Firestorm | ✎

1. a french connection

     But the other ninety-percent of her couldn't give a flying toss.

—

     The library was enormous, with endless shelves of books so high she thought they touched the ceiling and woven around the area like towering pillars. Isla stood in the centre like a lost child. How was she suppose to find him?

     Then she heard it: whispers.

     The type of whispers between students that usually meant gossip. She followed the buzz, and the clearer they got, the more she could spot the lad who was slouched on one of the empty wooden chairs, his feet propped up on the table.

     And lo and behold, Elias Sabatier.

     He looked more devilishly handsome up close. She didn't know if it was those stormy eyes, or his ruffled jet-black hair that implied he just got out of bed or his lean muscular frame. But for the first time Isla could relate to all those secondary school girls who'd giggle about him in bathroom breaks.

     She stopped in front of him.

     Elias didn't notice her. Gathering her courage, Isla cleared her throat.

     He looked up from his phone.

    Bloody hell, those eyes.

    "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and bored. "The answer is no."

     She frowned. "I'm sorry?"

    "Whether it's for the school newspaper, the yearbook, or events you want to showcase," he continued, not batting an eye at her as he stayed on his screen, "it's been a long day, and honestly, I'm quite spent. But I'll phone you next time."

     Isla blinked. "Excuse me?"

    "You're excused."

     Her nostrils flared. "I think you're making a mistake—"

    "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not—" he paused as he stood upright, noticing the absence of posters, flyers and petitions in her hands. He stared at her. "Shite. You're not here for that, are you?"

     "Afraid not."

     "Well, this is going to be more difficult than I thought." Before she could comprehend his words, he leaned forward and clasped her hands. "Listen, I'm sure you're a wonderful girl, but I'm not looking for anything serious at the moment—"

     Isla shook her hands off. "What the bloody hell are you on about?"

    "I know this is hard—"

    "Will you let me explain—"

    "You'll find someone better—"

    "Elias!" she let out. "I'm here to tutor you, for God's sake. I'm Isla. Isla Kingsley."

     The boy just gaped at her, eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion before recognition lit his eyes. He didn't seem embarrassed, however; in fact, his silent amusement made her feel self-conscious.

    "Huh," he clicked his tongue, examining her from head to toe. "I didn't know the Academy's last attempt to tutor me was to hire an underclassman."

    "I'm in Sixth Form, too."

    "First year or second?"

    "First."

    "Really?"

    "Really," she snapped.

     The whole library turned their heads at her tone, staring like they couldn't believe she'd raised her voice to him. Peeking through their opened books and stealing furtive glances. She was so used to keeping it on the down-low that the sudden attention made her cheeks heat.

     She turned to the boy, who was looking at her with a curious gaze.

    "You're my French tutor," he repeated.

     "Yes." 

     A pause, as if she was an odd specimen he was studying. Then he smiled.

     "What?" That smile, that damn smile. "Whatever you're going to say, you better spit it out right now."

     Elias smirked. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?" (Do you want to sleep with me?)

     This boy.

    "Okayletmemakethingsclear," she blended her words together, kicking his feet off of the table which made him lose his balance. "This might not be serious for you, but it is for me. I don't want any of your little games."

    "My little games?"

    "You know what I'm talking about. I'm not going to be caught in some scandal with you, all right? It's just business here."

    "Business."

    Stop repeating everything I say! "Exactly," she cleared her throat. "So I'd appreciate it if you—"

     His phone rang.

    "Got to take this." Elias lifted one finger at her and it took all her willpower to not throw her textbook at his head. "Hey, mate, alright? No, nothing much." He straightened up. "For real? Vortex? 'Course I'm down, you wanker. See you in ten."

     Isla watched him closely, and puzzlingly, as he packed up his bags. She didn't even have a chance to sit down yet. "What are you doing?"

    "Leaving."

     She gaped. "We haven't even started!"

    "Relax, Red," he winked, walking backwards. "We have three weeks ahead of us. You'll get enough of me, don't worry."

     She stared at his retreating figure all the way until he exited the library. What the hell just happened? Did she meet the right Elias Sabatier everyone had been blabbering about? And if she did, did he just stood her up?

     The girl was so busy glaring at the boy's back that she didn't realise the soft click, coming from a phone of a younger student not far from her, who then proceeded to click send.

A/N: I really like the name Elias.