Fear of never getting this chance again.
Without fear, I walk right into his life, hands shaking and starting to sweat. When I get closer, the other guy rolls his eyes and jumps, starting his bike. As he drives away, I’m left alone. The air is sucked from around us and filled with his presence. He’s cocky and powerful, owning every muscle in his body as he stands tall before me. “Hey.” Husky, deep, and confident.
“Hey.” I stop, keeping five or so feet between us.
“I saw you back there.”
I nod, but don’t add to the conversation.
“What’s your name?”
“Sara Jane,” I confess before I have a chance to think otherwise.
His smirk turns into a genuine smile as he holds eye contact. That was the first time I saw the smile that would make me reject all others. “Hi, Sara Jane. Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He steps closer and I step back, making him chuckle. His feet stay planted when he says, “I’m Alexander.”
Alexander. The name becomes a melody as it plays over in my mind. I didn’t expect that name, but I love it all the same. Alexander. Alexander. Alexander.
He reaches out for me, his hand an open palm in front of me. Knowing I should go, that I should have never stopped in the first place, I shift.
“I can see the fight in your eyes. The decision to stay or leave wages a war. I won’t hurt you, Sara Jane.” When I don’t take his hand, something in his eyes—a kindness, sincerity—fills the grayish blue coloring, making me believe he’ll keep that promise.
With the compliment given, I reach out and our hands touch. A silent deal is struck, my heart now his, our fates sealed. Is it his smile or confidence, the attention, or touch? In the moment it’s everything.
I wonder if I’ll regret this handshake later. If I’ll regret stopping and talking to him, giving him my real name. I could have lied, but I didn’t.
The noise of his friend’s bike rounding the corner is heard in the distance before I see him. He pulls up and parks next to Alexander. Losing patience, he whines, “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”
Alexander remains, our eyes locked in a silent standoff as our hands remained joined together. I may be young, inexperienced, but I know I don’t stand a chance against his wicked ways. I’m smart, but he’s clever. “How old are you, Sara Jane?”
I like the way my name rolls off his tongue, and savor it before answering, “Eighteen next week.”
A smile crosses his lips, one that causes me to bite my lower one. “Seventeen, huh?”
“She’s jailbait, King,” his friend calls from atop his bike, looking bored. “Let’s move on.”
With his gaze still firmly attached to me, he calls over his shoulder, “I can wait a week. She sure is pretty.” As if he’s speaking to himself, I hear him add, “And so very tempting.”
I’ve never been called tempting before and the word itself evokes illicit thoughts. His leather jacket is worn, scuffed at the cuffs, the T-shirt underneath is some brand I’ve never heard of, and his jeans are faded, nicely worn in. He needs to shave and his hair is close to violating school code, but I have a feeling it’s not the first time he’s broken a rule. He’s a bad boy in the flesh, a devil in disguise of a fractured soul that’s almost too handsome to look at.
“Guess I should go,” he says, nodding toward his dark-haired friend. “You want a ride home?”
I may only be seventeen but cable TV has taught me a few things about accepting rides from strangers, even good-looking ones. “I’m fine walking.”
“You sure are.” He glances up to the sky. “Dark clouds are rolling back in.”
“They won’t do me any harm, but I’m not so sure about you.”
The right side of his mouth rises, almost meeting the dimple in his cheek. “Smart girl. So you turn eighteen next week?”
“Yeah. Saturday.”
Swinging his leg over the bike, he settles on the leather and grips the handles. “What about a boyfriend?”
“I’ve got no priors,” I reply, making a really bad joke, so dumb that my face feels hot from embarrassment.
He laughs, but I’m sure it’s out of politeness, although he doesn’t seem the type to humor anyone. “Let’s hope not.” Shifting, he looks ready to go. “What’s a girl like you talking about priors anyway?”
With mustered courage, I reply like I’ve found some confidence lying on the ground. “I’m not so little, and you’re not so bad.”
“What do you know about being bad?”
“I’ve seen some.”
His smile disappears, replaced by the stormy clouds he spoke of earlier. Anger. Curiosity. Respect. A fury of emotion brews inside his captivating eyes. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”
My hands tighten around the strap of my backpack. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me. I don’t need anything at all.” Kicking his stand up, he jumps, his bike roaring to life. I miss the silence. I miss the clarity of his dulcet tone, but I hear him over the loud rumble, “You should get home, little girl.”
My eyes trail across his lips and then over his shoulder. I pass him without further conversation, but I don’t get far.
“Sara Jane?”
I do what I know I shouldn’t. I stop walking and turn back. “Yes, Alexander?”
A grin appears in response to hearing his name, or maybe something else I’m too inexperienced to know by the deviousness that’s revealed. “Don’t talk to strangers.”
I laugh and it feels good, like too much pent-up energy finally being released, the balloon of my heart being popped. “Then I wouldn’t have met you.” When I turn away this time, I’m left with the image of his smile and that dark hunger in his eyes. I don’t look back, loving this memory too much to ruin it.
My steps are slow enough to hear his friend ask him, “Why are you messing around with some girl?”
The question doesn’t bother me because Alexander’s answer comes quick.
. . . I can still hear him as if he said the words to me himself, as if that afternoon was just today.
“She’s not some girl. She’s my girl.”
5
Sara Jane
The library is bustling with people tonight. Our midterm projects are due in two weeks, so everyone’s scrambling to finish them before final exams. I think I’ve reread the same page in this reference book five times and still not absorbed a word. Alexander seems to own my thoughts even when he’s not around.