We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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The station visit rattles me to my very core.
I gasp for breath, even when out in the open— my nerves catching on the trouble laid on the tracks ahead. I'm almost beginning to think involving Brandon was nothing but a stump I went ahead and dug in my foot that's now made wounds I can't stitch with all the vices of the world. It's definite he has more history with Kylie than I had anticipated, and a given that now my hope rests on the sole fact that he can't possibly know her better than we do; with all the good, bad and twisted wrapped up to make a teensy terror. He's got this thing figured for a motive in sight I can't seem to decode, so George is all I've got for a possible lead or breakthrough into the Brandon Jacobs case.
Why George? Sarah is of the belief he was close with Kylie and might be of help with the interrogation as well. I can't deny that stirred something within, the possibility that he was the one who spilled the beans on our furtive act while I paid for the consequences borne. Whatever the case, he is all I've got for an ally at the moment, a friend and even if a foe, one that knows the least of the blood on my hands.
We haven't had a chance to talk lately, but gossip is always a whisper away in Arlington and if I'm to believe the sources he's back to leading his usual casanova life, with none other than Rachel Stinson garnering all the fame as his newest conquest in the infamous Georgie Bailey fling list. Good luck handling the notorious daddy's princess.
I pull my phone out to call for a cab, but come across Harry's text message instead. *remember how you said you have been wanting to get a tattoo since a long time? If your mind hasn't changed, I'll meet you at sixth avenue :)*
*see you soon then!* I text back with a silly grin on my face. This would probably be the last of us meeting, or for the matter talking even. Once he finds out all about Brandon being called at the station, he wouldn't want to see me anymore. I better savour it while it last.
***
I can already spot him from a distance, his dark curls flopping around freely with gusts of wind marking the onset of fall. He isn't dressed in his usual attire, but in a collared white shirt along with heavy washed jeans. Archie's staple for all the times we went out.
He looks at me and waves enthusiastically, black eyes twinkling under the shadow of the moonlight. "So, are you definitely ready?"
"I have to do it sometime," I nervously begin to tuck my hair behind my ears. I am often confused about what to do with my flailing arms, hoping he doesn't realise it though.
"Alright, then," he steps ahead and flings open the rust stained door for me. My eyes instinctively dart over to the bright red board hinged only a few inches away from our heads; a habit which I picked upon as a child. "Est.1994, Brooklyn's finest tat..." I try to read ahead, but the letters have faded off.
I get a knot in my stomach at the eerie appearance of the shop, but oblige anyway. Appearances can be deceiving at times.
"Hey, pal!" a deep voice startles us, and we curse it together. I look to my side, expecting a huge guy, whose inked body can be easily used as a catalogue for this shop, but am left dumbfounded when a stout Asian guy who looks like he hasn't even been near to a needle his whole life, greets us.
