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“No. No, I don’t,” I lie.Yes, yes I do, and it feels weird. Good weird in the case of Ford, and strange, I’ve-no-idea-what-to-make-of-it-because-I-hate-Camden-I-really-fucking-do, in the case of the notorious HH gang leader.
“See? Competition,” he insists.
“Look, we’re not together, you and me. We shared a kiss ages ago, that’s it.” I wince at how harsh that sounds.
He nods tightly and stares at me as though he wants to counter that statement with something more serious, instead he grins. “It was a fucking great kiss though. Want to share another?”
“Do you ever let up?” I ask, a whole lot frustrated and a little flattered. Plus, I kind ofwouldlike to share another kiss too, but he really doesn’t need to know that.
“When it comes to you, Asia, never.”
With that, he returns to his own sketch and remains quiet for the rest of the lesson.
* * *
After lunchI head out to the sports field and the outhouse beyond. When I arrive, Ford is already working out. He’s skipping, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and trainers. I slip inside the room quietly and stare at him, enjoying the view of the tight muscles across his back and arms as he moves. He’s light on his feet and fast, the rope whizzing beneath his feet and over his head quicker than I can see. I’m pretty sure he knows I’m here, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing.
Is he putting on a show for me right now? Was Sonny correct about Ford’s interest in me or are we both getting all the wrong signals? Ford doesn’t give much away, and he’s still refused to open up in Mr Burnside’s group therapy sessions when the rest of us have conceded and shared a little. I doubt Ford will ever get enough credits to escape Oceanside. He barely even tries. I’m not sure he really gives a damn about that though. Something tells me that this place is just a stop gap within a life he won’t give up. Being here is meant to change us. Mr Carmichael’s vision is to get us all to see the error of our ways and be a useful part of society. Which is already kind of insulting, Iamuseful.
Ford is just doing his time. Playing the game to a certain extent by following the rules he wants to follow, but ultimately I get the distinct impression none of this really matters. I would, however, like to know what does. He’s the perfect definition of a dark horse; mysterious, aloof, intriguing, wild, but completely untouchable.
Eventually, after another five minutes of perving, I cough. “Hey,” I say, not quite able to get out much more than this feeble greeting.
After another minute, he drops the rope and turns to face me. Sweat slides down his face and falls from his chin. For some reason I expected him to be covered in tattoos, but apart from a small one on his right collarbone that says‘Bad Boy’there aren’t any. Unless of course you count the countless white scars scattered across his chest. They’re round, some of them are puckered, some smooth, all of them suspicious. I hold my breath.
He drops his gaze from me to his chest, his finger tracing across one of the nastier looking scars just beneath his rib cage. “Cigarette burns courtesy of my parents,” he says, without a trace of emotion in his eyes.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, not sure what else to say but suddenly feeling the urge to pull him into my arms.
“What for? You didn’t do it,” he counters, picking up a hand towel hanging from a hook on the wall. He wipes his face, then hangs it back up.
“I’m sorry anyway,” I whisper. He catches my gaze, his face impassive. His grey-green eyes void of emotion. He seems to make a decision though and swipes a hand through his sweaty hair before laying himself bare.
“My mum was abusive, my father too, though to a lesser degree. I’ve lived in care since I was ten. Ten years too late, if you ask me. I don’t fit in anywhere. I’m distant, abrasive, cold. I don’t like to talk about my past. I don’t like to talk about my feelings. Instead, I train, and I fight. I’m here because I like to fight too much, not because I get taken over by the rage like Sonny and lose my mind, but because fightingfocusesit. My crime…? I’m an illegal ring fighter. I’m notorious in the underground fight clubs in London.GrimFight Club is my home away from home. I fought Camden there once before and won. That’s why he dislikes me so much. That’s why our crews are at war now because he knows I’m a threat. That’s about it,” he reels off leaving me gasping.
“Damn,” I say. Talk about information overload. I mean, he’s just revealed a shitload about himself and he’s not even blinked. There’s no emotion. None. The guy’s a machine. Plus, what the fuck is Grim fight club? My gaze flickers to the ‘Bad Boy’ tattoo. It’s not particularly professional looking, just two words etched into his skin. “Is that what you are?” I ask, motioning towards it.
“That’s what I’m told. That’s what my parents called me every damn day for ten years. It’s a reminder they sought fit to scar me with.” He shrugs. No emotion. Nothing.
Fuuuckkk. “I’m…”
“Don’t. No pity.”
“Okay, no pity.” God only knows I understand his need for that even when I can’t understand the lack of emotion.
“Now you,” he states, pointing a finger in my direction.
“What?”
“You know what. I can’t help you be a better fighter if you don’t lay it on the line for me. Thatiswhy you’re here, right? I need to know where the rage comes from so I can help you to hone it into a useful weapon. Talk.”
“You’re kidding me, right? You’re not Mr Burnside and this ain’t no therapy session.”
“Not kidding, not in the slightest. Talk, Asia.”
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head and backing up against the door. I reach for the handle, my gut twisting with anxiety. I can’t switch off the emotion like he can. I can’t reel off my past hurt as easily and emotionless as he just did. There are some things I’m just not willing to share, and despite the little snippets about my life that I’ve given up in Mr Burnside’s therapy sessions, they’re nothing compared to what I’ve kept hidden.Nothing.
“Then I can’t help you,” he says flatly.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t help you,” he rephrases.
“Then I’m out,” I say, turning my back on him and reaching for the door. I’m running. Again. What the fuck is it with this place? I don’t run ever, and yet I find myself doing it once more.
