I pout at him, at his no-sex rule and his nostrils flare.
Then I pen him a request.Okay, fine. But will you take me for a ride tonight?
He reads my note and thinks about it for a second before answering,Midnight tonight.
It’s a date. Yay!
I hear his sigh and when he passes me his reply, I hear him growl it in my ears, making me want to laugh.
Can we get back to trigonometry now?
I findhim by his Ducati at midnight.
This is the first time I’ve snuck out all alone, without any help from my girls. I was a little nervous about it, but it turned out okay. What I should be more nervous about, or at least more anticipatory about, is the fact that I’m breaking one of his rules for the first time ever.
I’m wearing a skirt.
I borrowed it from Poe again, this one plaid too but with good-girl pleats and bad-girl length that barely covers my ass.
He’s gonna freak, I know. But whatever. He can punish me if he likes. I have his jacket on though, which drowns me so it’s not as if anyone can see anything.
Anyway, I’m here now.
I pause a moment to take him in. He’s leaning against his motorcycle in his usual, familiar clothes that are already making me feel warm, smoking a cigarette.
His little bad habit.
A tiny rule that he breaks because it helps him relax and de-stress.
God, he’s so hard on himself, isn’t he?
So hard and critical. So tied up in severe knots.
That’s why I came up with this idea. This ride at midnight. If I can’t make him believe that he’s not a failure, then at least I can help him let loose.
This broken boy.
This new Arrow.
The one who looks like a quintessential bad boy right now – seemingly dark hair, dark intentions, waiting for his teenage sweetheart that he’s going to take away on his motorcycle. He’s going to find a dark alley or a lonely corner under a rusty bridge somewhere and corrupt every little innocent part of her with those big hands and darling lips.
I begin walking toward him and the sound of my feet makes him look at me.
As soon as he does, he straightens up and lets out a puff of smoke and I start to run toward him like I did in our backyard.
Although I stumble just when I reach him, but he catches me, as usual. Panting, I hug him and close my eyes, pressing my cheek against his ribs, exactly where his heart is.
“If you don’t stop doing that, I’ll have to assume you’re doing it on purpose,” he drawls, his arms around me squeezing.
I rub my cheek on his chest. “Doing what on purpose?”
“Falling.”
“Why would I do that on purpose?”
“So I could catch you.”
I kiss his dead heart and look up. “Maybe I am.”
