Ally Hughes Has Sex Sometimes Read Online Free PDF Page A

Lizzie’s obsession with espionage.
    Then she stopped and drew still. Other than the cutting board, the entire kitchen was clean and in order. The entire house. Thank you, Muriel, she said to herself as she stood there. Thank you. Thank you.
    She spun and faced him. “It has to be a secret.” She whispered as if someone could hear her. Someone on campus. Two miles away. She choked out the words.
    Jake stopped, motionless, eyes wide, surprised.
    â€œYou can’t, you know, write about it. In your—”
    â€œI don’t have a—”
    â€œYou can’t tell—you can’t even
think
about it after tonight.”
    He nodded. “Okay.”
    Ally felt her heart beating. Was she doing this? They stood there and looked at each other and waited. “This is my daughter. I could get fired. I’m in enough trouble.”
    He lifted his hands, palms out, as if to say he understood, as if to say it would all be all right. Everything. “Professor Hughes,” he said gently. “Just to remind you . . . today I’m done.”
    This was true. Ally nodded. It helped her a great deal to hear this again.
    â€œFriends,” he said. “That’s all we are. You’re not my teacher. I’m not your student.” Jake swallowed.
    Ally nodded.
    Every inch of her body felt swollen, as if she might implode if the pressure of wanting him wasn’t relieved. She had wanted to touch him, to taste him, to know him so badly for so many hours, all afternoon, all evening, all semester, if she’d been honest with herself, not even knowing him, not knowing that he was the Jake of the eighty-page papers, the boy in the back.
    Jake was the boy in the back.
    The sun had set, the sky darkened, and as Ally watched him, what a specimen he was, sweating in the heat, repairing what needed repair in her home . . . he was already inside in a way.

ON SATURDAY MORNING ALLY called Lizzie three times, and three times she didn’t pick up. She felt the phone vibrate in her back pocket but couldn’t hear it. She was in Queens, inside a shooting range, trying out a Glock and a Ruger.
    â€œThis is what I love!” said Agent Jones. He stood on the other side of the window. “When two things don’t match. The image and the girl.” He studied Lizzie. “Barely legal. Total knockout. Should be modeling Victoria’s Secret . . . but shoots like Jelly Bryce!”
    Lizzie was all leg that day, bare and tan, in cutoff shorts and boots with four-inch heels that raised her statuesque five-ten frame to six foot two. Her long blond hair fell over her ribs. She stood slouching, wearing the range’s requisite goggles and ear protection.
    â€œSee, she’s got that model pose. The slouch. Legs spread. Loose hips. It’s all in the hips.”
    Noah just smiled. He wasn’t surprised.
    â€œShe hasn’t missed once. The bull’s-eye once. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life! This is the first time she picked up a gun?”
    Noah shrugged. He didn’t know.
    Lizzie had met him the month before. They’d met on the set of her first film: her thirty-sixth audition and first part.
    They gave her the role of Noah’s assistant, and Noah had asked her out: three times to lunch and once to dinner. Then he had asked her to join him that day, training for his role as J. Edgar Hoover. FBI agent Alan Jones was teaching the actors both to shoot.
    And sure, she had only one line, a single line in the whole film, but one little line in a movie with Noah, directed by Marty, the famous director, was one line she was happy to have.
    Cybil, her agent, told her to simply listen and talk. Talk and listen. She shouldn’t emote or try to act, Cybil advised. Lizzie was perfect for roles that required “restraint,” she said.
    â€œSimple, honey. Keep it simple.”
    Lizzie had discerned the hidden message: It didn’t