Checkmate

2| Bad reputation

The first thing he does is place his hands on my shoulders, no doubt in an attempt to steady me, but it only makes me more off balance. "Easy," he says through the vape between his lips, "where's the fire?"

My response doesn't come straight away. Probably because I'm still shocked about Libby, or maybe because this is the first time in my life that I have spoken to Blake, and it's like my brain can't compute.

"There's no fire." I take a step back, acutely aware of his large, solid hands still gripping my shoulders. His forearms are covered in intricate tatts, and I catch a glimpse of a coin-sized Virgin Mary. "I'm just..."

"Hiding?"

"No." I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the sting in my eyes. The last thing I need is for someone like Blake to witness my meltdown. "Taking the scenic route to class."

He grins, the first one I think I've ever seen. Blake is usually AWOL, an elusive name called out in homeroom but one that rarely elicits a response. To see him standing here is disconcerting.

"Well, do you mind?" he asks. "This is kind of my spot."

I'm about to happily bail when his phone pings. He pulls it from his pocket and frowns before typing back. Rumor has it that Blake is the person you go to when you want something done – in exchange for a price. Tech deals, drugs, he seems to have it all, though something tells me his methods are less than legal.

To say he unnerves me is an understatement. He's tall, intimidatingly so, with dark eyes subtly laced with contempt, but that's not what unsettles me. It's the vibe he gives off, an air of, I don't give a shit what you think, and he doesn't. His dark hair is messy, his eyes slightly dusted with bruise-like shadows, and he's wearing a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt in desperate need of ironing. In a town like Archbury – where reputation rules – Blake O'Hare is an anomaly.

A cloud of smoke descends from his lips. I cough and fan my hand in my face, my distaste for him clear. His eyebrow arches as he puts away his phone, his distaste for me clear too. "You're into hard drugs, but vape smoke you draw the line at?"

"I'm not into hard drugs. That was just a rumor."

His eyes travel down my immaculate makeup and land on my put-together outfit. "Clearly. Aren't you going to be late?"

"Wait–" I grab his arm and pull it toward me, reading his watch upside down. "Shit." My skin grows clammy at the thought of being the last to walk into class. I'd planned to lay low and get through this day as a ghost, but now I'll be subjected to countless stares as I'm forced to take whichever seat is left.

"You could always skip," Blake says. "I am."

"Maybe that's normal for someone like you, but I've never skipped class in my life."

"Shocking."

The late bell rings, so now it's official. I swallow hard, taking one final look at Blake. Not only will I be late, but I smell like cherry vape. Great.

"Guess that's your cue."

I nod but don't move, frozen by the thought of what people might say when I enter that classroom. In a sick twist of events, the idea of hiding out here with Blake feels inherently safer. "They're all going to be talking about me, aren't they?"

If this were my mother, she'd give me some speech about how I'm just being paranoid and to keep moving forward, but Blake doesn't do that. Instead, he leans closer, forcing my breath hitch in my throat.

"The trick is to walk in and act like you don't care," he says. "Be prickly. People don't bother prickly people."

"But I'm the opposite of prickly."