Fire & Ice

Amara

I wake to the lovely sound of my uncle screaming at me to get out of bed.

“Amara! Get your ass out of bed!”

Ugh.

I grudgingly throw my warm and cozy covers off of me and trot to my bathroom to have a quick shower. The bruises littering my torso are killing me. And it’s all for coming home five minutes after my curfew last night.

My uncle was a brutal, abusive, malicious monster.

If only my parents knew what he did to me every night since I moved in with him, six months after their horrific – and fatal – car accident caused by a drunk driver on the wrong side of the road. Though I don’t think they’d care about what I’m going through when they didn’t even have the decency to leave their only daughter anything after they died. Not even a penny from the millions of dollars in their several bank accounts. Not that I was expecting much.

When I finish showering, I put on an outfit consisting of a black knitted sweater and straight light-wash jeans. I couldn’t afford to show my bruises and scars, even in the blistering 80-degree weather.

I slip on my white air forces, now turned a distinct off-white shade, from the months of dirt buildup, and walk downstairs to the kitchen, awaiting a lecture from my uncle about waking up late, even though we both know he’s an alcoholic and rarely ever knows what he’s even saying.

No sooner than my shoes hit the old wooden boards of the kitchen, my uncle started reprimanding me about how much work he puts into the house, and how he pours blood, sweat, and tears into making sure there’s a roof over our heads.

Letting his words go in one ear and right out the other, I grab a protein bar, ultimately deciding that a bowl of cereal was too risky.

I didn’t feel like developing another hit of food poisoning.

“Hey, I’m not finished yet!” I completely ignore my uncle and his callous words as I pick up my bag by the front door and prepare myself for the daily three-mile bike ride to school.

Hey, at least I didn’t have to walk.

When I arrive at the Fulton Community College campus, I head to my first class of the day, anatomy. Sometimes I feel like I made a bad decision choosing pre-med as my major, but that’s typically at times like these: 8:00 in the morning, trying to survive on four hours of sleep.

When I get to my class I head to a seat in the back, not wanting to draw any attention to myself, preferring to exist as an invisible wall.

I notice my professor looking at me like something he wants to prey on. He’s been doing this since the beginning of the semester and it’s been weighing like I’m Atlas carrying the world on my shoulders.

Every time I catch him staring at me like that, I feel a chill down my back, my instincts telling me to run, to get away from him, a 60-year-old married man who won’t stop staring at me like a pervert.

His gaze makes me feel like an object, not a person.

The minute class ends, I head to the school library, getting ready to work my shift before my 4:30 biology lecture when I remember I don’t work on Tuesdays. I decided to make the most of my time, so I started walking over to my bike, planning to go to my favorite coffee shop to get some homework done, and probably study for a bit.

The second I reach my rusted, blue bike, I notice a matte black Maserati not too far in the distance, probably 45 feet away.

That’s certainly unusual.

I observe the man leaning against the luxurious car wearing black dress pants and a black button-down shirt, the top few buttons undone, where the sliver of a tattoo peeks out. He is holding a phone to his ear and it seems he is arguing with whoever is on the other side of the line. I watch him hang up the call and slip his phone into his pocket, not noticing when he starts stalking towards me.

“Can I help you?”

I’m startled by the sound of his rich, silky smooth, baritone voice.

“Well?”

“W-what?” I didn’t know why he made me so flustered.

“Is there a reason why you keep staring at me or do you just find me attractive?”

He takes his sunglasses off and suddenly I’m staring into beautiful honey eyes. They’re ice cold yet draw you in at the same time. His muscled yet lean build acts as a wall in front of me, blocking out everything around us. His hair, dark brown, nearly black, was hanging low, slightly over his eyes. I got the sudden urge to run my fingers through it.

“W-what’s your name?”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“I-I guess I thought that a man in a dress suit leaning against a black Maserati seemed a bit unusual on a campus like this.” He had working eyes, he could clearly see how disgusting this campus was. Buildings were run down, the janitor rarely ever came to work, and you could definitely tell.

“I’ll accept that, for now.”

He then asks me if I’m going somewhere and I tell him, “I was going to head over to a coffee shop to get homework done and study. I’m a biology major.”

“Interesting. I find you intriguing...” He trails off, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Amara.”

“Amara.” The way he said my name made butterflies flutter around in my stomach.

“Well, I’d love to take you to the coffee shop. You shouldn’t even own a rusty bike like this, it’s extremely unsafe.”

“Y-you mean go to the coffee shop with you, using your car?” I lift a finger towards his impressive car. He appeared especially young to own something as costly as a Maserati.

“Of course, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes. I’d love to be chauffeured. Thank you,” I say, questioning my choices. I literally just met this man. He is a complete stranger. I don’t even know his name.

“I’m sorry, but what was your name?”

“Koa. Koa Black. It’s nice to finally meet you, Amara Aceso. I have been looking for you everywhere.”