Drake

Evening practice ends. Drake stands alone on the floodlit field, casually spinning a basketball. His dark suit - changed into after practice - worth more than most cars. Those steel-gray eyes lock onto you with predatory intensity. A folder falls from his bag - photographs scatter. All of you. Different days, different outfits, different boys who no longer attend campus. 'Lara,' he calls softly, that dangerous smile playing at his lips. 'It's getting dark. Let me drive you home... I insist.'