His voice shook. “Winter...”
I nudged the steering wheel side to side, playing. “Left or right? You choose or I will.”
He breathed hard through his teeth, gripping my hips with both hands now. “No.”
“I’m gonna do it.”
“No,” he growled in a loud whisper. “You do what you’re told.”
I jammed down on his foot, accelerating the car a little more.
“Left or right?” I asked, my nose brushing his. “Tell me.”
He panted, digging his fingers into my skin through my sweatshirt.
“Three,” I threatened, counting down. “Two…”
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “Wait. Just wait.”
I leaned my forehead into his. “One.”
“Okay, three o’clock! Now!” he hissed.
I faced forward, rotated the wheel right, both of us slamming into the door as the car sprung over the dips and uneven earth on the new gravel road.
“No, four!” he shouted, realizing three wasn’t enough. “Four o’clock! Shit!”
I turned it more, but we knew it was a lost cause. I lost the wheel as the car skidded and spun out, and my body coiled up on reflex to protect itself. His arms went around me, covering my head, and I screamed as the car tipped onto one side, balancing for a moment and threatening to flip over, but then fell back onto all four tires again.
The car stilled, the engine died, and I stayed like that, cradled in his lap, taking a mental inventory of my body.
Other than banging my knee on the steering wheel when I brought it up, and an ache in my shoulder from hitting the car door, I was fine. I popped my head up, bringing my hands to his face.
“Did I kill you?” I asked.
But he didn’t laugh or say anything for a moment. Just breathed.
“My heart…” he said. “Shit.”
I remembered what he said last week at my house. Do you know what I have to do to get it to beat like that?
“I scared you.”
“Not an emotion I’m used to being on the receiving end of,” he mused.
And then his fingers found the pulse on my neck and pressed down. I followed suit, placing my three fingers on his neck, on the side of his throat, and finding his pulse, as well. We sat there for a moment, each of us with one hand on our own neck and another on the other person’s.
It was fast like mine, and I liked that I did that to him.
“What color is your car?” I asked, pulling my hands down from his neck and mine.
“Black.”
Of course.
“When I remember the colors in my head,” I remarked, “I get a feeling sometimes. Pink is how I feel now. My stomach doing somersaults and laughing. Giddy. Squirrelly…” I slid off him and into the passenger side seat. “I don’t know what I feel when I picture black, though. Nothing, really, I guess.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
I smiled to myself. “You scared me, I scared you, now it’s your turn again.”
He started the car and shifted into gear. “Pull your hood up and put your seatbelt on.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to,” he muttered, trying to sound commanding, but it just came off as playful.
I pulled my seatbelt on, fastened it, and pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt, my hair spilling out the sides.
We drove in silence, which was fine by me, because he blasted the stereo, and the only time I got to enjoy loud music in the car was with my sister, but she hardly ever had to chauffeur me anywhere, so those times were rare.
Turning my face toward the window, I zoned out, thinking about everything that had happened the past hour. Dancing for him, touching him, the way he was patient with me but also pushed me, to see what I was made of.
And how I wasn’t entirely sure if it was for my benefit or for his pleasure.
His body moved next to me, shifting gears and putting pedal to the metal, but every once in a while, I felt his eyes on me. My heartbeat started to pick up pace, and I was glad I couldn’t see him with my eyes. Glad I would never be able to see him.
He would be the picture he was in my head. A faceless boy with dark hair and fire in his eyes, just how I wanted it.
Forever.
We drove into town—he started curbing his speed, and I think we stopped at a traffic light—and after a few turns, he pulled the car to a stop and turned off the engine.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, taking his keys. “Keep your hood up.”
I didn’t respond, and he didn’t wait for confirmation that I’d heard. Opening the car door, he climbed out, slammed the door shut, and I heard the click of the lock right before everything went silent. Of course, I could still open my door. I could get out. He was keeping anyone else from getting in.
I felt a little traffic farther away, and I could hear the subterranean droning of music coming from the building to my left, but other than that, the village was quiet. I had no idea what time it was.
Why did I need to cover myself? Maybe he was planning on slicing and dicing me, after all, and didn’t want witnesses tracking my whereabouts after the fact?
I almost laughed. I was pretty sure he had no malicious intent at this point.
But then something occurred to me. What if he didn’t want his friends to see me? What if he had a girlfriend?
Nope. Don’t do it. He came to me. He found me. He brought me out. I wasn’t going to look for excuses to end the night.
In no time at all, the door opened, but this time it was my door.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking my hand.
“Where?” I climbed out, following him.
“To see black.”
See black? I loved his imagination.
Confused but intrigued, I remained quiet as I followed him down the street, hearing the sizzling sound of a neon sign with the smell of pizza damn near making me moan with hunger. Sticks. We were across from the park in the town square right in front of a local hangout. A bar that admitted minors, because it had bands and pool tables, so really, people of all ages could be found there. Is that where he ran to a moment ago?
He held something up to me, and I took it, turning it around in my hands and finally realizing it was a helmet.
A helmet?
I heard something move, a key being inserted, and I hesitated a moment, because I was in sleep shorts, and if we fell, I’d have no clothing protecting my legs, my most prized possessions on which I trusted my future in dance.
I groaned to myself. As long as he didn’t expect me to drive, I guess…
Fastening the strap of the half helmet under my chin, I held onto his arm as he helped me climb on behind him. It was a little chilly, and the wind might be too brisk. I brushed the back of his head with my hand, feeling that he wasn’t wearing a helmet at all.
“Whose bike is this?” I asked.
“A friend.”
I put my hands on his waist, but his body shot up and then came down hard, sparking the motor to life, and I didn’t need him to tell me what to do. I wrapped my arms around him, and put my head down behind his back, but I was nervous as hell. I’d never ridden on a motorcycle before.
“Don’t let go,” he ordered me.
Yeah, like, duh.
I tucked my feet up on the footrests and squeezed him tight as we shot off, kicking up gears and picking up pace.
I whimpered, but I didn’t think he heard it.
This was faster than the car. Or maybe it was because I could feel the wind.
He veered left, turning around the square, and the bike leaned so far, I thought we’d tip over.
“Can you slow down a little bit?” I yelled. “Please?”
But once we rounded the corner, he sped off, shooting to warp speed, and I yelped, locking my arms around his body and squeezing him between my thighs.
“I don’t feel…” I laughed for good measure, “Like really secure. Slow down!”
But he didn’t. He veered right, then left, then right again, the weight of our bodies feeling like too much as we tipped from side to side.