Page 5

Or at least off her shoulders so I can see more.

More of her.

Fuckme, do I want more of her.

Need.

And it’s a need I shouldn’t have.

Emaline warmly watches the others file out of the room, yet the sounds of my black bike boots hitting the cheap wood lament floor smother out her smile.

Shift her focus.

Her demeanor.

I openly study the way her breath seems to hitch.

Stop entirely.

The adorable way her toes wiggle in the socks she’s got stuffed into sandals.

Everything about her is hidden away.

I think that’s the appeal.

I spend so much of my fucking time, day in and day out – between work and the club – with chicks that show and offer everything – wanted and unwanted alike – that the idea of discovering something is tempting.

Like joy riding a Harley ‘94 VR 1000.

You know you shouldn’t.

Those bikes are rare.

They’re not meant to be taken out.

Or rode.

Just looked at.

Admired.

And yet…if the keys were in the ignition and no one was around and you had twenty miles of open road with no red and blues to stop you…you’d have some serious fun.

Emaline is that serious fun I wanna fucking have.

My classmates?

Those red and blues that are no longer around to stop me.

It isn’t until we’re practically toe to toe that I finally speak, “You willin’ to help me, Mrs. Owens?”

“Um…” Emaline blows a thin hair that’s wandered into her vision away from her face. “Miss.”

I let the corner of my lips kick upward prior to asking, “No mister?”

Surprise replaces what was most likely previously fear. “No.”

“Mister in the making?”