No Going Back.
π΄ππππ’ (ππππ, πΈ'ππ ππππ πππππ)
π³πππ: πππ. πΉπππ’ π·π½, πΈπΆπΈπΊ
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πΈ'ππ ππππ πππππ ππ ππππ ππ πππππ πππ. πππ ππππππ ππππ ππππ ππππππππ ππ ππ ππππππππππ’ ππ ππ ππππππππ. ππππ’ ππππ'π ππ πππ. πΈπ π π πππ'π πππππππ ππ πππ ππππ ππππ ππππ’ πππππ ππ ππ ππ’ ππππ ππ’ ππππ, π πππ ππ πππππππ, ππππ’ πππππ ππ ππ’ ππππππ’.
π±ππ ππ π πππ πππππ ππ ππ’ ππππππ’ πππππ. π½ππ πππππ π πππ ππ πππ ππ ππ. πΈ πππππ πππππ πππ, ππ πππ ππππ πΈ'ππ ππππ ππππ, πππ ππ πππππ πππππππ ππ π πππππ ππππ ππππ. π³ππ'π ππππππ ππππ.
πΉπππππ π»π πΌπππ: πππππππππ ππ π ππππ ππππ πππππππ. π·ππ ππππππ? π±ππππ π πππππ πππππππ.
βStacy Rose Florenceββ the sudden voice made her jump and nearly fall from her seat, as she turned to glare at his figure carelessly leaning on the pole in her tent ββclassified as clumsy by day; trash-talker by night.β
She snapped her computer shut and whirled back around. βWhat are you doing here?β It was late, and he had never bothered to visit her before, not that she minded. He could disappear forever and only a distant part of herβthe girl that used to be friends with himβwould care.
βDonβt flatter yourself, Staceββ
βDonβt call me that,β she snapped. He didnβt deserve to call her that nickname. That nickname was for those two kids long ago, that believed they would be together forever; protect one another. And they died long ago.
His jaw ticked. The shadows from inside the tent made him appear dangerous in a way. Jethro tucked his hands in his pockets and stalked closer. His jetblack hair was gelled back, although pieces fell infront of his face, curling slightly at the end infront of his golden eyes. They gleamed like fireflies in the night.
Everything about him was daunting, down to his black pants, to the dark, leather vest he wore and the gun and knife secured on his belt.
He smiled slightly. She concluded he mustβve seen her staring. βHave it your way,β was all he lead with. βLocust is waiting for you. Youβre supposed to train with him today.β
_Locust_. The gang leader. She hadnβt gotten but a glimpse of him the whole time sheβd been with the group. The name made the little hairs at the name of her neck prickle.
βItβs the middle of the night.β She checked her watchβ_midnight_.
βIβll be sure to pass on the message.β Jethro began to walk out.
She watched him slowly stalk towards the cloth door to the outside, stared at the muscles pulsing in his arms and the tattoos defining them. She didnβt deserve to be treated this way. Her breathe was visible in the coldness of night. βWait!β
He paused and turned his head. Stacy watched him for a moment. The sharpness of his jaw, and the inky designs that traveled up his neck. The cut on his left brow. He felt nothing for her.
_This canβt be you, _she thought. But she immediately stopped herself, because even if this hadnβt been him _before_, this was how he was _now_. __
__
βIβm going,β she finally said.
As the girl walked towards the exit, she pulled her brown, highlighted hair into a messy bun. Her brown eyes stopped on Jethro as he put his arm out and pulled aside the cloth door. βBe careful out there,β he said. For a moment she believed he meant it. But that was before she pushed past him, into the biting cold night, leaving him behind.
