As long as they don’t touch my trust fund, it’s fine. That’s mygolden ticket. As soon as I get the pay out when I graduate, there’s nothing left to tie me to the Osmans.
My grandfather used to tell me to take beatdowns like a man and know when to punch back. He was as ruthless as my father because he didn’t care about respect or hierarchy. The only difference was my grandfather had a code of ethics on who to hit, when the strike comes, and how hard it’ll strike.
I remember when he sat me down in his office after the school called him instead of my father about a fight I got into. A rusted shovel sat on the redwood table in his office, his curly salt and pepper hair cropped short against his scalp. Back then, I thought his impeccably fitted suit was like a uniform waiting to be handed down to me.
Creases lined his eyes like they held ancient wisdom ready to trickle down to me, and I hated every bit of it. Still, I was impatient for any slither of attention he was willing to grant. His dark eyes bored into me with neither disappointment nor affection; it was a warning that I now understand meant I should act more like my brother.
He told me I either acted like a dumbass or acted like an Osman, and to not get into fights with morons because they’ll always find a way to dig their own grave. The secret to fighting an idiot isn’t in the attack or the defense, but the foreplay of the fight, because only one of us has the means to lay out the scene.
I’m not the Osman fighter he wanted me to be, or the Osman man he tried grooming me into. But an Osman is one and the same as a moron. After all he said, he ended up dying in the grave he dug.
And above all, the beer-bellied man in front of me isn’t intelligent or a fool: he’s a pawn.
A pawn whose power comes from his mouth—which makes himthe worst pawn of all.
“See this as a life lesson not to take the blame for others when they wouldn’t have done the same for you.” An almost respectful—near prideful—look crosses McGill’s face and it puts me on edge how much it reminds me of my grandfather. “Chasing tail might seem fun now, but three years later, you’ll look back and regret all the hoops you threw yourself through just to please them. Trust me on this, son, it isn’t worth it.”
He can keep his trashy attempt at playing father figure. He’s got enough kids of his own to let down. “Some people never learn from their mistakes,” I say.
His eyes darken at the insult.
The warning bell rings, and I leave without being excused first. What’s he going to do? Throw me back in solitary for going to class? I don’t think so.
Blaze is already in her spot by the time I get to class. I instinctively reach into my pocket to feel the cold lighter, but it only makes me glare at her harder when I realize it isn’t there. She throws me a fleeting glance before going back to her horrendous doodle. Does she expect me not to react to her blatant disregard of my existence after I took the fall for her ass? All signs point to her as the arsonist, and she has the audacity to look at me like I’m less than her?
There are two seats left in the room; one next to Sarah at the front and one directly behind Blaze. The former’s eyes widen with hope, batting her lashes balefully as she sits up straighter. Sarah’s brows scrunch in irritation when I choose to sit behind Blaze.
Taking my ring off, I drop it on Blaze’s desk with a clatter and leandown to whisper in her ear, “Don’t lose it this time.” The murderous rage I feel coursing through my blood weaves its way into my voice, and it isn’t nearly satisfying enough to watch her shiver beneath her uniform.
She’sthe lucky one here. If I had it my way, I‘d take away her ability to walk—better yet, make her go nonverbal from how hard I’ll fuck her after the stunt she pulled. The only two reasons Blaze is temporarily spared from either of those things is knowing that while I was sleeping on the rickety bed in solitary, she was getting all nice and cozy in her blankets—the same blankets that I painted with my come—and she doesn’t even know it. Because even if she cleans her sheets, there’s no getting rid of me from her mattress.
The other reason is something I haven’t figured out yet. Something happened the day she lost her shit at me. It has something to do with McGill, but there’s nothing that clearly indicates what it might have been beyond an antipsychotic. She was too chirpy the next day for it to have been a cold.
I slide into my seat behind Blaze and pull out my notebook, watching her slip the ring onto her finger as she leans back in her seat… until her hair is sprawled all over my desk. Swirls of copper and red cover my book, and I can’t help it; I just… stop. I forget why I’m even angry.
I fight the urge for only a moment before I relent, weaving my fingers through her hair.Spun silk,that’s what it feels like now. It used to be coarse and frizzy, dried at the ends from cheap shampoo, and flaky at the top from one too many benders in a row. Now, everything about her is coming to life. As much as I hate that we’re both in here, reform school has done wonders for her.
Inch by inch, fiber by fiber, the tension in my back unwinds fromthe four days of wondering if she’s still alive.
I spent all weekend itching to see the orange flicker of the flames and taste the ashen flavor of smoke on my tongue. But this is something else entirely.
Blaze stays there for over ten minutes, fidgeting with one thing or another, adjusting then readjusting herself in her seat, intentionally shaking her head so her hair moves across my desk. All the while, I stare at the dashes of red and threads of gold. If only I could see her piercing blue eyes, I’m positive they’d be wild and out of control as always.
The thrill seeker in her would have loved taking such a volatile element in her hands.Fire.It’s fitting for her in every way.
She plays firebug, and I play thief.
Blaze forgets, two can play this game.
I tug out a pair of child-friendly scissors from my bag, grab a lock of her hair, andsnip. Blaze whips around faster than I’ve ever seen her move. My lips quirk innocently as she gawks at me and the copper hair between my fingers. It’s as if a switch flicks inside her, turning her cheeks violently red as she’s brought to a boil.
Leisurely, I pull her hair tie off my wrist, holding her gaze while tying my new memento. “If you didn’t want me to cut it, you shouldn’t have waved your pretty red hair in my face.”
Her hand flies up to cradle the back of her head. “You fucking psychopath!” she whisper-screams, her crimson blush accentuating the freckles along her cheeks.
I hold the lock of hair up. “Thief,” I correct. “Klepto, if you feel like misdiagnosing.”
See, if the roles were reversed, I’d have reservations about Blaze having so much as a strand of my hair in her handsbecause I can picture her dabbling in dark magic. While I don’t believe in its merits, I do believe in Blaze’s ability to royally fuck something up so bad to the point that I might start worrying if there’s going to be a clone of me out there.
