1. Blesk #2
“No, just…” I don’t know why. The reason keeps dissolving at its edge.
“I just want to be Blesk,” I decide. “Not Bebe or Goldilocks or beautiful or any other term of endearment or mockery.” I fidget with my shirt.
“I just don’t want to give anyone a reason to…
” Ask questions? “To think I’m a talking point. ”
“How does a nickname do that?”
“Like…” I act the part, saying, “Bebe? How did you get that nickname? Is it because your name is Blesk Bellamy and it has two bs and two es, and that’s the intellectual depth of it?”
“How did you get that nickname?”
I swat at him. “Stop it. You know everyone will be saying, ‘No one puts Bebe in the corner’ every time they see me if you say it even once.”
He smiles softly. “Don’t be silly.” Without pausing, he places his hand on the small of my back and steers me gently toward the exit. His mouth is close to the top of my head. “I’ve got you. Don’t I always?”
“Yeah. You do.” Out of habit, I lean back into his touch, even as something inside me whispers I should step away and be independent.
“I’m like a God in this place,” he adds. “No one will talk about you when I’m around.”
“Only a God in this place? You are slipping, but still just as humble as always.”
There are hundreds of students moving around the oval. The sun is blazing in a cloudless sky, which means I can wear my sunglasses and hide my anxiety behind them.
Clever.
A stage at the front is surrounded by small stalls run by students advertising extracurricular activities.
Girls and boys who are obviously not socially impaired, like I am, scurry around me. It’s colourful and noisy. Most of the girls I pass are wearing jeans and sneakers. I smooth my skirt down my front, then stop myself. Then do it again.
I wish there were uniforms.
I wish I didn’t wish there were uniforms.
Erik guides me through the crowd. His touch is warm and certain, and every muscle inside me submits. He is overbearing, domineering, always angling to keep me near; I know this. I move with his hand like I always have, without thinking. He taught me about touch. To trust it. To allow it.
We approach a group of people who turn to acknowledge us, eyes widening as they recognise my brother and narrowing as they assess me.
A man steps forwards and grins. “Hey, dickhead!” He clasps Erik’s hand, their knuckles whitening as they squeeze. His gaze shifts to me, eyebrows lifting. “Is this Blesk?”
Erik pulls me an inch closer to his side. “Yes. This is my little sister, Blesk.”
His little sister. That’s the way I’m always spoken about to others, even by our dad. As if I were his sister first, and everything else second.
Jaxon extends his hand to me. “Hi, B. I’m Jaxon. You don’t mind if I call you B?”
Erik’s jaw tightens. “Her name is—"
“No, no, I don’t,” I cut in, taking Jaxon’s hand and shaking it. His palm is warm, slightly damp. “I may not answer to it, though.”
Laughter ripples through the group. I blink, my smile delayed because was that funny? I meant it literally, but… okay. Funny and social Blesk?
Erik leans into my ear. “So you don’t mind nicknames, just not ones from me?”
My brows furrow. “What?”
“Forget it,” he huffs.
“So this is the famous younger Bellamy.” Jaxon tucks his hands into his pockets, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his built shoulders. His eyes flick down my body, then up. “You never told me your sister was hot, Erik.”
The air changes.
“Jaxon.” Erik’s voice comes out low; each syllable laced with warning. “She’s my little sister. Out of bounds.”
Jaxon raises his palms. “Alright, mate. Settle.” He drops his hands, smirking as he says, “I’m not saying this to piss you off, but—“ His gaze slides down my body, lingering at my hips before crawling back up. “She just got way hotter to me since you said that.”
Ugh.
What a show pony!
I shift my weight, and Erik moves without speaking, his shoulder blocking Jaxon’s view of me. I step to the side, subtly trying to remove myself from my brother’s familiar shadow.
“I’m Pembie.” A blonde with legs that seem to start at her ribcage extends her hand. Her glossy hair catches the sunlight, and her outfit looks curated rather than chosen.
My skirt suddenly feels childish, my wedges clumsy. She glances at the stage, then punches Jaxon’s arm. “Konnor’s up next. Shut up!”
Erik’s breath warms my ear. “Our friend somehow conned his way into a speech.”
“There he is!” Pembie points, bouncing on her toes.
The oval erupts in whistles and hoots. I peek between shoulders just as a man with brown hair strides onto the stage, posture confident, black t-shirt stretching across his chest and biceps and— He’s cute.
He adjusts the microphone.
My fingertips tingle.
“Konnor!” Pembie’s hands blur as she claps, her teeth flashing white between a wide smile.
“Hey, everyone, I’m Konnor Slater.” His voice is deep and confident and somehow weakens my knees. “I'm not going to tell you that you're lucky to be here. Lucky implies chance. You made decisions, some good, some bad, but every one of them is a sentence that got you to this morning, to this page.”
The crowd, which had given him a rowdy welcome, goes quiet as he continues, and we are all engrossed.
He makes people laugh and sigh. He ends with, "The past is fixed.
You can't edit it. But you're here, which means you're still in the draft.
And this, right here, right now, day one, is the best chapter you've started so far.
" He begins to walk off stage, then stops and turns back. "Watch me leave, ladies!"
And he’s a show pony, too…
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding and fight back a wide grin. I know standing here this morning is not the best chapter I've ever started—I know that one—but maybe it’s the second best?
I realise I was staring pretty hard, so I check the crowd. People are exhaling, shifting their weight, girls whispering to each other with flushed cheeks. Good. It wasn’t just a me thing.
Konnor Slater.
Pembie claps so hard I swear she’ll bruise her palms. She moves towards him, ducking through the crowd, claiming her position with a squeal, and I watch Konnor envelop her in his arms. They look like a matching set, both beautiful and confident.
“Don’t fall for his bullshit,” Erik says, eyeing me. “That guy has serious problems.”
“He was really good, though!”
Erik glances at the stage. Then back at me. “Yeah, he knows it, too. He’s full of himself.”
I smirk. “Like you can talk, Mr Centre Stage.”
“God”—he points both thumbs at his chest—“remember?” He laughs, his attention drifting to an attractive girl sitting on the grass.
He winks at her.
Relief floods me because— Well, I hope he has a girlfriend. Someone to make him feel needed and adored. I look at my hemline again, muttering, “I could never stand up there and do that.”
“You sing in public, Blesk.”
“That’s different.” I lift my eyes to him. “I don’t look up. I don’t talk to people. I pretend no one else is even there.”
A triumphant grin spreads across his face. “And on that topic.” He produces a slip of paper from his back pocket. “I got you a job.”
My jaw drops.
I read the note.
Grill Bar O Campus, Tuesdays the other half wants to wrench away and prove I don’t need it. And I decide on neither.
Jax cracks up.
“Blesk has a gig at the Grill,” Erik explains, straightening me without missing a beat. “She’s a musician.”
"What do you play?" Jaxon asks, folding his arms over his chest, accentuating his biceps. Yes, Jaxon, I can see your muscles.
"Just an acoustic guitar.”
As the wind picks up, my skirt shimmies up. Jaxon takes a nice, long, noticeable look at my thighs. I look at Erik, who doesn’t notice Jax’s gaze, too focused on me.
"Can't wait to see you up there," Jaxon says through a light smirk and another obvious leer at my upper thighs.
Ugh. I refuse to acknowledge his double entendre and just say, "Thanks."
"Don't be humble, Blesk,” Erik says. “She doesn’t just play guitar. She writes her own stuff and sings. She's unreal. But…” He stares at me. I go still. “If you don’t want to,” he continues, “I can call Marcus right now and cancel the whole thing. We can stay in.”
Always here to save me. Always here to help me over edges I’m not ready to jump from. Stay in? No.
“Don’t,” I say, then immediately backtrack. “I mean—I’ll do it.” I present what I hope is my most convincing smile while my heart hammers.
He holds my gaze a moment before he nods. “Alright.”
After we collect my suitcase and guitar from administration, we make our way to my dorm.
Eeee.
I peer down at my unimpressively small baggage. Only essentials. I don’t really do clutter. Or trinkets. Or posters. My life has been more… Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, fighting for her life than Joey sneaking through Dawson’s window.