Page 47 of The Pawn

"You look different." He paces over towards me and looks me up and down. "Did you finally get that makeover Holly said you so desperately needed? What were the words she used—'sad, pathetic little Brenna' or something like that?"

I bristle a little at his words, then remind myself that he's on the other side of this thing with me and Cole. "Holly wouldn't say shit like that. It goes against her whole ethos."

Tanner shrugs. "Whatever you wanna believe." Reaching out, he snags the end of my newly blonde hair, running it through his fingers. "Blonde seems a little predictable, if you ask me. I thought you didn't go with the crowd."

Having his fingers so close to my face, touching my hair, sends warmth pooling between my thighs. I can see it in his hazel eyes: he's curious about me now. He wants me in a way he didn't before.

"The hair stylist said blonde suits my coloring." Biting my lower lip, I take a small step towards him, until our bodies are separated by just a few inches of space. I feel reckless and wild, like I'm playing with fire—and I know he won't be the only one to get burned. "Are you stuck on redheads or something?"

"Nah." He drops my hair. "Georgia and I are on the rocks again."

"Oh?" I can't help it: my pulse surges. "Why's that?"

"She fucked some other guy after the rock climbing trip." He rolls his eyes. "That part I wouldn't mind so much, but she only did it because I told her I couldn't meet her that night. Apparently, she thought I was playing games, so she played some too, just to make me jealous."

The evening of the rock climbing trip. So shewasflirting with those other guys that day.

Tanner says, "I prefer your kind of games, Fire Girl. Fucking around on me was just predictable of Georgia—it's what she always does when she wants attention. She'd never have the creativity to burn me with a candle." He leans down towards me, close enough that I can see every color in his hazel eyes. "I think when you play, you play for maximum pain. Isn't that right?"

I can't tell if he's talking about what I did to Cole or not. But now is a great time for me to make my move and show my cards.

"Why don't I show you how I play this weekend, at the ice cream social. You and me."

"Are you asking me on a date, Fire Girl?"

"What if I am?" I can feel my pulse racing, heat suffusing my cheeks. "Would that be so bad?"

"For you, maybe." Drawing back, Tanner looks me up and down. "Sure, let's do it. I want to see what you're made of."

And I want to bring him down.

* * *

It's my first Visual Arts class with Cole since the spiders incident, and I'm anticipating something from him. So I carefully put my newly dyed hair in a bun and pull a soft woolen cap over it—while I doubt he'll play the same prank on me as last time, it doesn't hurt to be safe.

Georgia Johnson paid top dollar for this new hair of mine, after all.

I make it to class before him and select a stool in the middle of the room. That way I'll be where anyone can see it if he does something to me—not that I trust the other students to protect me. My spot puts me near a still life station with dried flowers and a few macabre items on it, like a half-eaten pear and a few fake spiders. Rainbow told us that this class we'd be taking some inspiration from the Danish and Flemish still life paintings of the 17th and 18th centuries, which were often political and even a little gruesome in what they depicted.

The instant Cole enters the tent, I know. I can feel his eyes on me, as if there's some invisible tether between us, connecting the two of us inexorably.

He doesn't stop by my stool, though. No doubt he wants me to anticipate his revenge, even drive myself crazy thinking about it. But I won't let him distract me, and I won't think too long about what he might do. This is my best class at Coleridge so far, and the last thing I need is to fall behind here when I can barely figure out the rest of my subjects.

Soon we're working on the pieces, and I fall into that same familiar head space where everything is calm and easy, like the still water of a small lake. This time we're doing strictly pencil and charcoal. Rainbow has told us to make our blacks as dark as possible, our lights as light as possible, and cover as many ranges of value in between. That means paying attention to which pencil I'm using, how dark and soft the lead is.

It's easy to darken the shadows of this piece. There are spider legs and dead petals. The dried flowers are propped up on a few old books with their titles worn down from time. It's the kind of piece that draws your eye if done correctly, and I intend to take my time.

When break is called in the middle of class, I get up to stretch my legs but don't walk too far from my easel. There's no way I'm letting Cole destroy this piece of art—not this time around. Rainbow gave me an easy A for my first assignment because she'd seen my work before it was destroyed, but this time we're working on this same still life across a few classes, and I can't let him put me back a whole day.

But he doesn't walk close to my easel, and doesn't grab the dirty water bucket from the sink. That means he must be up to something else. I keep an eye on him as much as I can, trying to subtly use my peripheral vision. I know there's no way he's going to just let the spiders go, and I don't think he's sent one of his boys to take care of me this time—this is personal to him now. He'll come for me himself.

I wait for him to tip his hand, but all he does it stretch and go over to the cubbies to pull a snack bar out of his bag. He doesn't even really look at me. Frowning, I turn back to my easel as the break ends, wondering what he's up to.

I get my answer at the end of class. We all keep our book bags and laptops in cubbies at the entrance to the tent so they don't get anything spilled on them or have to be set on the ground. As I grab my bag, I feel the prickle of Cole's gaze on me, and sense that something's up.

My heart races at the thought that he might've done something to my laptop. I can't afford another one, and it was Silas's computer besides all that. If he poured ink on it, I'll be ruined—I don't have a way to replace it, and my stipend will barely cover buying print books from the bookstore.

So as I open up the bag and reach inside, my movements are fast and careless. I run my fingers along the edge of the laptop, feeling for the bottom to lift it out—and then something moves against my hand.

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