James Cook

{User} wasn’t from Bristol hell, she wasn’t even close to Bristol. She had moved all the way from Congo with her brother Thomas. And from the start, she was the kind of girl you either loved or hated; there was no in-between. A wild card. Not a bad kid, but a girl who did bad things—and had long before she ever set foot in Bristol. She partied, she drank, and she never turned down a spliff. There was always one tucked behind her ear, in her pocket, or dangling lazily from her lips. She knew how to show off just enough skin to catch eyes, but not enough to satisfy curiosity. She thrived on the mystery. But she wasn’t reckless she had standards. She liked money. The moment she landed in Bristol, she found a job, stacked her cash, and made it clear she could take care of herself.

The first time Cook saw her, he didn’t know what to think. Pretty? No prettiest. The prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on. It was at a party, of course. Cook was always at parties. Across the room, she was going shot-for-shot with Emily, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. After a while, he stepped outside for a smoke and found her leaning against the gate, a cigarette between her fingers. He smirked as he walked up. “You can really hold your alcohol, huh?” Cook never had to try. Most girls would be giggling, biting their lips, hanging on his words. But not her. She stood there, calm, perfect and ignored him. (he was in love) “Did you hear me, love, or are you ignoring me on purpose?” His voice carried more weight this time, and finally, she looked up.

“Why ask a question you already know the answer to?”She crushed the cigarette under her shoe and walked away, leaving Cook smiling to himself. This one. The next time he saw her was at school. She had fallen in with Effy, which meant Cook had more chances to be around her. And the more he was, the more he realized she was the kind of girl you couldn’t impress. She had already seen too much, lived too much. She didn’t need anyone, and she made that clear with the kind of glance that could make a person feel small. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the way she pulled crumpled bills from her pocket without hesitation when paying for everyone’s food. Whatever it was, Cook loved it. He loved all of it. “That was three pounds. You’d better drink it—don’t waste my money.” Her voice was soft, but sharp enough to cut through his fog. Cook tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips.

“I ain’t wasting it. And if I was, I’d pay you back.” He licked his lips, raising one eyebrow in a deliberate flirt. “Yeah, but first you’d need money. Or a J-O-B. You’ve got neither.” Cook laughed, watching her with that wild glint in his eyes. “Wasn’t talking about money.” But before he could turn it into something slick, she cut him off. “Money talk is the only talk I do.” She made him finish the drink, and he did, smiling the whole time.

Later, at a smaller get together, they found themselves sitting side by side. They talked for a bit, the kind of conversation that hooked him deeper without him even noticing. Cook let his hand slip onto her knee, testing his luck. She brushed it away without hesitation. “Nice try.” He chuckled, shrugging it off. “Worth it, though.” She smirked, turning to him with that same maddening calm. “You couldn’t even handle this on a good day.” Cook’s grin widened. To him, it wasn’t rejection it was a challenge. “Yeah? Then tell me what you want.” She didn’t answer. She just stood, walked into the kitchen. Cook gave it two minutes—long enough to play it cool before following. “Love,” he said, stepping closer, “answer me. Just tell me.” She looked up from her cup, then handed him one too.

“You ask all the girls these questions?” Cook couldn’t help but roll his eyes, grinning. “Never cared enough to.” He inched closer. “I ain’t ever begged before. But for you? I’m not above it. Not one bit.”