Part 1 (2/2)

She doesn't really know me, she only thinks she does. It's like that with her for everything. She's got this confidence that I adore, and a stubborn pride in her capacity to judge people correctly.

This girl might be right about many things, but she's not right about me.

She's a teacher's pet, a goody-two-shoes, and she thinks that grades are the only thing in this world that matter. A stereotype... almost.

The difference is she's got a drive I rarely see in others, even the opponents I fight in the cage, or wrestle with on the mat. There's a fire in her, a spring of self-a.s.suredness.

The thing is, these days straight A's and a degree-with-honors won't get you very far. Better to have some skills, something tangible.

But my skills are not the sort she rates. Well, I do have one skill she'd no doubt enjoy... she just hasn't let herself yet.

I'm a fighter: I can grapple with anybody, take a striker down to the mat and force him to submit in ten seconds flat.

I can take a hard hit a dozen times, and still come back for more. Fighting's never about what you can dish, it's always about what you can take.

I've been training the last eight years of my life. I'm going to be a world champion. I'm already booked for an amateur tourney with a prize-pot of a quarter of a mil'.

I intend to walk away with it.

After that, it's working my way into the pros. As with any sport, you got to start at the bottom, pay your dues, and I'll pay 'em gladly.

After all, not everybody gets a chance to do what they love for a living.

”What are you looking at, Chance?”

I turn and see a girl. I struggle to remember her. She looks familiar, if in a samey sort of away. After a while, they all blend together.

It's the facial expressions, I think. Cliques of girls all end up emoting in the same way. It's how they hold their lips, flash their eyes, smirk, or play coy. It's how they speak, enunciate, even what they say.

Her skirt ends just below the curve of her a.s.s, and she's got the top two b.u.t.tons of her uniform blouse undone. I can see her lace bra beneath.

Dark eyeliner rings her eyes, and she's pouting her lips at me, swaying on the spot, hands on her hips. In a bag she's carrying, I can see her crumpled up graduation gown, wrapped around the square academic cap.

Then it comes to me. Then I remember her name.

”Why do you care, Nicky?” I say. I don't bother meeting her eyes.

”I'm Louise.” She sounds offended.

”Oh, really?”

”G.o.d, you're a p.r.i.c.k,” she hisses. She's got her claws out now. She's got her back arched and her hair is all standing up on end. Her tail has gone all bushy.

I just walk away. I don't try to remember how I know her, but I've got this distant memory. Maybe we fooled around once in my car, couple of years ago now. Truth be told, the memory escapes me. It doesn't matter, anyway.

”Chance!” she calls, jogging up to my side. ”I saw your fight last week.”

”Yeah?” I say, still walking. She tugs at my arm, but I just level a blank look at her.

She starts to say something, but all that comes out of her mouth is a weird, sticky sound. So I shrug and keep walking, pulling my cigarette down right to the filter before flicking the b.u.t.t.

There's someone else who has my attention. Ca.s.sie Shannon, little-miss-smart, little-miss-perfect.

Every day I catch girls looking at me, either directly, or trying to hide it. But Ca.s.sie? She did her best to never look at me. She did her best to ignore my existence altogether, and whenever our eyes did meet, she looked at me with a kind of hostility I never get from girls.

Most just want to f.u.c.k me... no, they want me to f.u.c.k them. They pander to me, give me what they think I want so I'll give them what they want.

For some, it's simply bragging-rights, and ain't nothing wrong with that. For others, they dream of changing me, taming me.

Some just know a good lay when they see one.

But Ca.s.sie. Now there's something interesting. There's something different.

She grimaced every time I swore in cla.s.s. She groaned every time I called our teacher by her first name, Melissa, who would let me off the hook for turning up late no matter how many times I did so.

Ca.s.sie had conniptions. She rolled her eyes every time Melissa leaned over the table and pushed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s together just as I walked into the room.

”You're late, Chance,” our cla.s.s teacher would say, a distinct smoothness to her voice. Her gla.s.ses would be down low on her nose, and we'd always exchange a grin.

G.o.d, Melissa Hatcher was a riot. She'd have been good fun, too, if my eyes weren't set on somebody else.

I don't blame Ca.s.sie for not liking it. This was a teacher being very inappropriate.

Wouldn't be the first time that's happened around me.

By chance, Ca.s.sie flicks her head over her shoulder, and her eyes meet mine. Maybe people got a sixth sense like that, to tell when someone's watching them.

Our eyes lock for a second, and then she looks away. I feel a tingle of residual energy. I feel... more alive. My throat is tighter. My pants are tighter.

She feels something, too. Her gait has changed. Her body language has changed.

I do things to her that she doesn't like, or maybe she just doesn't understand.

I can see it all the way from over here.

She sits down at the bus stop, and at the last moment turns her head. Her eyes are pulled back to mine like a magnet.

I smirk at her, but she just folds her arms and looks cross.

Chapter Two.