“I don’t know. What do you want it to be?” he counters with that annoying cocky smirk.
“Whose locker is that?”
“What makes you think it’s not mine?” he poses, flick blade in hand as he jams it into the lock.
I realize our conversation has just been a series of questions, so I decide to watch and get the answers myself.
Blackwood isn’t bothered and continues picking the lock until it finally snaps open with a satisfying click. He opens the door, and when I see a mirror attached to it with pink lipstick lips pressed to it, I roll my eyes.
“I stand corrected,” I state. “That is clearly your locker cause what other narcissistic fuckass would kiss their reflection every time they look into that mirror? Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the most annoying guy in this school?”
Blackwood clutches his heart, faking hurt.
He places the brown paper bag into the locker and extends his hand.
I arch a brow, confused.
“Give me your lighter,” he says, and before I can lie through my teeth, he shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t have one. I know you packed it before you packed your lunch.”
It’s like he knows me already.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk forward until we’re standing mere inches apart.
He towers over me, but I don’t feel dwarfed in his presence. I don’t know what it is about him, but I loosen my tie and unfasten two buttons on my shirt. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He continues looking at me as if deciphering the world’s most fascinating puzzle.
I reach into my shirt and produce the lighter from where it’s hidden in my bra. I don’t know how he knew I’d have it. I guess the fact that I was standing in front of a flaming rose bush when we met is the reason.
The moment I come in contact with it, warmth and comfort embrace me tightly. It’s the only time I ever feel safe.
Passing it to Blackwood, he shakes his head. “This is yours.”
“My what?”
“Your turn.”
“For?”
“For setting the world on fire,” he replies, gently coaxing me toward the locker by placing a hand on the small of my back.
His touch has an unexpected reaction. He’s bold, I’ll give him that. I fucking love it, but I would never tell him that.
Without hesitation, I run my thumb along the spark wheel, and the moment I do, a shiver racks me. It’s foreplay before the big climax. Suddenly, nothing else matters but setting that bag on fire.
The moment the flame sparks to life, I am transfixed by it and how fire can destroy in the blink of an eye. Something so beautiful can cause so much pain—like me, as my mom used to tell me I was the most beautiful girl in the world.
Thoughts of her, of her mangled body as she took her last breaths, has me extending my arm into the locker and setting fire to that bag. I wish it could burn away this anguish I feel, but it never does.
It goes up instantly, which means Blackwood used an accelerant.
We both stand by the door, watching the small bonfire spark to life. Anyone could come out at any moment, but neither of us seems to care.
As the flames grow higher, I casually redo my buttons and fasten my tie. “Do you have a name?”
“I do.”
“And it is?”
“Rev.” He slams the locker door shut on the fire.
“What kind of name is Rev?”
He leans in close, so close he steals my breath away. I fixate on the two nose rings he has—one hoop in each nostril. “It’s a name.”
When I remember to breathe again, I go to press him further, but he grabs my hand and whispers into my ear, “Run.”
It sends a shiver through me.
Those words are very reminiscent of last night. Still, when he lifts his eyes to the ceiling, and the sprinklers go on two seconds later, I realize he means it in the literal sense.
We take off down the hallway, my shoes slipping on the wet floors as the sprinklers shower down around us. We are sopping wet, and maniacal laughter spills from me when I witness the bedlam we created. Students rush from their classrooms, screaming and crying with mascara running down their cheeks.
Rev drags me outside, where ironically, it’s started to pour. But I don’t notice the downpour. All I can focus on is standing in the rain with a delinquent who is as beautifully messed up as I am.
Our chests are rising and falling quickly as adrenaline bounces between us. My skin tingles, and it has nothing to do with the cold. He lets go of my hand but doesn’t walk away.
His white shirt clings to his muscled body, and as he rolls up his sleeve, I see he has a tattoo on his wrist. It’s a star in a circle with two half-moons on either side. I want to know what it means, but that will have to wait because the doors burst open, and a flurry of students swarms outside.
Rev runs his long fingers through his wet hair, emphasizing his flawless face. He licks a fallen raindrop from his full lips. I’m envious of it.
“What happened?” a girl asks her friend, wringing out her wet ponytail
“Donna Jo said Giselle’s locker caught on fire!” her friend replies while I almost inhale my tongue. “Apparently, her term paper was in there, as well as her laptop. I hope she has a backup at home. Otherwise, the girl is screwed. It’s due this week.”
Rev doesn’t react.
He simply smirks before pushing through the students and leaving me with a mouth full of nothing. Why did he do this? Did he do this for me? Maybe chivalry isn’t dead, after all.
Peering up at the wooden crucifix nailed to the wall, I know there aren’t enough Hail Marys to save my soul.
The moment I open the front door, I know things are about to go south.
“Mom?” I call out, tossing my keys into the porcelain bowl that sits with military precision on the hallway table.
My entire house is set out this way in case he ever decides to come back. My mom doesn’t want a thing out of place in case the deadbeat who knocked her up, aka my dad, ever waltzes through the front door. She wants him to believe our perfect life has been put on pause for him as we awaited his return.
It’ll never happen.
She knows it.
I know it.
But she clings to unrealistic hope that she’ll get her happily ever after. That she somehow deserves it. But that’s not how life works. We aren’t owed anything. We work for shit to happen. We work to better our lives so we aren’t waiting and pining for a useless fucker who couldn’t give two shits about the family he never wanted to begin with.
The house is deadly quiet, which is never a good sign.
Checking the living room, I see she isn’t sitting in her usual spot, by the window, in case he walks by.
Climbing the stairs two at a time, I race toward her bedroom. The door is ajar, and when I shoulder it open, I see an all too familiar sight—red and white pills strewn on the white carpet, an empty bottle of cheap scotch close by, and my mom’s comatose body laid on top of her silk duvet.
“For fuck’s sake,” I curse under my breath, running toward her. “June! Wake the fuck up.”
I gently slap her cheeks, trying to get a response.
She simply moans. At least she’s alive.
Lifting her limp body in my arms, I carry her into the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I dump her ass into the shower and let the cold water slap some sense into her.