You Don't Know My Name (The Black Angel Chronicles #1)(6)
It’s uniform day for the Junior ROTC and Luke looks extra sharp in his dark pants and tan button-down shirt, decorated with colorful medals, arc pins, and accolades. Six foot three with hair the color of summer hay and defined cheekbones, Luke always has girls swiveling in their seats or craning their necks to stare, but he looks especially stunning in uniform. It’s not just the way the uniform makes him look but how it makes him feel. He stands a little taller, walks a beat faster, and smiles a little wider in that uniform.
I raise my right hand to my forehead and give Luke a tiny salute. His crooked smile cracks wide, unmasking a pair of dimples so charming, even if you were mad at him, one smile would make you forget why. We hold each other’s stare for a moment before he steps out of the lunch line and heads for our table.
“Hi, girls,” Luke says, sliding into the seat next to me. He purposefully bumps his shoulder into mine, the right corner of his lip rising into a sideways smile. “Hey, Mac.”
Luke is the only one I let call me Mac.
“Hey, soldier,” I reply, my voice shyer than I expected it to be. Luke rests his strong arms on the table next to mine. Our skin is separated by my thin cardigan, but even the slightest touch from him manages to make my body buzz. Harper eyes the two of us and from the slow rising smile on her face, I know my olive skin is turning crimson.
“Luke, help us,” Harper says, pulling her wavy hair into a messy bun. “Reagan is refusing to go to Mark Ricardi’s party.”
“What?!” Malika practically screams then pouts. She loves a good and rowdy Mark Ricardi party.
“Oh, come on, Mac,” Luke says, his smile still lopsided but wider, exposing his white, perfectly straight teeth. Orthodontists make a good living in this town. “Mark’s parties are always epic.”
“Yes. Epic disasters,” I rebuff but can’t help but match his grin. It’s annoyingly contagious.
“How about this?” Luke negotiates. “We go, sit in the corner, and watch the disasters unfold together.”
Luke and I have done that before. Sat shoulder to shoulder at parties, laughing as we make up the dialogue between fighting couples and drunk lacrosse girls. My stomach, even my face hurts from three-hour giggle sessions with him.
“Pleaaassseeeee,” Malika begs, her eyes closed and hands collapsed together in painful prayer.
“Okay, okay,” I say, throwing my hands into the air in defeat. The three of them cheer in unison and exchange a round of high fives.
“I better eat if I want to make it to lab on time,” Luke says, standing up from his seat and resting his hand on my shoulder. “See you in a bit.”
Luke’s fingertips graze against my shoulder blades as he turns on the heel of his freshly polished JROTC boot and walks toward the lunch line.
The rush that takes over my body every time I’m near Luke drains from my blood and as he disappears from my sight, my sharp senses return. Every muscle in my body tightens as I turn to my left and lock eyes with a man whose stare is so penetrating, I can feel it from hundreds of feet away. He’s tall and strong, his eyes intense and dark, dressed in a janitor’s navy-blue uniform. But I’ve never seen him before. He holds my stare for a moment, then looks away. He fumbles with the garbage bag in his hands, struggling to open it up. I watch as he tears at the black plastic, gets frustrated, and throws it to the ground. As he looks back up at me, a hundred pins prick my spine. My eyes follow him as he spins around and plows his way toward the dining hall door, knocking into a student with so much force, her face winces in pain. I wait for him to stop or look back or apologize. But he doesn’t. He puts his head down and keeps going.
TWO
“Reagan, what’s wrong?” Mal says and gently touches the top of my hand, making my body flinch. I finally take my eyes off the door and look down at her. I hadn’t even realized I’d stood up.
“Nothing,” I say and shake my head. “I just … I forgot my lab homework in my locker. Harper, I’ll see you in AP bio.”
Before they can say another word, I grab my messenger bag off the ground and walk quickly toward the exit sign that hangs beneath two sets of double doors. I have to stop myself from running. I don’t want to freak everybody out.
I push open the door and get sucked into a sea of underclassmen heading to their next class. Where did he go? My neck cranes as I search both ends of the hallway, catching the top of his dark hair as he takes a sharp left down one of the main halls.
My training kicks in and I break out into a slow jog. I bump shoulders with a younger girl. “Sorry,” I yell out without stopping. I don’t want to lose him. I rub my hand on the outside pocket of my messenger bag and feel the outline of my “calculator.” The Black Angels weaponry team designed and built it just for me. A push of a button activates a secret compartment and out slides a serrated knife. I almost forgot it today. I walked out to my car without it, debated just leaving it at home, but turned around and went back inside. My parents’ constant badgering to always be armed no longer seems like one of their annoying ticks. It’s for moments just like this; when every bone in my body feels like it’s splintering and my mind is screaming.
I push past underclassmen and eventually they start to get out of my way. I reach the hallway where he turned. His dark, long hair and large frame give him away in this crowd of freshmen and sophomores. Our eyes lock and his face twists into a scowl. Before I can take another step, he pulls open the door to the gymnasium and slips inside. I jog down the hallway, my heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing through my body. I slip my hand into the pocket of my bag just enough to feel the top of my calculator with my fingertips. I reach the door, pull on the metal handle, and step inside, the door slamming shut behind me with a loud, metallic clang.