Chapter 3
1147 Words
Mr. Davies droned on about The Great Gatsby, but Luke’s presence burned hotter than the radiator hissing under the window.
He’d finally taken a seat—not in the back, but directly behind me.
I could feel his stare drilling into the back of my skull, a physical weight that made the fluorescent lights hum louder.
Every rustle of paper, every creak of a desk, seemed to tighten the coil in him.
When Tiffany dropped her pen near my foot, Luke’s chair scraped violently against the linoleum before she’d even bent to retrieve it.
Lunch was worse. Luke shadowed me to the cafeteria, a silent, brooding sentinel three steps behind.
He didn’t sit at the football team’s roaring table.
Instead, he planted himself at an empty two-seater nearby, his tray untouched, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
Zach choked on his apple slice when Luke abruptly stood, intercepting Jacob Burks as the delinquent ambled past our table.
Luke’s voice was too low to hear, but Jacob’s grey eyes flickered to me, then back to Luke, before he gave a curt nod and veered away, Lilly watching impassively from the salad line.
Zach leaned in, his whisper frantic. "Did Luke just... recruit Jacob? Since when do they even talk?"
I pushed my lukewarm pizza around the tray, my stomach churning.
Across the cafeteria, Tiffany watched our table, her expression unreadable as she whispered to Scarlet.
Luke’s gaze followed mine, his knuckles whitening on his untouched soda can.
He didn’t look away from Tiffany until she finally turned, flipping her golden hair dismissively as she led Scarlet toward the senior section.
The bell rang for third period, and Luke was instantly at my elbow, steering me toward the west stairwell instead of the east.
His grip was firm, impersonal, like a bouncer escorting a patron. "Library," he muttered, scanning the crowd flooding the hallway. "Now."
The west stairwell was quieter, emptier, the air thick with the scent of old textbooks and industrial cleaner.
Luke moved ahead, taking the steps two at a time, his head constantly swiveling.
He paused on the second-floor landing, peering down through the metal railing at the bustling east stairwell below.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Told you," he breathed, almost to himself.
Down there, Tristan and Ian were roughhousing near the bottom, blocking the main flow of traffic with loud, obnoxious laughter.
The library’s heavy oak door swung shut behind us, muffling the chaos of the hallway.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams.
Luke didn’t head for the study tables.
Instead, he steered me toward the deepest stacks, the forgotten history section smelling of mildew and yellowed paper.
He scanned the rows, checking behind bookcases, his movements sharp and practiced.
Satisfied, he finally stopped, leaning against a shelf of crumbling encyclopedias.
His eyes, shadowed and intense, locked onto mine. "You need to listen," he started, his voice low and urgent.
He ran a hand through his black hair, the gesture tight with frustration. "Tiffany’s planning something. Today. After school."
His gaze flicked toward the library entrance, then back to me. "She’s got Scarlet and Ian involved. Tristan’s just the distraction."
The words came out clipped, factual, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the shelf. "They’re aiming for the east stairwell—during the rush. Crowded. Loud. Easy to shove someone, make it look like an accident."
He paused, swallowing hard. "They think it’s funny. A ‘prank’."
My throat went dry. "How do you know?" The question slipped out, shaky.
Luke flinched, his blue eyes widening for a split second before shuttering again.
He looked away, jaw working. "Doesn’t matter," he muttered, pushing off the shelf. "Just stay away from there. Use the north exit. Go straight home. Don’t wait for the bus."
His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Promise me."
The demand hung between us, raw and desperate.
Dust motes swirled in the sunlight slicing through the stacks, but Luke stood rigid in the shadows, his blue eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
He wasn’t asking—he was pleading, his knuckles pale against the dark wood of the shelf.
“Promise me, Emily.” His voice cracked, low and urgent. “Please.”
The raw desperation in his eyes—so unlike the sneering bully I knew—sent a cold prickle down my spine.
I nodded, a jerky, uncertain movement. “Okay. North exit. Straight home.”
Relief washed over his face, brief but profound, before the tense vigilance snapped back into place.
He scanned the library entrance again, listening for footsteps beyond the muffled thrum of students changing classes outside.
“Good,” he breathed, pushing away from the shelf. “Now get to your next class. Avoid the science wing hallway—Ian’s loitering there.”
He didn’t wait for a response, melting into the shadows of the stacks like a ghost, leaving me alone with the scent of dust and dread.
Fourth period dragged, every minute stretching thin as I replayed Luke’s warning—Tiffany’s plan, the stairwell shove, the casual cruelty masked as a prank.
Zach’s anxious whispers beside me went unanswered, my thoughts were a tangled knot of fear and the unsettling certainty in Luke’s voice.
When the final bell screamed, I bolted for the north exit as promised, heart hammering against my ribs.
The hallway thinned quickly here, quieter than the main arteries of the school.
I pushed through the heavy doors into the crisp afternoon air, relief flooding me—until I spotted Tiffany leaning against Bradley Dawson’s parked car, her golden hair gleaming under the autumn sun.
Scarlet stood beside her, giggling into her phone.
My feet froze on the concrete steps.
The north exit emptied onto a secluded stretch of the teacher’s lot, far from the bus lines and student pickup chaos.
Tiffany’s green eyes locked onto mine, her smile slow and venomous.
She pushed off the car, taking a deliberate step forward.
"Running home already, Thompson?" she called, her voice syrupy with false concern. "Luke's not giving you a ride today?"
Scarlet lowered her phone, her vacant hazel eyes widening with sudden, malicious glee.
They weren’t supposed to be here.
This wasn’t the east stairwell.
Luke’s warning echoed in my skull—Tiffany’s planning something. Today. Panic tightened my chest as Tiffany closed the distance, her designer boots clicking on the asphalt.
Behind her, Scarlet fumbled in her oversized purse, her movements quick and furtive.
I backed up, my heel hitting the concrete step.
The teacher’s lot was deserted, the distant shouts from the main exit muffled by the brick building.
Tiffany’s smile sharpened. "Lost your bodyguard?" she purred, reaching out to snag the strap of my backpack.
Her fingers brushed my shoulder, cold and deliberate. "Let’s have a little chat about boundaries—"
- Writer
