Page 1 of Blake

Chapter one

BLAKE, AGED 18

Blake crouched under the bridge, spray paint can in hand. His arm moved in swift, angry strokes, leaving jagged letters in neon blue against the gray concrete.

The fumes mingled with the damp, musty air, creating a haze that matched his chaotic thoughts. It had been two months since his parents were shot. An innocent stroll in the park, caught in a gang's crossfire. With that one spray of bullets, Blake’s world had shattered.

He shook the can harder, trying to drown out the memory with the hiss of paint. As he worked, a movement caught his eye.

He turned and saw a girl huddled under the bridge, clutching a pink stuffed toy shaped like a cat. She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Her red hair blazed defiantly against the drab background, and freckles dotted her tear-streaked face.

It was hard to tell how old she was. Maybe thirteen? Older than his little sister, at least. Poor Chloe was just a kid. Way too young to have lost her parents. Blake’s older brother, Nash, was her legal guardian now. As the second oldest, Blake was meantto look after her too, but he was so damn angry he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

As he looked at this redheaded girl, though, he felt a protective spark in him that surprised him. His chest tightened as he recognized the hollow look in her eyes—the same one he saw in the mirror every day. This girl was suffering. He was sure of it. It wasn’t fucking fair. She was too young, too sweet-looking, to have so much on her shoulders.

Blake pushed his shaggy dark hair out of his eyes, revealing a piercing blue gaze that was too old for his eighteen years. Just as he was about to approach her to check if she was alright, three boys, aged around fifteen, appeared out of nowhere.

Instantly, they spotted her and circled her like predators.

“Hey, ginger freak! What's with the stupid toy?” one of them jeered, yanking at the cat plushie.

“Yeah, too old for that, aren't you?” another chimed in, smirking cruelly.

The third boy pulled at her hair, making her wince. “Damn, look at those freckles. Do you have them everywhere? Like, even on your butt?”

The boys laughed. “You’d be ugly even without the freckles, girl. You’re, like, one of those ‘Before’ pictures on a plastic surgeon’s website.”

Blake’s muscles tensed. He moved without thinking, his body responding to years of street fights. He dropped the spray can and stepped forward, his voice low and menacing. His palms grew sweaty as he clenched his fists, heart racing. “Leave. Her. Alone.”

The boys turned to face him, sneers faltering as they took in his size and the determined set of his jaw.

“What’s it to you?” one of them spat. “You wanna fuck her freckled pussy?”

Blake swallowed hard. He tugged his oversized hoodie tighter around his lean frame, feeling exposed despite the baggy clothing. It was three against one, and he noticed the glint of a knife in one of their hands. But the sight of the girl, so scared and vulnerable, propelled him forward.

“I want to stop an innocent person getting hurt,” he said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline. “Walk away. Now.”

The boys hesitated, then the one with the knife lunged.

Blake sidestepped, grabbed the boy's wrist, and twisted. The knife clattered to the ground. Blake launched his fist forward, catching the punk in the stomach. The force of the blow sent him sprawling.

“I’ll fucking kill you if I have to,” he growled, barely able to recognize the deeply primal voice coming out of him.

The other two shared a quick, anxious glance, before turning tale and running.

Blake kicked the knife, sending it spinning into the nearby river, then turned to the girl. She was still clutching the stuffed cat, her wide eyes a mix of fear and awe.

“Hey,” he said gently, kneeling down to her level. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled Butterfinger bar. “Take this. It’s okay to hold onto things that make you feel safe.”

She hesitated, then took the candy bar with trembling hands. The sunlight caught her copper hair, making it glow like embers.

Blake gave a soft smile. “Those things they were saying about you . . . they were, uh, they were wrong.” He had sounded so confident a minute ago. Why was he getting tongue tied now? "You're . . . I mean, your freckles are . . . they're like stars, you know? Beautiful. Don't let anyone tell you different." He felt his face heat up, surprised by his own awkwardness.

For a moment, their eyes met, and he saw a flicker of hope in her gaze. Then she looked away, her face flushing. She stoodquickly, clutching the toy and candy bar, and ran off without a word.

Blake sighed. He hoped that in some small way, he had made a difference. He couldn't shake the image of her red hair and freckled face, or the way she looked at him like he was a hero.

As he walked away from the bridge, he glanced at his unfinished graffiti and the abandoned spray can lying near it. For the first time in months, he felt an urge to create something beautiful instead of destroying it. And for the first time in months, he felt a spark of something besides anger. Something like purpose.

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