by Henry, Max
The sea parts, students move aside to let me through, an array of smug grins and worried wide-eyed stares following me as I move to the front.
Colt stands in the middle of the road, arms folded once more, daring Johnson to go through with it.
I don’t think my brother believes he will. I’m pretty sure the entitled jackass would love nothing more than to.
Positioned at the back of Colt’s Explorer, Johnson sits in the seat of an enormous bright green John Deere, the tines of the front-end ready to slide under the chassis of the car. Behind him, Amber’s tiny frame is barely visible in the driver’s seat of Johnson’s F250.
Well, I guess that answers that question.
The tractor’s engine growls, the gigantic wheels on the back inching forward while Johnson effortlessly steers the machine with one hand.
Colt takes a step forward, his jaw steel as he stares down his country equivalent.
Johnson smirks, feathers his foot on the gas, and slips the tines underneath Colt’s SUV.
“If those tyres get off the ground, you’ll fucking regret it,” Colt hollers.
I step into the road and take him by the arm. “You need to get one of the teachers or something.”
He shakes me off. The shame at his rejection washes over me the same as the murmur that sweeps the crowd. We’ve always stuck together, and he’s always heeded my advice. Why not now?
The tractor roars, the engine working hard as Johnson slowly lifts the Explorer. The suspension drops, yet the tyres still touch the road. Johnson pauses, leans over to throw open the cab door, and calls out to the crowd as the tractor’s engine idles, “Do I keep going?”
You’d think we’re at a damn rodeo. Fists punch the air, girls squeal, and a roar goes up, encouraging the spoilt cowboy to keep up with his hijinks. He shuts the door again, pushes a couple of levers, and simultaneously lifts the SUV the rest of the way over the cars beside it while he backs into the middle of the road.
Colt lunges forward, seemingly realises he can’t do a damn thing to a stop a tractor and then paces in a circle while letting out a string of expletives I have never heard from him before.
I feel utterly hopeless about what’s going on.
“Get out of here!” I spin to find the Chemistry teacher, Mr Cowl, striding along the front of the crowd. “Off to class before the entire school finds itself kept in an extra hour today.”
At the threat of stolen free time, the students disperse.
He cedes crowd-control to Mrs Blowers and then makes tracks for where Johnson is in the middle of setting Colt’s car down precariously atop a stone wall. The vehicle teeters, seesawed on the stones. The tines make an almighty scrape when Johnson reverses out, the grind and crunch of metal on metal, and metal on stone when he pulls free enough to make anyone cringe.
I don’t know much about how cars work, but that did not sound good.
“Off to class, honey.” Mrs Blowers sets her manicured hand on my arm.
I shake my head. “No. That’s my brother’s car.”
“And the incident will be dealt with. You don’t need to be here.”
I glance to where Colt still loses his mind, doing his utmost to tear the driver’s door of Johnson’s truck open. Amber smirks, the locks well and truly engaged, and then pulls into the vacant spot with my brother on the running board.
“Now, Lacey.” Mrs Blowers tugs on my arm. “I’ll walk with you.”
I shrug her off. “No, thank you. I’d prefer to be alone.”
I’d prefer to be anywhere other than here, but for now, solitude will have to suffice.
How the mighty fall.
The incident with Colt’s Explorer is the first in a line of things that have me wishing for tomorrow already.
Maggie is away. My one and only supporter chose to be absent when I need her most.
Amber spends the entire third period mocking my new boots and how “pathetic” I must be to need to fit in so badly.
I arrive at my locker between lunch and fourth to find that some jackass has thought it a great idea to squirt tomato sauce between the fins of the door. Everything is sticky and stained.
I get a warning for arriving at English without the required reference books, and a slip to take home requesting we refund the cost of the ruined study novel.
I don’t see or hear from Colt all day, and when I do manage to get near the front of the school to check where his car is, it’s gone. All that remains of this morning’s altercation are a few misplaced stones lying on the sidewalk.
My final class of the day is my only elective: photography. The course wasn’t offered at Riverbourne Preparatory, so when I saw it on the list of subjects I could choose, I jumped at the chance.
I love the raw honesty a portrait can capture. The emotions saved for eternity in a frank depiction of a pivotal moment in time. The skill would never be anything I could apply to real life. At least, not in the life we had.
My heart sings at the thought that perhaps, after all, good could still come of this change.
Considering the day I’ve had so far, it feels wonderful to walk into the classroom with a genuine smile on my face. Thank heavens for little wins, huh?
“You must be Lacey.” Our teacher steps out from behind his desk as I enter, his hand extended before him.
He’s a portly man but has that air of sophistication about him that most artistic types do. An over-sized black T-shirt falls to above his knee, his legs clad in grey skinny jeans. I find a little joy in the fact he bucks the trend and sports Vans on his feet rather than the required boots the remainder of the faculty wear. His blazer hangs over the back of his desk chair.
“I’m Mr Miller.”
I take his offered hand and give it a gentle pump. “Lovely to meet you.”
He gestures to the classroom, half-filled with students already. “We each have our own station in my class, so you can pick wherever you would like to sit.”
“Thank you.” Argh. Could this class get any better? My own table, no idiots from the Mavericks that I can see, and a subject I’m genuinely interested in? Bliss.
I make my way down the aisle between the tables and pick one near the windows, two-thirds of the way into the room. The top of the high table is Formica, the surface grooved and scratched in straight lines. I run my fingertip over a black smudge, checking it won’t come off on my arm, and then get comfortable on the stool.
My satchel hits the floor. I expel a long breath and glance out the window at the afternoon sun tickling the oak leaves and revel in the break from today’s hell.
“Hey, buuu-dy,” a deep and irritatingly familiar voice drawls.
I glance right to find Tuck grinning his frickin’ head off while he tugs his stool across. “I knew it,” I mutter, closing my eyes briefly.
“Knew what?”
That this was way too good to be true. “Nothing.” I stick a boot out and push on the base of his stool. “You’re supposed to be over there more. We have our own tables, or so I’m told.”
“Yuh-huh.” He nods. “My table.” He points to where his ratty bag sits on top of the abandoned station. “Yours.” His thick finger taps the top of mine.
“What do you want?”
Mr Miller calls out for the class to get settled.
“Nothing yet.” Tuck drags his stool back to his desk.
I frown after him. What does he mean “yet”? And why the hell did he say it so throatily before running his teeth across his bottom lip?
And why the hell did that make me all tingly in places that have no business taking note of a jackass like him?
“Okay, everyone.” Mr Miller claps his hands, drawing my attention back where it should be. “Last week I asked you all to collect, at minimum, fifteen photos on the subject of your choice. Today, we prepare those images for next week’s presentation.”
Ugh. I sink on the stool, back curling. What the hell am I supposed to do?
“Lacey,” he calls.
>
I guess I’m about to find out.
“You can pair with your neighbour to learn the process today.”
My neighbour. Seriously?
Tuck grins, eyebrows wiggling up and down.
I scowl at the pig, hands fisted on the tabletop.
One class, Universe. Could I not have one class to call my own?
Tuck digs into his bag and produces a roll of film. “Ready when you are, baby.”
The other students all move around collecting the materials they’ll need before walking through the set of doors down the back that I presume leads to the dark room. Tuck stands impatiently, gesturing for me to get a wriggle on.
I take one last look out the window at the beauty of nature, certain that I’m about to see Tuck’s pornographic collection or something equally as repulsive and then drop from the stool with a sigh.
He reaches out when I get near, flicking the ends of my hair. “You’ll want to tie that back. The chemicals won’t be nice to your pretty blonde if you get them on it.”
“Tie it back with what?” I ask with an exasperated slap of my hands against my thighs. “I don’t have an elastic.”
He hands me the roll of film, and then reaches into his back pocket. His hand comes back between us, a strip of leather in his palm.
I lift an eyebrow. “Do you always carry one for such an occasion.”
Tuck chuckles, switching the film for the leather. “Nah. Just your lucky day.”
I tug my hair back into a ponytail and then wrap the strip around the base. The knot I make slides loose, my hair falling away. “Damn it.” I could knot the ends together first, but then the doubled back loops might still not be tight enough.
Tuck sighs and sets the roll of film down on a nearby table. “Here.” He holds his hand out for the leather.
I pass it back.
“Everything okay?” Mr Miller calls out from the far end of the class.
“Yeah,” Tuck calls back, gesturing for me to turn around. “We’re good.” He taps the side of my head. “Hold your hair back again.”
I do as I’m told, frowning the entire time. There aren’t any scissors nearby—no containers of anything that he could dump in my hair.
Tuck’s hand brushes mine as he winds the leather around the base again, but this time, the tug and resulting tension tell me he tied it off properly. “There.”
I spin around, confused at the fact he literally just tied my hair up for me. “Thanks, I guess.”
He shrugs, collects the film, and then turns for the doors. I follow him through the first set into a low-lit room, bench tables lining two of the walls with canisters of various chemicals and a few trays with steel tongs stacked inside.
“You need to be quick when you go into the dark room,” he instructs. “Any light from somebody coming through the classroom door can ruin a print.”
I nod, although I don’t think he pays attention to whether I listen or not. He sets his hand on the top of the door to the processing room and jerks his head. “You go first.”
I duck through the gap he provides, surprised by how large the room is. I expected some poky backroom where we’d all be one top of one another while we worked, but the darkroom is kitted out perfectly for the number of students in the class, bathed in dull red light. A large table runs down the centre; it’s spotless metal surface ready for use and rows of strings above adorned with numerous pegs to dry the images. Along each side are stations for each student with the required instruments and adequate space for the three-step developing process.
“First,” Tuck says to my right, “we prepare the film.”
I follow him through to an adjoining pitch-black room and do my best to pay attention to how he retrieves the roll, but considering I have trouble making out where my hand is in front of my face, I can’t tell much. I don’t even know if we’re the only people in here, or if there’s another student tucked away in this midnight embrace. I keen my ears and pick up the scrape of something to my left. Sure enough, somebody coughs on my other side.
The lack of bearings in a room that I’m not familiar with sends an unsettling chill feathering up my exposed arms.
Tuck pops the lid off the canister from the sound of it, I catch the snip of scissors, and then he takes me by utter surprise when his hand connects with my arm.
“Where are you?”
“Right where you left me,” I quip.
He chuckles, tugging me closer until I nestle against his hard body. “Stand in front of me, and I’ll guide you through this part.”
“Um, okay.” I’m literally snug against his front encased in his arms. It’s… cosy.
Tuck’s palm slides down my hyperaware flesh until he finds my hand. His strong fingers guide my arm right. “Over here we’ll find the film tank.” My palm connects with a plastic cylinder. “We need to open that and get the reel out.”
He lets go, allowing me to figure this part out on my own. With shaking hands, I unscrew the lid and feel my way inside until I have what I think is the reel in my hand. The entire time, the rise and fall of his chest presses against my back. “Got it.”
Tuck’s hand finds its way to mine once more. “Good. Now we wind the negatives on.” He feels his way down my other arm until both my hands are under his. “The tape is over here.” My fingers find something glossy, hard, and thin. “You need to find one end and secure it to the slit on the side of the reel.”
“Where’s that?”
“You feel your way around the reel until you find the ridges.” He takes over, turning the reel in his hold until he presumably finds what he talks about. “Here.”
Now it’s my turn to run my hand down his to find my way in the dark. His chest stops moving against my back before his expelled breath ruffles my hair.
“I feel it.” And I don’t just mean the reel. The effect this guy has on me is something else entirely.
“Good,” Tuck says huskily before pausing to swallow. “Slide the end of the tape in and then you can twist the top of the reel to wind it on.”
I follow his instructions, grateful for the task to focus on rather than the incredibly good-smelling guy pressed up against my back. He could take a step back. There’s no real reason for him to be there, and yet he chooses to stay in my space.
I catch the tail end of the tape flickering as I wind it in.
Tuck’s palm finds my hip.
I drop the reel. “Damn it.” The freaking thing rolls to the floor.
His body moves away from mine, and I bend my knees to retrieve his negatives at the same time as he does. My arse connects with his gut. Or was that his groin?
Tuck groans.
I freeze.
Not a damn word is said.
Heat filling my body, I feel around on the linoleum floor until I find the reel, and then carefully rise to my feet.
I set it on the workbench.
We’re in a room with God only knows how many other students, and yet, thanks to the inky darkness that envelops us we may as well be alone in a closet playing seven minutes in heaven for how this feels.
“You, uh, you got it?” I swear if I could see his handsome face right now that brow of his would be pulled into the deepest of frowns.
I know I look the same. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
A beat passes where I wonder if he’ll direct me from afar, but instead, I feel the familiar warmth of Tuck’s body as he nudges against me in the dark and resumes our earlier position. His chest isn’t the only part of his body pressed against mine. Oh, wow. Okay.
A flash of red light highlights how close we actually are when one of the students exits the room.
I can barely understand his husky whispered instructions over the roar of my heartbeat, pounding in my inner ear. “You need to insert the core into the centre of the reel.”
I’m totally not the only one taking sexual connotations from this, am I? Ugh. I sure hope not. “Okay.”
“Make sure you have it the r
ight way up so that the end with the ridge slots into the base of the tank.”
“I think I have it right.”
“Good.” His breaths are noticeably shallower as he finds his way down my arms once more. “Let me check.”
I can’t help myself. I test how strong my effect on him is. After all, I’d be stupid not to when this is a potential advantage for me. I press back.
I’m pretty sure that isn’t his belt buckle.
Tuck stiffens before groaning, “It feels right.”
“Now what?” God damn it, I’m turned on. Focus, Lacey.
“Now, put the lid on and make sure it’s screwed real hard.”
I’d let you screw me hard. Oh, my God. Seriously. I need to get the hell out of his arms before I do something stupid. I never accounted for his effect on me when I decided to play power games with these people.
My hands have never worked quicker. “Done.”
Tuck disappears from my back, the scuff of his boots somewhere closer to the door. “Bring it out here.”
He doesn’t wait for me, the glimpse of his back as he heads through the processing room all I see when I emerge from our “closet”. I find Tuck waiting in the first low-lit room, hands flat on the counter, head sunk between his shoulders.
Things could easily go one of two ways here.
I set the tank on the counter to his right, and then lean my hip against the edge.
Tuck turns his head, shoulders still hunched and hands firm, to look at me. “Do you do that to everyone?”
“Do what?” I frown. “I’m trying to learn here.”
“Learn what?” He closes the space between us, setting a hand on the counter either side of my hips. “How to turn tricks as a lap dancer?”
“Excuse me?” I pull my head back, eyebrows high.
“Fuck.” His chin dips briefly. The fire in his eyes when he lifts his head again steals my next breath.
This guy could eat me alive, and I’m not so sure that would be a problem.
“What’s going on right now?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.” His gaze searches mine before dropping to my lips. “I don’t like you,” he says more like a reminder to himself than a statement to me.
