Fearless by Brigid Kemmerer
CHAPTER 1
Hunter Garrity ducked behind a copse of trees and waited. The last week of school, and those jerks were still pulling this crap.
He held his breath and listened. Nothing.
But someone was still back there. He could feel it. He’d been feeling it the entire walk home, but sometime during the last fifteen minutes, they’d drawn close.
They’d never be able to wait him out. He knew that from experience. He had patience in spades and could sit here all night, letting the air and the earth feed him information. His talents weren’t strong enough to demand answers from the elements—yet—so he had to wait, to pay attention to what they were willing to offer.
But if he missed dinner again, his dad would be pissed.
A branch snapped underfoot about twenty feet behind where he was hiding.
Hunter eased out a breath and waited. Another branch, a rustle of leaves.
It seemed like one person, which was surprising. None of them ever had the guts to face him alone—not anymore, anyway. Freshman year, sure, before he’d come home with one bruise too many and his father had taught him to put up a fight.
This year had started differently. Jeremy Rasmussen had been the first one to find out the hard way. On the second day of school, he’d walked into the boy’s bathroom and slammed Hunter face-first into the tile wall.
Hunter had slammed him face-first into a mirror.
Jeremy had earned a broken nose, stitches across one cheek, and a chipped tooth. Hunter had earned two days’ suspension and some greater regard from his classmates.
But they didn’t leave him alone, though they wouldn’t mess with him at school. No, now his walk home was a challenge. A gauntlet. They kept coming up with more creative ways to screw with him.
He kept coming up with more creative paths to travel.
Like this afternoon. He’d turned his walk from one mile to three, cutting through the dairy farm at the end of his road, easing between fence boards until he reached the acre of corn that led to the woods backing his parents’ property.
Just because he could fight didn’t mean he wanted to.
The crunching underbrush stopped, but Hunter couldn’t look without giving away his hiding place. He held his breath again, wondering what their weapon would be this time. Bricks? A two-by-four? Once they’d actually thrown cow manure at him. Idiots. Maybe one day they’d shock him with something effective.
He let a breath out, drew one in, and held it.
Another step, another snap of underbrush. A breeze kicked up and whistled through the leaves overhead, whispering across his cheeks. He focused, waiting for information about his pursuer, but the wind cared for nothing more than the sunlight and the trees. He touched his fingers to the ground, and the earth confirmed it was one person.
One person, drawing close.
Hunter braced himself. Time slowed down, an eternity passing before the next crunch of leaves.
His eyes registered movement beyond the edge of the trees, and then he was all motion. When he fought, his brain tracked the activity like stop-action photography. The toe of a boot, a denim-covered knee, a powder-blue shirt, a flash of brown hair. His arm, flying out to block any weapon. His leg, hooking an ankle to bring his attacker to the ground. A gasp and a shriek and an oof.
And a bright pink backpack, sailing through the air to land somewhere nearby. Papers fluttered into the wind and scattered.
Pink.
He stared down at the person he’d pinned. “Clare?”
“Ow.” She grimaced and put a hand to her head. Strands of her hair were tangled in the dead leaves littering the ground. “That kinda hurt.”
Clare Kasten was in his fourth-period government class. Cute, in a gentle way, with wide brown eyes and soft features. Shy, too. He couldn’t remember a single word they’d ever exchanged.
Hunter swore and braced a hand against the ground so he could get some distance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . Are you okay?”
“I just wanted to talk to you.” She made another face. “I didn’t realize I’d be risking my life.”
It would figure that the first time a girl wanted to talk to him, he’d knock her flat.
“I’m really sorry,” he said again. He rolled up to one knee and held out a hand. “Are you all right?”
She took his hand. Hers was slight and soft, and it practically disappeared inside his. He pushed to his feet and pulled her along with him.
She wavered and he caught her elbows. It put them very close, probably closer than he’d ever been to a girl. “You sure you’re okay to stand?”
She pulled an arm free to rub at the back of her head again. “I probably should have just passed you a note in class.”
A note? No one had ever passed him a note. What kind of note? He had no idea how to play this. He had no idea what she wanted. Had she followed him?