My Name is Gabby Simpson (The Vamps Fanfiction)

Accents

The food scraps, the sleeping bag, the alleyway. How much more cliche could I get, anyways?

“No,” he said, not to me but himself. The other boys all caught on as well, and they stared at me in horror.

“Shit,” Bradley said, and ran a hand through his hair again. The curls fell back down. “They said…” He trailed off, realizing he was speaking out loud.

“What?” I heard my voice out of nowhere. “Who- whose they?”

“Nothing.” His face paled. “Because that doesn’t matter. What matters is this- this-” he gestured around him, and the living things Jared and Nia had left behind for me. “You’ve been living here?”

All their eyes, from blue to black, bore into me. I could feel judgement, and pity, and curiosity, and I couldn’t stand any of it.

So what? Would you actually care? It doesn’t matter.

These were all things that I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Rather, I just looked at him, and I lied.

“No.”

It was a stupid thing to say, but I didn’t care. I knew they didn’t believe me, but I didn’t care about that either.

I began to walk forward, slowly this time, not wanting them to follow. I brushed past Bradley and the other one, the light haired brunette, back toward the street. I didn’t have to deal with this.

“I don’t believe you!” He called out. With a start, I finally recognized his accent. Brummie. From Birmingham.

With a clench in my stomach, I remembered. Birmingham. I was born there, the foster families told me. I had always planned to go, one day.

“Good for you,” I replied, my voice weak. I felt a bit sick.

“Why are you lying? Nothing bad is going to happen, I swear.”

I let out a dry laugh, stopping and turning around to look at them. “Look, Bradley, Bradley’s friends, whoever any of you are, I haven’t eaten all day, and it’s dinnertime. Besides, I need to find my friends.”

Bradley’s eyes widened. “There are others?”

“Yeah, and they left me because I was clumsy and got caught, probably.” Thanks for that. “So, uh, it was nice meeting you.”

I kept walking, but, with little surprise, I was once again stopped.

“Gabrielle,” he said, right behind me. I spun around, to find him pulling out a pen from his shirt pocket. I thought it curious, that he had one so ready on him.

“It’s Gabby,” I told him.

Ignoring me, he took my hand and flipped it over, so that he had my palm. I tried to pull away, but his grip was persistent.

He scribbled something down, and I tried as hard as I could not to laugh. It tickled, but it wasn’t funny. His number, black and clear, was imprinted on my skin.

“I know, I know,” he said to my expression. “You don’t want my help. But just in case you need it.”

A voice rang out from the back of the alley. “Brad.”

His head jerked up, and in a quick, hushed voice, he told me. “Hide your hand.”

“What?” My heart was in my throat again. Something was happening. He sounded scared.

I had dealt with this my whole life. Victims chasing me, cops searching, druggies wanting something more. Whatever was happening, I had expected to be used to.

“Just do it.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

But I was incredibly, incredibly wrong.