Pusher

thirty-six.

Dark circles were pressed under my eyes when I entered the school, my boots scuffing the tile as I did. My backpack was slung lazily over one shoulder and I headed to my locker, ready to lose the extra weight as soon as I could. Needless to say, I hadn't exactly been getting a lot of sleep lately.

I stopped dead in my tracks when I spotted Maverick, slouched against my locker with his hands stuffed into his pockets. His dark hair hung stringy and limp, flopping onto his forehead. Matching bags hung under his dark eyes.

I turned away, already formulating a new route and sketching out a plan to avoid him for the rest of the day without having to skip any of my classes. I was getting too far ahead of myself because my reflexes were a moment too late. Maverick's eyes flicked up to mine and he kicked off the wall before I could get away unseen.

I kept my head low, cringing when he called my name. No, not that dumb nickname he insisted on taunting me with, but my real name. Reluctantly, I slowed down, not seeing an easy escape from this one, but it wouldn't have mattered. He was half-jogging to catch up anyway.

I was sputtering out words before he even had a chance to catch his breath.

"Look, I'm sorry about leaving you on the side of the road like that. I just—"

"Hey," he interrupted, wrapping a broad hand around my arm and tugging me to a halt. "I'm here to apologize to you." A small, sheepish smile wrapped around his lips.

I blinked. "What?"

As I spoke, an impatient and oblivious passerby knocked into me, shoving me forward and nearly toppling me right into Maverick. He tugged me to the side of the hallway, out of everyone's way. My back was pressed against the brick.

"I'm sorry about the other night. I was drunk and — and that's not an excuse, but I thought a lot about what you said. And I'm done trying to control you, okay? I'm done."

A pause followed his words, credited to my speechlessness. His expression was hesitant, eyes flicking all over my face to gauge my response. I wanted to believe him, but really, when had Maverick been genuine about anything?

My mouth formed a hard line. "Says the guy who's cornering me against a wall."

Maverick glanced down, eyes locking on the hand that was still wrapped around my arm, holding me in place. His forehead creased, eyes squeezed tightly together, but only for a moment. "Shit, sorry."

In a swift motion, he pulled me forward, simultaneously sliding into my previous position. He kept his back flush against the wall, his grip sliding down my arm until it was loosely clasped around my wrist, which he guided to his chest until my palm was pressed flat against his shirt. Through it, I could feel the warmth of his skin.

He was quite literally giving me the upper hand.

A nice gesture, but meaningless. An illusion. I shook my head, dropping my arm back to my side. I walked away, expecting his hand to shoot out and drag me back, but it didn't. He only followed.

"One minute. That's all I need. I'll leave you alone after that, I promise," he said. I hardly believed that, but I was much too tired to argue.

He opened the front of his jacket, reaching inside to pull out a leather bound journal. My leather bound journal. He held it out to me.

My lips split open by no words came out. I stood there, staring and blinking like an idiot. Slowly, I reached up to take it, running my fingertips over the surface. He really was serious about this.

"I won't tell anybody, I swear, anything," Maverick assured me, sincerity weighing down his voice. "You can trust me."

"No strings?" I asked, my voice guarded. I looked up from the journal for the first time, my eyes meeting his.