Edgewater had definitely been buzzing since Paris’s mid-afternoon arrival, and even the next morning after, the staff and residents alike were trying to figure out what the hell Ms. Torres was planning on doing to rehabilitate the man.

Rosalee was, naturally, quite confident in all appearances.

            She had squelched the rumors about the man committing various crimes, including mass-murder, pedophilia, and assisting rogue FBI agents (honestly, the things that even these allegedly grown people could come up with) very neatly, and had properly chastised everyone in sight three times each.  It was presently eleven o’clock in the morning, and while she generally let the residents sleep in for however long they wished, but the first morning she liked to pretend things were a bit stricter than they really were.  If they got the impression she didn’t run a tight ship, they’d take advantage whenever they could.

            So she ignored Landon’s prying stare (he may have been young and cute and good at his job, but he really didn’t know how to take a hint) and marched up the stairs with a pitcher of water as loudly as she could.  It wasn’t fair to just sneak up on Edgewater’s newest ‘inmate’, now was it?

She’d already figured out her trouble with the government and how to fix it, at least temporarily.  If she could get a slightly media-infused ‘fixed’ case, a tough one, such as a good-looking male prostitute, and maybe tack a couple influential news and magazine stories on it – she wasn’t really one to milk the media, but the government bowed down to the public when it came to television, at least on minor matters like this – and buy herself a year to improve her success rate.  Three months was not enough time, and David Hanes knew it – he was humoring her, and that pissed Rosalee off.  She was a grown woman with an ex-husband and her own money, even, and just because she didn’t need to wear a jockstrap and wasn’t middle-aged didn’t mean she couldn’t be good at what she did.  And she’d decided that she would make Paris Kennedy her media case.
            Paris was peacefully asleep when she kicked open his door, and she had to stop a moment and silently note how much nicer he was when he wasn’t speaking, almost innocent.  She quickly cut off that train of thought, though – you think of a criminal as innocent-looking, and they’ll no doubt prey on it – instead kicking the side of his bed with one sneaker-ed foot.

            “Up,” she ordered, poising the pitcher of water over his head should he not respond.  He didn’t.

            She let a few droplets of water hit his cheek, and he stirred, rolling over with a mumble.  She caught the words ‘crucible’ and ‘witches’, which she chalked up to eleventh grade English classes.  Funny what came up in one’s dreams.

            “Kennedy, you have three seconds to open your eyes or you will be getting a very cold bath.”

            Rosa was more than a little surprised when he stretched his arms out and murmured quietly, “Sure, if you join me.”

            The water went careening over his head in an arc.  He leapt up to a stand and Rosalee immediately averted her eyes – does he have to sleep like that? – to somewhere above his head.

            “What the fuck was that for, woman?!” ‘Woman?’ She arched one brow at him, only vaguely aware of him pulling on boxers and jeans that hung low enough that two inches of his green and blue plaid underwear showed.  Oh, yeah, that’s lovely, Rosalee thought irritably.

            “I was getting up,” he groused, raking a hand through his hair, “I thought that Landon ponce was supposed to get me up.”
            “Not the first day, my friend.  And don’t say ponce.”
            “Why not?” Paris demanded, roughly yanking a bed sheet up from its place to wipe off the water that had trailed down his chest.  Rosalee still refused to look at him.

            “Because you’re not English.”
            He looked at her a moment, grinned crookedly at her obvious discomfiture, and shrugged.  He’d put off clothing himself for as long as possible – or until Landon came into the room and barked at him to do it, which of course happened, so he pulled on a long-sleeved dark blue striped shirt, leaving it mostly unbuttoned.

            Rosalee discovered she could look at something other than the ceiling again.

            “Want me to take over from here, Rosa?” Landon widened his eyes at her, all eager to help.  She wasn’t certain, but she thought maybe the guy had a fetish for women who were dominant to him in the workplace or elsewhere – all his past girlfriends had been fucking forces of nature.

            “No, I’ve got it, Landon,” she said, giving him a sharp look when he opened his mouth to protest, “I always do the first days, you know that.”
            “I know, but I thought since this is a special case – ”

            “I can handle it, Landon.  It’s my job, remember?” Some of the impatience slipped into her tone, and she caught Paris’s amused semi-smirk as her listened to the exchange.

            “Okay,” Landon sighed, and Rosa could have sworn the man fucking pouted, “But I’ll see you later, right?”
            “Um, unless one of us quits, which I don’t foresee happening, yes.”
            “Okay,” the blonde twenty-five year old smiled, “’Bye!”

            Rosa’s exasperated expression only faded when she heard him finish the last step on the way to the main floor.  Paris was look altogether too delighted by the exchange, no doubt provided with tons of new material for his commentary.  So she decided to head him off, commenting, “You’re the flirtiest guy who likes boys I’ve ever met, you know that?”
            He gave her a small smile, “I’m an equal-opportunity male nympho.”

Oh, no, Rosa thought, What house am I going to put him in now?
            “Fabulous,” she said, perfectly deadpan, “Shower.  Come downstairs.  Eat.  Then we’ll see about finding you a job.”
            Paris’ surprised expression didn’t take her off-guard; most people didn’t realize that part of staying there entailed getting used to actually working legally.  Especially the cons and prostitutes.

            “You have fifteen minutes in the shower,” Rosa informed him, turning on her heel to go.
            “Only fifteen?”

            “It takes me ten, and I have long hair.  If it takes any longer – ”

            “You’ll come speed things up?” He asked playfully, trying to unnerve his new authority figure.

            “I’ll have Landon turn the hose on you.”
            Before he could reply with something snarky, she was already halfway down the stairs.  Damn, Paris pouted mentally, She’s icy.

            He wasn’t worried, though, as he went off to go take his shower.  He’d find out what Ms. Rosalee Torres’ deal was, and then he’d use it to get himself out of here.  There was no way he was going to work the nine-to-five at McDonald’s, slaving away and wasting his time and talents on ungrateful housewives with spoiled children and inattentive husbands that were probably looking for men just like him.  Sure, Rosalee talked a good game.. but he’d never met a woman he couldn’t win over with his skills.  Plus, she was pretty.. and the image of those lapis lazuli eyes, strange of a Hispanic person, haunted him as he turned the water on cold as it would go.  Forget the eyes; concentrate on getting out of here.

            Twenty minutes later, he was showered, dressed, and trucking down the stairs to find his benefactor pointedly ignoring Landon – whom Paris had correctly analyzed as being a ponce – and sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a stack of papers absently.  She wasn’t particularly dressed up, in jeans and a snug black tank top, some truly battered and ancient dark blue converses on her feet, but she seemed well enough at home.

            Paris took five pancakes, which elicited a raised brow from Landon, who had apparently decided that the smooth-talking streetwalker was a threat to his minimal masculinity.

            “Do you really need that many?”

            Paris was wolfing down the food as elegantly as he possibly could, seeing as the last time he’d eaten was two nights ago.  He could only shrug, and once he could answer clearly, he did: “Yes.”
            Rosalee hadn’t even glanced up.

            After a few minutes (which was all it had taken for Paris to devour his breakfast), Landon mildly inquired of his employer, “Have you talked to Devon lately..?”
            “No.” Curt, simple, to the point.

            “Who’s Devon?” Paris asked, curiously. 

            “My ex-husband.”

            “Wait, wait.. ex-husband.. how old are you?”
            “Twenty.  Twenty-one in a month.” Matter-of-factly, as if there were twenty-year-old divorcees everywhere you looked.  Though, in Edgewater, that could very well be the case.

            “So how old were you when you got married?” Paris was fascinated by this idea; he was twenty-two and had never even considered marriage.

            “Eighteen.  Right out of high school.  He was two years older.” She was careful to only disclose the facts that he could get by asking anyone else; she didn’t feel like telling the story of her tempestuous, violent relationship to everyone in the world.  Only a few people knew just how intense things had been – sure, a few friends had witnessed the screaming matches, but no one knew just how bad things had been.

            “Why’d you two split?”

            “God, what is this, twenty questions?  He decided I didn’t pay enough attention to him.  So now he’s with a cute barely legal groupie in Malibu.” Rosa had her private opinions about the girl he’d met three months after their mutual divorce finalized – she’d met her, and didn’t dislike her, but the girl was so innocent and airy-fairy that she felt Devon must be taking advantage of the child’s naïveté.  Or, hell, maybe he was into that.  She’d only been eighteen when they’d got married, too.

            “So is Torres your maiden name?” Paris wasn’t put off by her irritability.

            “Yes.  My married name was Cooper.”
            Something clicked behind Paris’ eyes, and she could see it; so she beat him to the inevitable question, “Yes, I married that Devon Cooper, the drummer from that band.  It was before he got famous, though.”

            “I figured.”
            There was a contemplative silence in which Landon glared furiously at the kitchen table as if it were to blame for world hunger, war, and also the existence of Paris Kennedy.  The kitchen table’s wood veneer did its best to shine apologetically up at him, until Rosa’s voice broke into his thoughts.

            “Landon, Paris and I are going to go look for a job for him, alright?”

            “Huh?” The blonde man blinked at the other two people in the kitchen who were now standing, “Uh, okay.”

            She was a bit surprised and pleased with the small level of resistance presented against the idea, so she flashed Landon a bright smile and tugged Paris’ arm gently, heading out the front door to where her Jeep waited. 

            Once they were well on her way and she had chastised Paris twice for fiddling with her radio (“You never touch a woman’s tuner, you hear?” “But I’m so good at it!”), the atmosphere inside the car had settled to a slightly uncomfortable lull that of course he had to break.

            “You’re weird, you know that?”
            Both of her brows shot up and sought hairline as she waited for him to elaborate on that statement.

            “Well, you don’t.. react to me the way most women do.” Truthfully, this confused him, and he decided he could use a little charm to try and procure his answers.  A recently divorced woman should be cake once he got a few explanations.

            “I don’t react to anyone the way most people do.  Why should you be special?”

            ”Ouch,” he laughed a little, eyeing her somewhat as she stopped at a red light, “Do you like girls or something?”

             “No.  I’m working on becoming asexual, though.”

            ”Why?” Paris demanded, obviously uncomprehending.

            ”Look, Kennedy,” she was annoyed now, and beginning to realize that she would have to lay down a few more rules for him, “You are not going to get me to sleep with you.  I am recently divorced.   More than that, you are a resident at the halfway house that I own and run.  Regardless of whether or not of attraction – and there is none – you aren’t going to make me into one of the slutpuppies I’m sure you’ve gotten to follow you around before.  If you’re that hard up for some, there are loads of easy women in the females’ house.  Got it?”
            That was the second rant she’d directed his way in a span of two days.  He hoped he never had to face another one; this one had been even more sharp-edged since things had gotten personal, and he was beginning to realize that she’d probably had other residents try to get in her pants – the speech had sounded like she’d said it before.  Paired with those blue, blue eyes blazing on him.. He could only manage one word.

            “‘Slutpuppies’?”

            She looked slightly embarrassed.  Not nearly enough for his liking – she seemed too in control of things, in a way – but a little bit was enough to sufficiently please him.

            “I have other more colorful phrases, but you’re not used to my language yet.”

            “I guess not,” he said, unsure as to whether he should be amused or offended.

            She pulled up to a stop in the side parking lot of a friendly-looking red brick building.  There weren’t very many cars there, probably because it was a Sunday and only one o’clock in the afternoon.

            “Where are we?” Paris asked, curiously looking around for some indication of their location.

            “Westbrook Elementary, grades k through five.  A little bird told me that you’re good with kids.”
            His stunned expression elicited a smile from her; the first he’d seen from her, really.  He looked again at the building, brown eyes wide and a touch wistful.

            “I don’t have a teaching degree.”
            “You don’t need one to do latchkey.  It’s after school, from 3 pm to 8 pm, so you can still sleep in plenty and it’s a good starter job.”
            “And.. I don’t have to go in there and apply or anything?” That was the part he had been dreading.

            “Nope.  It’s really rare that we get someone who has plus points with kids, so they were pretty interested in taking you in.  It’s not – ” he watched her hesitate “ – It’s not a wealthy school, so they’re willing to look past your record, especially since you have no history of violent crime.  We can take a look around at the facilities and talk to the latchkey manager if you want.”
            He only nodded, getting out of the Jeep with a guarded, but still delighted expression – she didn’t know the reason for it, but figured he’d provide the answer if he wanted to.  She wasn’t a therapist, and it wasn’t her job to analyze or ask personal questions that didn’t pertain to rehabilitation.

            They walked around to the front entrance of the building, where the school’s name was emblazoned in black letters, although the W in Westbrook was slightly crooked and the l in elementary was slipping down.   A younger man, probably fresh out of his first four year in college, greeted them as they reached a door.

            “Hi, Rosalee.  And – this is Paris?” No one missed the slightly skeptical glance the man gave Paris, who nodded as politely as he could.  It’d been a long time since he’d had a job – six or seven years.

            “Hi, Daniel,” Rosalee replied, “We’ve only got about fifteen minutes before we’ve got to be going back, but could you just give us kind of a tour and a list of duties, etcetera?”

            “Sure,” the lanky man allowed, guiding them into the room.  They saw a table, a plethora of toys, a mini-tramp, and a small kitchenette that was stocked with snacks – not impractical for young children. 

            “Your hours are three to eight.. we eat dinner at six-thirty.  You’ll be expected to be on time every day.  Cigarettes aren’t permitted on the premises.  I expect Rosalee or another staff from Edgewater will be picking you up every day as well as dropping you off.  Because of your special circumstances, you will only be allowed to leave the building when another latchkey employee is with you.  I’m sure you know how to properly behave around children?”

            “Yes,” Paris said, curtly, but managing a smile to soften his sharp tone.

            “May I ask what your experience is with children?” There was a glimmer of malice in Daniel’s eyes, Rosa was sure of it – couldn’t he see that was a touchy subject?
            A long quiet ensued, lengthy enough where it was obvious Paris wasn’t going to answer that.

            Rosalee gave Daniel a quick glare and he immediately folded, apologizing insincerely.

            There were a few more minutes of discussion: explaining various duties, rules, restrictions, privileges, and etcetera.  Rosalee spoke only when she felt she needed to reprimand or remind either man or something, and though the woman was both younger and in no way an authority figure to the latchkey instructor, it was obvious to Paris that the man respected Rosalee – a lot of people seemed to, but she must have had it hard, he decided, being a young woman in a field that was largely dominated by men or at least women much older than her.  She had no college degrees or medical knowledge, just experience.  In a way, though, Paris felt that made her better equipped.

            Or maybe he was just biased.

            As they left, Daniel shot a few parting quips Paris’ way – make sure you keep your tattoos covered, don’t wear any piercings, no derogatory or racist clothing – nevermind that Paris had no tattoos, and his piercings consisted of one stud in his left ear.  As for inappropriate clothing – did the man think he was going to whore himself to the kids’ parents?

            The man just kept going until Rosa’s firm “Goodbye, Daniel” and slamming of her car door shut him up.  He watched moodily as they pulled out of the parking lot.

            Paris and Rosalee endured the ride back to Edgewater in silence.