Page 82 of Victorious: Part I

Smirking, I fold my arms across my chest. “You plan on having to apologize to me often?” I quip.

He side-eyes me, a mischievous grin crossing his face. “I’m a man, Clo. I’m sure I’m gonna do something else stupid on this trip that I am gonna need to apologize for.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I mumble under my breath. “Oh fuck! Turn here,” I practically yell at him.

His eyes widen. “Wait, here?”

“Yes, dude, here!” I scream, pointing at the road dramatically, almost blocking his view.

“Jesus, fuck.” He turns the wheel frantically. “Sit down, woman.” We almost miss the turnoff. A car honks frantically behind us as I burst into a fit of hysterics, landing back in my seat.

He straightens up the truck, calming his breathing as I continue to giggle in my seat beside him. He slowly turns to look at me, shaking his head.

“Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in more danger being here with you than back at the clubhouse?” he teases.

Smiling, I giggle, unbuckling my seat belt. “What? Do I scare you?” I taunt. Then I move through the middle of the seats, my ass sticking out right next to his head as I gather my equipment that’s sitting on the back seat—my camera, tripod, and the small portable light I brought just in case.

A low growl reverbs from him, and I risk a glance over my shoulder to catch him staring at my ass. I can’t fight the smile that crosses my face. “Eyes on the road, Wes,” I quip.

He huffs, his hand gripping the hem of my jean shorts, and he hikes me back into the passenger seat. I let out a small squeal as I pull my equipment with me, laughing as I go. “Shit, you’re strong,” I mutter as I sit back in my seat with my bag on my lap.

He glares at me, shaking his head. “Don’t call me Wes,” he demands, but this time, I can tell he really means it.

Sinking down into my seat, I clutch my bag to my chest and nod. “I’m sorry. I knew you as Wes for so long, you know, before you got your patch.”

He’s quiet, his eyes facing forward, and his breathing is quicker as emotions clearly race through him. Though he obviously doesn’t want to open up to me about them.

Anxiety races through me that I have pushed him too far. So, I turn for the window again. “We’re not too far away, so I’ll be quiet until we get there,” I tell him, watching the sand fly by, almost wishing it would open up and swallow me whole.

Still, he says nothing as we continue toward our first destination. A tightness creeps into my throat as thoughts of home take over. I think about how excited Maverick was when I got this internship. How proud. And now, instead of celebrating this opportunity, we’re running away while Maverick stays behind to fight a war.

Suddenly, Phoenix’s hand slides out, gently squeezing my knee. I guess I didn’t realize it was bobbing frantically with my anxiety. “Hey, we’re doing what they asked us to do, remember? This, us leaving, it’s how we help them.”

I don’t know how he knew I was thinking of home. Maybe he saw the signs of his own fear reflected in me. So, I simply nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet, and give him a small smile.

He tips his chin in return as we spot a sign. He turns onto a dusty side road, and suddenly, my eyes light in awe. A field of metal and glass catches the morning light in a kaleidoscope of colors. Bottle trees of all sizes stand like sentinels across the property, and wind chimes and other found objects are dangling between them.

“Ho-ly…” Phoenix mutters, his words trailing off as he parks the truck.

Grinning from ear to ear, I open my door eagerly. “Told you,” I chime, unable to keep the smugness from my voice.

He chuckles, tilting his head as he steps out, his eyes wandering all over, his steps slow, like he doesn’t know where to look first.

With my bag hiked over my shoulder, I move to his side, and I’m immediately struck by how quiet it is here, the silence broken only by the gentle tinkling of glass in the breeze. The morning sun catches the countless bottles, throwing pools of colored light across the dusty ground.

My chest floods with excitement as I grin from ear to ear. “This is absolutely perfect,” I breathe out, already framing shots in my mind. “The light couldn’t be better. We got here at the exact right time. You nailed it, Phoenix.”

He raises his brows in delight. “You’re welcome,” he replies, standing a few steps behind me, hands in his pockets, looking bewildered in this strange, artistic space. As I walk around getting a feel for the right places and best angles, he doesn’t rush me, doesn’t complain while I spend several minutes probably looking like a complete weirdo, standing on things, laying on the ground, looking through my fingers. I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy.

The things we do for ‘the gram!’

I set up my tripod and start filming a sweeping shot of the bottle trees, talking quietly to the camera about the history of the place and the artistic vision behind it. I move through the installation, capturing close-ups of sunlight filtering through green, blue, and amber glass and the patterns they cast on the ground.

At one point, I look over to find Phoenix watching me with an unexpected expression on his face.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious as I pat down my shirt, thinking I have dirt on me from when I was lying on the ground.

He shakes his head, a slight chuckle escaping him. “Nothing. Just, you really know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

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