the Army—the direction he pushed me in high school—something I never even considered until after missing my high school graduation. We speak about my life in St. Louis and the men I work with. He tells me about losing his wife and how he’s a grandfather three times over now.

Before we can dig too deep, a bell rings and it’s time for him to hit the halls and change lives. I assure him I’ll be back to visit again before leaving town, but as I walk out of the room, I feel like my duty has been done. I thank him, shake his hand and give him credit for the changes he made in my life, and that was the sole reason for my visit.

I commend the man for sticking around and wanting to make a difference in so many kids’ lives. He’s one of the few that has never given up hope, and that honestly makes him a better man than me.

Lunch is fast food eaten in the parking lot of a strip-center filled with a check cashing place, a nail salon, and a discount store. Thinking of going back to the hospital makes my stomach turn, and I’d do anything to avoid going back to my grandfather’s house, even though getting a jumpstart on cleaning it out would probably be the best course of action.

So, I sit and people watch, keeping an eye out for any person who thinks it would be a good idea to try and jack my truck. My vehicle isn’t the only one parked in the lot, but from the looks of the two guys that got out of the BMW earlier, I don’t imagine they acquired the luxury car through honest means. That thought makes me feel like shit because I’m judging them without knowing them. Then again, there’s that saying about looking and acting like a duck. Those two quacked the entire way into the nail salon, eyes darting every which way like they were anticipating trouble. It heightened my own senses until my eyes fell on the one person I truly never thought I’d see again.

I scrub at my face, blaming my lack of sleep and frustration over being back in town on the illusion before my eyes.

Long golden hair tied back in a ponytail, legs that have been wrapped around my body more than once, plump lips made to be kissed. I’ll be damned if it isn’t Tinley Holland walking across the parking lot to enter the discount store.

I swallow, the lump in my throat winning out over the urge to race out of my truck and approach her. As if she can sense my eyes on her, she looks around then back at her car, a run-down looking number with a rusting dent in the driver’s side door. Guilt swims in my gut. She was supposed to get out. She was supposed to move to Dallas with her family and the new job her dad got. I never saw her after that night. I purposely avoided graduation the next day.

A week after Tinley Holland climbed out of my truck that final time, I was swearing an