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Spot Conlon

Imagine Spot Conlon Respecting You

You glance back over your shoulder. That boy has been following you for six blocks. No matter which way you turn, he's always right behind you. Your breath comes faster. As the daughter of one of the most prominent businessmen in New York City, you rarely find yourself in situations like this, as you're hardly ever allowed out of the house alone.
Of course, you were only allowed out today to walk a block to visit your friend. But that never happened. Instead, in a streak of rebellion, you decided to take a walk to Brooklyn. Now you realize how stupid your idea was.
In a desperate attempt to ditch the boy, you hurriedly turn into a dark alley... that is a dead end! You spin around, (fav/c) skirt swirling, but the boy is already there. He's tall and has black hair. His clothes seem to have not been washed in years. He might be about your age. It's hard to judge through the grime.
"Give me your money," he commands, a sneer etched on his face.
You stand up taller. "And why would I do that?"
"Because I told ya to!" he exclaims, stepping closer.
"No," you simply say and cross your arms. Never mind the fact that you maybe have ten cents on you. This boy wouldn't be getting any of it.
"Hand. It. Over!" he says through clenched teeth. He raises a fist. "Or else."
"Oh, you don't want to do that."
He draws back his fist, but you're quicker. You land a punch on his nose. Shock is written on his face. But you don't stop there. Fists flying, boots kicking, you drive the boy to the ground.
"Stop. Stop!" he begs. Finally, you listen and back off.
"Get out of here," you command, tucking back your (h/c) hair.
He scrambles up, battered and bruised, and gives you a dirty look. Then he quickly runs away. But in the dim light, you see another boy silhouetted in the alley entrance. He takes a step in.
"Who's in there?" he asks.
You step forward, fists still clenched, head held high. The boys looks at you, puzzled. He's a bit taller than you by one or two inches, and also look like those though pretty boys in Brooklyn that has brown hair with Icy blue eyes.
"Who," he begins. "Who beat that kid up?"
"I did."
"You did?" he asks in disbelief.
"He wanted to rob me," you say, nodding. "But that didn't exactly go as he wanted." You laugh, relaxing a little.
"I can see that!" he laughs too, a little in shock. "I've seen you around before. Ain't you Mr. (your last name)'s daughter?"
"I am," you reply, offering him your hand to shake. "(Y/n)."
"Spot Conlon." He takes your hand, grasping it firmly and holding it a moment too long. "I have to admit, I'm impressed."
"Why?"
"Didn't expect no rich girl to be beatin' up thieves."
"I do a lot of things that people wouldn't expect," you say, exiting the alley.
Spot follows. "Such as?"
"Telling my mother I'm walking a block to visit my friend and 'accidentally' winding up in Brooklyn," you laugh. "So I better get back before she finds out."
"Come back sometime, would ya?" Spot asks, turning a deep red.
"I just might," you smile.