“Eh,” she wafts her hand, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “I’m just helping with the trapdoor.”
“That’s a pretty big role,” I shrug, looking off to the guys currently waiting for her to open it… so they can get out. “It wouldn’t be possible without you.”
“Oh, fuck,” she hisses, lunging to her feet and scampering past me.
Laughing at her, I avoid Razor’s eyes eating the skin from my bones and start heading toward their ticket booth. Letting him confuse me any more today will result in me on the pavement without a pulse.
I’m already entering death’s territory by boiling alive.
Wiping my sticky hands on my shorts, the quick, abrasive blows to the ground behind me shred me from the inside out.
Stifling air races over my tongue, lashing around in a one eighty with saucers for eyes.
“Nope!” Razor attacks me, his gloved hands circling around my waist and yanking me off my feet.
Yelping, the terror flutters to immature effervescence, getting swung around and carried like a child. “I need water!”
“Then tell me that,” he huffs. With an effortless hoist, he’s throwing me over his damp shoulder and locking me in place, one arm belting over my lower back, the other behind my legs, and he’s hustling past the Globe.
I could kick and demand to be let down. He wouldn’tforceme to stay bent over his shoulder while everyone stares and laughs. But he’s paralyzing me. He’s smoothing his hand up the back of my thigh and kneading the crease of my butt, once again confusing my dread by engulfing me with safety.
My head spins, latching onto the black fabric swaying with his rolling hips, and my thighs squeeze tight, fighting off the pressure that’s beginning to make me feel like a slut.
Their garage is off to the side, tucked away from the bleachers. I think that’s where he’s walking me to, still rubbing me like I’m his to explore. I confirm it by slightly picking my head up and peering around his trim waist.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, stealthily sweeping the roughness of his gloved thumb down the seam of my thighs.
You.
My heart leaps with my stomach, almost growing the courage to say it out loud.
I just can’t. Not after saying lascivious stuff to him in the library and immediately getting shot in the chest with the reason I tread carefully with everyone. And definitely not after opening my legs around him like a vile whore.
Knowing me, I cannot separate lust from emotion. He’d break my heart every time I asked a question.
Gulping at my sanity, I silently let his brute hands brace my hips to set me down next to a spare bike in the garage.
He’s looking at me, though. Waiting with an impatient tic in his jaw.
“Water. I’m thirsty,” I hum, withdrawing my eye contact to avoidantly peruse the tools.
The heavy scent of tobacco lingers within the grease and gasoline, like the universe expected my filthy presence at some point and wanted to make this painful.
There has to be something missing in my brain.
The dirt and grime and disgusting odor of Marlboro Reds have me looking at the ash tray on a toolbox, zeroing in on where his lips previously met the filters.
It’s probably soft… and hungry.
A cap cracking spikes my blood pressure, the zap of angst pulling me out of the unsavory thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him.
My face flames and my head snaps toward Razor staring at me with sharp pools of calculation, the fresh bottle of water open and ready for my hand.
I laugh awkwardly, making the heavy silence even harder to breathe through and accepting the cold, sweaty plastic. “Thanks. Sorry, I’m really tired today.”
“Up late?”
His arrogance breaks me away from the whisper of a grin lifting his smooth lips, my shaky hand delivering the water to my mouth.
