Striker: A Dark Bully Romance (Redwood Rebels Book 1) by Rachel Leigh (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

shirt from the back, curiosity getting the better of me. “Why the hell are you carrying around a can of spray paint?” I chuckle then let his shirt fall back in place.

His head turns while his body still faces the line. “Because you never know when an opportunity will arise.”

Sighing, I shake my head in disgust. “Please don’t tell me you huff that shit.”

“Not gonna lie and say I never have, but that’s not why I have it. I like art.” We take a few steps forward, filling the empty space as the line gets smaller.

“You mean you like graffiti?”

He turns around to face me, a look of wonder in his eyes. “How hungry are you?”

“Not at all.” It’s true. I don’t think I could even force myself to eat right now. Nausea is swimming around in my stomach, and if I let myself, I could probably throw up.

Grabbing me by the hand, he pulls me out of line and walks us briskly toward the doors. “What are we doing?” I look back and see Shay and Wyatt watching us with confusion. Ignoring them, I turn back around and follow Tommy’s lead.

“I think we both deserve to let loose and have a little fun. What’dya say? You down for that?”

As I continue to walk beside him, my mind's made up for me. Something about Tommy gives me this feeling of contentment. Like I can trust him. I really shouldn’t, but even the excitement in his eyes right now is something that is foreign to the others. Tommy is different. “Alright, I’m always game for a little fun. As long as it doesn’t involve dead—”

His finger presses to my lips. “Shh. Don’t say it.” He smiles, then winks, which sends a rush of adrenaline through me.

Pressing my lips together, I refrain from smiling back. “Cows. Geez, what did you think I was gonna say?”

Looking back and forth down the hallway a couple times with a serious expression on his face, he pushes open the gymnasium doors and nods for me to go in. It’s dark inside, aside from a sliver of light coming from the men’s locker room. “What’s the plan exactly?” I ask, when the door closes behind us.

Pulling out the spray can from his back pocket, Tommy begins shaking it. The sound of the metal ball inside hitting the aluminum trumps the sound of my reverberating heart. I love the thrill of a rush—being sneaky, taking risks. I always have. These sort of pranks and games, I’m okay with. It’s ones that involve murder that I’m not a fan of.

Tommy begins walking behind the bleachers, and I follow him. “What’s your favorite quote?” he asks, as we both duck our heads and step underneath the backside of the bleachers.

“That’s an odd question.”

“Come on, everyone has a favorite. Let’s hear it.” He begins spraying something onto the brick wall in front of us. Black splatters hit the white slab of brick, and I can’t make out what it is just yet. His arms sweep the air as he extends his reach, making the circle of whatever it is bigger.

“She wasn’t given wings to keep her feet on the ground.”

Tommy stops spraying for a moment. With the can straight out in front of him, he turns to look at me. His eyes are soft and inviting, and I see something in them. I see purpose and depth. Light in the darkness. I see a guy who has dreams and plans for the future but no idea how to reach them. When he turns back to the wall and leans closer, bringing the can right in front of it, he releases small spritzes that form the face of a snake. I watch him work intently, creating his own beautiful art. He takes a step back and I slide over to his side to get a better view of it.

“What’s the meaning behind this?” I ask him, as we both face the snake infinity symbol. Same as the tattoos, same as the door handle at Briarwood, and the same as the trinket box left on my bed.

“It’s the beginning and it’s the end,” he pauses, glancing over at me to see if I’m following, “the Ouroboros reminds us that every life starts and stops somewhere. The only control we have is the in between. We can live to die, or we can live to survive. We choose survival.”

I nod, thinking that I understand. Though, I’m not really sure I do. “Why do you all have the tattoo? Is it some sort of occult symbol?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not at all. It’s a pact. No man left behind. No man falters alone. We face the in between together and we ride ‘til we die.”

Taking a few steps to the right side of the sprayed symbol, he begins shaking the can again. “We might seem like we’re just a bunch of fuck ups to the world, but really, we have purpose. Everyone does. Me, Talon, Zed, and Lars have our own scars. Scars that brought us together, and scars that keep us bound.” Pressing his finger to the nozzle, he begins spraying. This time, his arm spreads and sweeps. He bends and slouches, and I’m mesmerized by his intensity.

When he finishes, I’m in awe. My breath is taken away, and my eyes are cemented to the angelic painting in front of him. “You’ve got your wings. Use ‘em,” he says as his arms drop to his side.

Two black, unclipped wings. Fringed with tousled edges. If I could touch them, I imagine they’d be weightless—delicate—soft in the center with pointed ends. “I can’t believe you just did that with a can of paint.”

The bell sounds, and his eyes widen. “We gotta get out of here,” he says a moment too late. The gym door opens, and voices carry over to us as we stand beneath the bleachers. Taking my hand in his, I notice that his fingertip is stained black and his nose is freckled