Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
FRANCESCA
By the time I get myself ready on Monday morning, four cups of coffee slosh around in my stomach, my equivalent of Dutch courage.
I miss my phone.
Mrs Singh—the bar owner—has pinned a notice above the roster board where everyone will see it, but if it was stolen like I suspect, it’s not going to be found.
After getting my pay packet, I ordered a replacement SIM card, so I’ll retain my number and remaining credit. Next week, I should have enough to buy a cheap supermarket phone—just in time for the appointment.
If I missed a call or text from Richard’s contact, I’d be devastated.
The closer I come to walking out the door, the more my feet drag. Kincaid’s laundered shirt is in my bag, and I get breathless at the thought of returning it, knowing he saw me wear it on Friday.
The internal battle rages until I’m in the car and driving, radio volume cranked to the max, too loud to think.
“Nothing to it,” I say while I turn at the gate, park, get out, lock the door, step onto the pathway. “You’ve done this a hundred times before.”
Still whispering reassurances, I walk inside. The door to the bathroom slams open when I’m passing, startling me, and a girl with red in her cheeks and murder in her eyes storms out, hands fisted at her sides.
I follow her progress along the corridor with a mix of empathy and gentle amusement.
Girl, same.
I’m nearly at my locker when Kincaid appears at the opposite end of the hall, jolting me. His eyes meet mine, the air between us charged.
The safety of my car beckons. I almost give into the impulse and run… then straighten my spine, lift my chin, and continue walking forwards, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He strides to intercept me at my locker. “Hey, Freckles. We’ve got another game on Wednesday if you want to spy on the players. Get there early and I’ll hide you in my locker.”
He pulls me into a playful headlock, ruffling my hair while I try, unsuccessfully, to bat him away. Unsure what’s going on or why he’s happy.
“Get off me!”
“Okay, okay. No need to shout.” He backs up a few steps, frowning as he reaches into his pocket. “I bought you a present—”
I open my locker to block his face, switching out my books while I ignore him. When I close it and spin the dial, the grin is gone.
“That’s rude, Francesca.”
“My name is Chess.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of nickname is Chess?”
A thousand times better than Fran or Frannie?
I adopt his mocking tone. “What kind of nickname is King?”
“The kind the team gave me the first time I trounced the opposition pretty much single-handed. What’s your excuse?”
“I don’t know. My mother hated me?”
He angles his head, eyes narrowing, then breaks into such a gorgeously wide smile that something painful twangs in my chest. He could be a model, standing twelve metres tall on an upright billboard. With those good looks, Kincaid could sell anybody, anything, and it’s not fair.
I shouldn’t be attracted to someone who scares me.
I’m not my mum.
I force myself to walk away, eyes fixed on the floor, clutching a ring binder to my chest like armour. Four steps in, his fingertips clamp hold of my shoulder, roughly dragging me backward.
“Why don’t we try that again?” His eyes meet mine, the colour darkening as he leans closer. He reaches into his jacket pocket again, and I flinch, but he withdraws a rectangular box and offers it to me.
It’s a brand-new smartphone.
My initial delight turns into a shiver of suspicion. “What’s this for?”
“A present. Even before it was cracked, yours looked like it was fished out of a bargain bin at The Warehouse. Thought you might appreciate the upgrade.”
The explanation sounds reasonable. Far more plausible than my initial thought that he was the one behind my stolen phone. I want to accept the gift, but I’m self-aware enough to know it has a lot more to do with missing my device than because he seems trustworthy.
If anything, the opposite is true.
Shaking my head, I push it back to him, trying not to think about how—as a recent model in its original packaging—I could pawn it and buy a cheaper phone, pocketing the difference. “Thanks, but I don’t want a gift from you.”
A frown creases his forehead. “It’s more of an apology than a present. Your phone screen got cracked.”
“A cracked screen.” Despite myself, I burst out laughing. “That’s what you’re apologising for?”
“What else needs an apology, Francesca? Your bruised throat and knees?”
His voice is loud enough that a few pupils near us turn, a pair of girls pulling faces at each other, giggling.
My cheeks burn.
I can’t believe he said that out loud.
“Those blushes really bring out your freckles. You should walk around embarrassed all day long. And if you were worried”—he drops his voice—“I deleted every copy of the video. No one’s seen it outside of us, Ezra, and Alice.”
Tears well in my eyes, genuine gratitude leaving me tongue-tied. It takes ages before I can whisper, “Thank you.”
His eyes crinkle, sparkling with warmth. “Since you’re already indebted to me, another gift won’t matter.”
This time, when he hands over the phone, I take it.
“I also dropped by the office and put a credit on your uniform account. Enough to get a few new blouses.”
“That’s very kind of—”
“Why aren’t you wearing my shirt today? The whole point of giving you my number was to show everyone who you belong to.”
Belong to?
Accepting his gift suddenly seems not just stupid but dangerous. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I—”
Aidan suddenly appears at my elbow, looking puzzled. “Hey, King. Why’re you bothering my friend?”
Kincaid barely acknowledges his teammate. “Come sit with me at lunch today. I’ll save you a spot at the team table.”
I cast an imploring glance at Aidan, and he springs to the rescue. “Nothing personal, but Chess and I always eat lunch together.”
“And now you’re part of the team, so you can sit with us as well.” Kincaid bumps my elbow with his knuckle. “I’ll meet you outside English. Don’t keep me waiting.”
My face goes numb.
We’re only share one lesson. How does he know my entire class schedule?
But he’s already gone, sauntering along the hallway, loudly greeting a bunch of his friends. I have no clue what his game is. The only thing I know is he ran rings around me the entire conversation.
Aidan frowns after him, a calculating edge to his gaze. Then he blinks, and it disappears, reverting to his standard openness. “Oh, you are definitely telling me what that’s about. Is he the reason you bunked off school last week?”
“I was sick and there’s nothing to tell. He was an arsehole to me Wednesday and bought me this in apology.” I turn the phone over to read the back of the box, noticing the seal is broken. “Apparently, my old phone wasn’t up to scratch.” Then I give the truer answer, “I don’t know.”
“King has never given a shit about how his actions impact on others, but okay. Keep your secrets.” He gives me an elbow nudge. “You would tell me if you’re in trouble though, right? You know I’d always help. I could get him where it hurts in an illegal tackle.”
“And get kicked off your dream team before selector season gets started in earnest?” I wrinkle my nose. “It’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”
But when I’m sitting in homeroom, Kincaid’s behaviour seems more ominous. Aidan knows him better and if he thought the gift is unusual, it carries more weight. Add the whole ‘belong to me’ weirdness and I’m playing with fire.
Best to be upfront now—no matter how uncomfortable—than discover a month down the track I’m tied to him, unable to break free.
When the bell goes, I wrap the new phone in his rugby shirt and march to his homeroom class, running to catch him in the corridor.
“Are you lost, Francesca?” he teases. “Your calculus lesson is in the other direction.”
Oh, yes.
This needs to be nipped in the bud.
“Thanks for deleting the video,” I say, thrusting the shirt and phone at him, holding them steady when he doesn’t immediately take them. “And thanks for loaning me your jersey but I don’t need it or the phone.”
He frowns, still not taking them, and my heart beats faster. “You don’t have to—”
“It got me out of a bind, but I’m not even that much of a rugby fan,” I lie. “I only wore it Friday because I was down a top. Now you’ve replaced my blouse, there’s no reason to keep it.”
Kincaid slowly straightens and takes them both from my hands. “A jersey and a phone. These are what you’re returning?”
It mimics my earlier question closely enough I assume he’s either mocking me or calling me a hypocrite for keeping the money.
Well, let him think that. I maintain eye contact, backing up a step.
“What did I—” He bites down on the question, expression confused, even hurt, and my shoulders shrink with guilt.
But I know his type.
I remember his reaction to being called psycho, proving it’s exactly what he is.
The rest is a mask he wears to look human.
The same type of mask my stepfather wore at every neighbourhood barbeque, every bring-your-family-to-work function, every day when he dropped me at the gate outside school. Pretending to be a proud stepparent in public, returning to a sadistic monster behind closed doors.
It’s not real.
Before he can say or do anything more, I turn and hurry to my class, already lighter.