Some Scars Never Fade

Chapter Ten (K)

*Chris’s point of view*

The next morning, I woke up with my head in Dylan’s lap. He was looking down at me, his eyes soft; I had no idea how long he’d been awake.

I jerked to a sitting position; I was on the couch and the only other person in the living area with us was Jadyn, who was still sleeping.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, trying to hide my embarrassment. He grinned at me, but I could see the soft look in his eyes, the one I’d seen only one other time. It faded as I watched; I don’t think he was conscious it was even there.

“Its fine,” he answered, standing up and stretching, his cheeks the faintest shade of pink. “Sleep well?” he asked, the color slowly fading. “Like a baby,” I grinned at him.

It was almost time to go to school, so I pushed Jadyn out of the chair. He landed with a thud and his eyes jerked open sleepily. “Wake up sleepy-head,” I sang; he grumbled, standing up.

Throwing my arms around him, I walked with him halfway to his room before his shoved me off with his hip.

“Why do you have to be so damn hyper in the morning?” he grumbled, but I saw a grin plastered to his lips, so I went to the kitchen smiling.

I ate two pancakes (compliments to Nathan) and marched off to my room to find something to wear.

It had been a good bit since I’d been to my house, so I decided that I would convince Dylan to take me by there on the way to the store later.

I didn’t have anything else of a dark complexion to wear, so I slipped into some light, faded jeans and a blood-red tank-top.

I wore my black tennis-shoes, as usual, and applied the black eye-liner before walking back to the living area.

Fifteen minutes later, I was loading into the van.

The ride to the school was short, and when I climbed out of the van, I was relieved when Dylan decided to walk with me to class.

I saw Tyler waiting for me near the classroom, but he didn’t approach me with Dylan with me. I was ecstatically glad.

Until gym.

He made it a point to come talk to me while we were stretching for flag football.

“I’ve decided what I want from you,” he said, quiet enough so only I heard.

“What?” I asked, making sure my voice was compromising.

“Your fighting techniques,” he answered; I snorted and went off to play the game.

He tried again after class.

“I want to know your style of fighting,” he said again. “I heard you the first time,” I retorted, rounding the corner.