Page 39 of Wicked Scorn
“Okay,” she agrees, her voice steadier now.
She shoves her books into her backpack, and I go to take it from her, and she shakes her head.
“It’s gonna be heavy, Oak. I can put it between me and the tank or I’ll have someone come grab it.” I tell her, but something about the look in her eyes tells me that’s not happening.
“No, thank you. I’d really rather have it with me and on my back. Just please don’t push me on this.” Considering everything, I concede even though it annoys me knowing she’s gonna have that heavy shit on her back.
Grabbing the helmet off my right handlebar, I tug it on her head, tucking all the wisps of hair in so they don’t get caught. Flipping the visor up so she can see me, I lean in, my fingers grazing her neck and chin as I fasten it on her. She’s not smiling, but she’s not scowling at me either, so I’ll fucking take it.
“You ready?” I tell her, giving her the chance to speak. To give voice to anything else she might need to say in this moment, but all she does is nod, looking adorable in her dress, cardigan, and this clunky helmet that makes her look like a bobblehead. My little bobblehead, but still.
I grab her by the waist and lift her up and put her directly on the back of my bike. Could she swing her little, short self on, yes, but this way gives me a fucking hard-on and clearly, I’m a goddamn masochist.
“Always such a gentleman,” she says, a hint of sarcasm lacing her words.
She grabs the back strap as I climb on and lift the bike up and off the kickstand. Settling into our seats, I feel her grip around my waist tight and familiar. I haven’t had anyone else on the back of my bike in years. Just her. Always her and since she’s been back in my life and on my bike, I’ve finally realized it’s a comfort I hadn’t realized I missed.
I rev the engine, the deep rumble vibrating between us,and we take off, leaving the campus behind. The wind whips past us, carrying away the weight of words, history, and everything between. Oakley’s grip tightens as we speed up, her soft hair whipping against my neck.
We ride for what feels like hours, letting the bike take us away from the present. It’s just two wheels and the asphalt and us. My favorite place to be, between her thighs. Finally, I pull over at an overlook that offers a view of the valley below. A food truck sits off to the side, its neon sign flickering invitingly.
“Feeling hungry?” I ask, glancing back at her. Her cheeks are flushed from the ride, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Starving,” she says, her lips curving into a smile that could light up the darkest night.
“Stay put,” I tell her, though part of me doesn’t want to let go just yet. I walk over to the truck taking off my helmet, order us some food, and return to find her gazing out at the horizon. The setting sun casts a golden glow over everything, painting a picture so perfect it almost hurts to look at it. I take out my phone and snap a picture of her sitting on this damn picnic table. She sparkles just like a fairy, and I’m tempted to call her Tinkerbell, but I’d like to keep my balls intact today.
“Food’s here, bunny,” I say, placing the food on the picnic table. She spins around and moves to sit on the bench. Silence wraps around us comfortably. The only sounds are the distant hum of the food truck’s generator, the few other people that stop to enjoy the view or food, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.
“It’s beautiful,” Oakley finally says, breaking the silence. Her voice is soft, contemplative.
“Yeah,” I reply, though I’m not looking at the scenery. My eyes are fixed on her, taking in every detail—the way her haircatches the light, the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lips part slightly as she breathes.
“You’re staring,” she says, catching me off guard.
“Yep,” I tell her. I have no need to deny it. I’ll stare at her as much as I want and never be fucking ashamed of it.
She looks down, a faint blush creeping up her neck, and I wonder if every part of her can turn that color. How easy would it be? Does it spread quickly or is it a slow flush?
Guess I need to fucking address the elephant in the room. “You know what happened with Royce wasn’t what it looked like,” I start. “You need to know that.”
Her eyes flash with something. Hurt, anger, maybe even hope, and she looks away.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says softly but firmly. “Whatever it was or wasn’t, it still happened and look at us. We’re all splintered. I don’t have my brother or my best friend.”
“We can’t go back,” I admit. “But I want…I need us to figure out how to move forward.”
“I miss this,” she whispers finally, breaking the silence. “Being with you. You always were so hard to say no to and yet so easy to hang out with. You were like sunshine to me.”
Her words fucking sting because I’m not sunshine, but she is, and the fact that she called me her sunshine rips at my insides.
Claim her. Lock her up and never let her go. She’s yours, always has been and always will be.
“Do you know what it feels like to have your body seize up and alarms scream in your head whenever someone gets too close or looks at you too long?” She shudders, her small frame wracked with the effort of confession. “It’s panic, Jeremiah. Raw, unfiltered panic that takes hold of me and—and I hate it. It chains me down, stops me from being normal, from?—”
“From what?” I push, needing to understand her torment as I round the picnic bench and sit down next to her.
“From being with someone. I tried telling my parents, but they just waved me off and sent me to their doctor. All he wanted to do was write me a prescription for Xanax and told me to go shopping.” The last words come out as a choked sob, and she buries her face into my chest.
