Chapter 2: Follow Me
1396 Words
"Kayla." I keep my voice measured. Barely. "Left side. Left. Not right. There's literally only two options."
"Sorry," she whispers.
"It's fine." It's not fine. Nothing is fine. Nothing has been fine since 2:30 when Blake Carter strolled up to my lunch table, said 'after school' like some kind of medieval king issuing a decree, and disappeared before I could tell him exactly where to shove that decree.
I glance at the wall clock. 4:47 PM.
4:47.
I have mentally strangled this boy fourteen times today and I'm not even close to satisfied.
❖❖❖❖❖
"He's not here yet, is he." Brooke appears in the doorway, a stack of papers tucked under her arm, her jacket half-
falling off her shoulder.
"What was your first clue?" I gesture at the very Blake-Carter-free room around us.
She grins. "You look like you want to commit a felony."
"I want to commit several." I yank a poster straight on the wall. "Five more minutes. That's it. Then I'm reporting to
Mrs. Ford that he ghosted day one and she can deal with his neck herself because I am done."
"He's probably just—"
"If you say busy I will scream."
She presses her lips together, smart enough not to finish that sentence. Instead she sets the papers on the nearest
table. "Invitation list. All the schools in the metro area we need to contact for the festival, plus draft templates."
"Cool." I don't look at them. I'm still watching the door.
"He probably hates this because you're a girl," she offers carefully.
"I know he hates it because I'm a girl. What I don't know is why he hates women so much." I turn to look at her. "You
have any theories?"
Something flickers across her face. Too fast to catch. "No idea. Maybe ask Dev or Mason."
"Brooke."
"What?"
"Why do you hate them?"
Her hand freezes mid-air over the papers. She laughs — this nervous, slightly too-high sound. "I don't hate them.
They're just... irritating."
"You've never even talked to them."
"Jade—"
"I'm just saying."
"I have guitar." She grabs her bag off the chair faster than necessary. "Mom will actually bury me alive if I miss
another class." A quick wave, a quicker exit, and she's gone.
I stare at the empty doorway for a second.
What are you hiding, Brooke?
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"You all can go home," I announce to the remaining volunteers at 4:52. "Back here tomorrow, same time. We've still
got a mountain of work."
They scatter like I've just yelled fire. Can't blame them.
I start packing up, sliding Brooke's invitation papers into my folder. Except now the folder is approximately the size
of a small country and will absolutely not fit in my bag, so I just hold it against my chest like a sad paper shield and
head for the door.
I crash into him so hard the folder explodes.
Papers. Everywhere. Floating, spinning, performing their own little aerial show while I stand there blinking, and
Blake Carter stands in the doorway looking completely, infuriatingly unbothered.
"Seriously?"
"My bad—"
"Your bad? YOUR BAD?" I point at the confetti of important documents now decorating the floor. "Those are school
festival forms, invite lists, and draft letters, and you just — you weren't even here — you were supposed to be here
two hours ago—"
"Shut up." His voice comes out sharp and hard, like a door slamming.
I take a step back.
Something about the way he said it — not angry exactly, just... done — cuts right through my rant and lands
somewhere embarrassingly close to my chest. My eyes sting. I blink fast. Absolutely not. I am not crying in front of
Blake Carter over scattered papers and two hours of swallowed frustration.
I bend down and start picking up the pages. Jaw tight. Eyes on the floor.
A few seconds pass.
Then his knees hit the ground beside me.
I glance sideways. He's collecting papers from his side, not looking at me, not saying anything. I look away before
he can catch me noticing.
My hand reaches for the last sheet at the same time his does.
Our fingers touch.
It's like grabbing a live wire. Just — zap. A current that shoots straight up my arm and does something completely
unacceptable to my heartbeat. My eyes drag up to his face without my permission.
He's already looking at me.
Those dark brown eyes, up close, are doing things to my brain chemistry that I am in no way equipped to handle. I
forget my own name. I forget the papers. I forget the two hours of rage and the folder disaster and Mrs. Ford and all
of it — everything just kind of... dissolves. Into chocolate. His eyes are literally the color of good dark chocolate and that is an extremely inconvenient observation to have right now—
"You undressing me mentally?" His mouth curves. Slow. Knowing.
I yank the paper out from under his hand. "In your dreams."
"You were staring, Wilson."
"I was calculating how many of these papers you owe me for showing up two hours late." I stuff everything into the
folder and stand up. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Liar liar—"
"Don't."
"Pants on—"
"Don't."
❖❖❖❖❖
He falls into step beside me in the parking lot without being invited. Because of course he does.
"I didn't make it today."
I laugh. One sharp, humorless sound. "Wow. Incredible observation. Thank you for that update."
"I was busy." A pause. "It won't happen again."
"I don't care."
"You care a lot."
"Blake."
"You've been fuming for—"
"I said I don't care."
"You get angry fast." He sounds almost impressed. Like this is a fun personality trait he's cataloguing.
I stop walking. Turn to face him. "You know what? Go find a cactus. Actually don't — the cactus has standards."
He grins. Full and slow and devastating. "I can name ten girls who'd argue that point."
"They're either lying or they need glasses."
Something shifts. The grin drops. His eyes go flat and cold in about half a second — this instant, total shutdown
that's so jarring I almost reach out to check if he's still breathing.
"You're right," he says quietly. "Girls lie. A lot."
And then nothing. He just... leaves it there. That sentence, sitting between us like a stone in still water.
Who hurt you?
The thought appears before I can stop it and I immediately evict it. Not my business. Not my problem. I am his tutor,
not his therapist, and I need to remember the distinction.
"So." He looks at me. "You coming or not? Because Mrs. Ford will hear about today either way."
I hate that he's right. I hate that he knows he's right. I hate the casual way he's standing there, hands in his pockets,
watching me lose the internal debate in real time.
"I have my car," I say flatly.
"Follow me."
He walks to his motorcycle — naturally, obviously it's a motorcycle — and swings onto it like he was born there.
I drop into my driver's seat and grip the steering wheel.
First time at his place. The guy nobody visits. The guy whose house is apparently some kind of classified location —
even the rumors only ever said he goes to other people's places. Nobody talks about his. Nobody knows what's
inside.
Mansion? Regular house? Does he have family? Will they look at me like I'm an intruder? Will we fight the entire
time? Will he—
Will he touch me?
I stare at the back of his motorcycle ahead of me and exhale hard through my nose.
Bad boys are bad habits. Everybody knows that. They get under your skin before you realize it's happening, and by
the time you figure it out, the damage is already done.
I just had to remind myself which one of us was supposed to be in charge here.
Tutor, I told myself firmly. You're his tutor. That's it. That's all.
But my hands were shaking slightly on the steering wheel as I pulled out of the Northside parking lot and followed
his taillight into the Atlanta evening.
- Writer
