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I don’t respond, we both know that whilst I can promise him I’ll be careful, I sure as fuck can’t promise him I’ll be safe. Not with Camden. Especially not with him.
* * *
“Why arewe going to the Tower now?” I ask Camden for the third time as we traverse through the woods beyond the carpark behind the annex building. Like both times before he ignores me. When we get to the edge of the woods and I start trudging across the field in the direction of the Tower, Camden grabs my wrist.
“Not there,” he snaps, tugging me along behind him. When I fall into step beside him, he loosens his hold but doesn’t let go. My skin burns under his touch.
“Won’t Bobby send out a search party for us or something? We left before curfew. You want to get us expelled? Is that the big plan?”
“Bobby won’t be doing jack shit apart from cleaning up your room.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I fucking told him to.”
“He’s firmly in your pocket then?” I ask, wondering what Camden has over him, wondering why he’d even bother to make the fat bastard do anything for me.
“Not mine, no…”
“Then whose?”
“Stop asking questions, Asia, and keep up.”
After that, Camden refuses to answer anything else I throw at him, practically ignoring my existence. If he weren’t holding onto my wrist so tightly I would’ve thought him oblivious to my presence.
After another thirty minutes we end up walking down a steep path onto a section of beach that is little more than a cove with sheer rock surrounding us. The tide is out, and the water dark, highlighted only by the smattering of stars peeking out from the gaps between thick clouds.
“Why are we here?” I ask as we step onto the pebbled beach. The smell of the briny sea air is stronger here, reminding us both that we are so very far from home. Camden’s nostrils flare as he draws in the smell, as though it’s clearing the fogginess from his mind. I know that since living here I feel physically better in my body, and more importantly my lungs, enjoying the fresh air and lack of smog.
Camden shrugs off his backpack, his expression hidden by the absence of light and the shadows of his hoody pulled up over his head. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing to a rug that he’s just pulled out of the bag and laid down on the stones.
“Why?” I question, not liking the fact he’s ordering me around. Not to mention, I’ve no idea what the fuck he’s up to. He better not think this is some romantic date under the moonlight.
“Just do as you’re told for once!” he snaps, whipping around to face me. The wind has picked up, causing my hair to flutter around my face as I glare at him. The strands are like tiny little whips that slash across the delicate skin of my cheeks, then soften to a tickle as the wind dies down momentarily. That’s what I feel when I’m around him, like I’m being whipped then caressed. It’s fucked up. One minute I’m left reeling, the next drawn in.
“Fuck off, Camden,” I retort, fed up with this constant confusion.
He sighs, yanking his hood off his head. “Please, Asia. Just sit down.”
“Fine.” This time it’s my turn to sigh, not liking the way my stomach flips at the intense look he gives me and the gentle tone of his voice. See? Whiplash.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, the deep cadence of his voice rumbling in his chest, or maybe that’s mine? Either way, he turns his back to me and bends down, rifling through his bag.
From my spot on the blanket I watch him as he sorts through his bag with his back to me. He seems to be lining some items up on the pebbles in front of him. Then he reaches in his bag and puts something over his face. It’s too dark for me to see what, but when he turns around, I gape. He’s wearing a white nose and mouth mask, the kind I use when I’m about to do some graffiti art.
“Why are you wearing that?” I ask, my gaze following his as he nods to the items on the floor. An assortment of spray cans are lined up. I frown, confused.
“You’re not the only one who’s a graf writer, Asia.”
My mouth drops open.
He laughs. It’s a bitter, painful laugh. “Ever heard ofBling?”
Is he fucking kidding me? Of course I’ve heard of Bling. He’s notorious in the graf world. His identity is as secret as Banksy’s. If you look at the most dangerous spots in the whole of London you’ll find his tag, his artwork. On the side of bridges, train cars, high up on buildings. The guy’s a legend. But more than that, he’s talented, like seriously talented. I’ve coveted his work for the past two years ever since I started graf writing seriously. Then six months ago, he stopped putting up new pieces of work. Rumour had it he was arrested and sent to prison, but no one knew because no one knows who he is…
I narrow my eyes at Camden, not believing what he’s insinuating. Hecan’tbe Bling.
Camden bends down and picks up a can. He holds it comfortably in his hand, giving it a quick shake before pressing sharply on the cap. A spray of paint erupts from the nozzle.
