It's a different car. Again. Connor texted to tell me he's here and I step out of my apartment to see him standing in front of yet another impressive looking car. That's the third one. This car is by far my favorite, it's black with a thick red stripe down the center of the hood and roof, it's got shiny chrome accents, like the door handles and the silver grill with its horse logo. It gives off a laid back vibe that matches Connors personality to a tee.
He leans against the passenger door, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans, plain white t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and he's wearing a light denim jacket that matches the exact shade of blue of his sneakers. Did he buy the shoes specifically for the jacket or was it the other way around? His hair is in its usual style, brushed back from his exquisite face and his smile is making heart do funny little flips in my chest. He opens the door for me as I approach him and greets me with a grin, "Hey," I smile back and offer him a nod in acknowledgement. I'm still a little unsure of today. I know I'd said I wanted to give this a shot but now that I'm staring that decision in the face, it's far more daunting.
When he finally pulls away from the curb, I turn to him. He's doing that hot driving thing again and my brain scrambles for a solid second to remember English. Lord, this is not right. He has way too much power right now. "So, what's the deal with the car?" I ask, affecting a casually interested tone. It's fake, I'm very interested. How exactly does a man working an entry level IT job manage to show up in three different expensive sports cars within the space of two weeks. I find this is a mystery I'd really like to unravel. He gives me a quizzical side look, there's a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"It's a mustang."
Oh he's so full of it, "You know that's not what I mean," I roll my eyes and relax further back into the leather of the seat beneath me.
"Then what do you mean?" he chuckles then reaches over and takes my hand like he did last time, resting it on the gear shift. I'm so in awe of the casualness of the action that I stare at our interlocked fingers for a moment.
"I mean," placing unnecessary emphasis on the last word, "how come you've shown up in a different car every time I've seen you?" I tear my eyes away from out hands long enough to meet his gaze, stone gray. They're cool and disarming as always.
"Well, that's unfair." He huffs, I raise a brow. "How about this, for every question I answer I'll get to ask you one of my own." That sounds like a catastrophe waiting to happen. Reluctantly I nod. Please, don't make me regret this. "I bought the cars with my inheritance money." He gives a little shrug. The kind I've learned people use when they're self-conscious about what they just said.
"Inheritance?" a glance at him tells me he's not keen on this conversation, his hand is tightly gripping the wheel, his knuckles white.
"Yes." That's all he offers. I don't want to push but now I'm even more curious. What kind of inheritance allows you to own three sports cars. "My turn." He looks back at me with a roguish smile. "What's your favorite color?"
"Absolutely not, that's unacceptable. You've crossed a line!" I mock, flinging my free hand over my face dramatically. He laughs and the deep sound eases some of the tension from the previous conversation. Good.
"Seriously, though, what is it?" I watch his profile for a moment, deciding if I like the way everything feels new and exciting with Connor. I'm not sure but it's intriguing.
"Blue."
"Like the Mets?" he inquires, glancing from me to the road then back again.
"Like a midnight," I shrug. "So dark it's almost black."
"So why not just say black?" he raises confused eyebrows in my direction, I focus on the break in his eyebrow from that cut.
"You already got your question, it's my turn." He nods acquiescence. "Where'd you get that cut in your eyebrow from?" The shock in his eyes as he turns them on me is so unexpected that I freeze. Did I say something wrong? I feel his fingers tighten over my hand and he exhales, turning back to the road. He drives for a bit, so long I think he's not going to answer, as I open my mouth to tell him it's okay; he begins:
"I got it in foster home number eight," there's a quality in his voice I've only ever heard once before. With Dastan. He's upset. Wow, that was an unintentionally personal question. Way to go Kiera, not even an hour in and you've already blown it. "I was fourteen and I got a little mouthy with my foster father, he cracked me across the face with his TV remote." Oh God. Oh, my God. I turn my head so sharply in his direction, the bones in my neck make a popping sound.
His face is completely devoid of emotion. His profile is hard, unreadable. "Connor, I…" you what? What could you possibly say in response to that? You think anything you say will even make a difference? He clears his throat roughly, he doesn't look shaken. That's one positive at least, he makes a sound of discomfort and asks; "So, why not just say black?"
Foster home? Inheritance? Connor has a history that's as messed up as mine. My mind is reeling. How did I not notice before? Am I that checked-out that I didn't pick up on obvious tells or is Connor just that good at lying? No, I don't think that's it. "There's just something about it that I find comforting. It's a solid color, stable. And God knows I could use more stability in my life." I offer him this little peek into my own trauma, it's the least I can do after forcing him to throw his out there. "Plus, it reminds me of the way the sky looks when there's a full moon." I shrug, and give him a smile. I feel silly having said it aloud but he doesn't look at me like he thinks it's silly. He nods as if I've just made an astute observation about the functions of rocket fuel. "What's yours?" I hope he doesn't notice my obvious attempts to lighten the mood and steer us to less touchy territory.
"Yellow, " he says without missing a beat. He visibly relaxes in his seat, his grip on the wheel loosening, the color returns to his bone-bleached knuckles and he looks less severe.
I snort, "Like SpongeBob?" he turns the full effect of his mercurial eyes on me. They're clouded over like the sky before a storm, the depths of grey struck through with silver and blue lightning. I feel the air become charged with static, taste the metal on my tongue. I watch as if from a million miles away, a different lifetime altogether, as he raises our linked hands from the gearshift and touches the strands of my hair that hang near my cheekbone.
He gets a thoughtful look about him, "Like sunshine." I think I gasp, or maybe that just happens in my head. My cheeks feel uncomfortably warm, the skin of my face tingles and I just know I'm blushing like a dumb teenager on their first date. He smiles a small, private smile, one that seems fashioned for my eyes only, and I decide I might be content to look at that smile for as long as I'm allowed.
We spend the rest of the drive shooting rapid fire questions back and forth. I learn that he has two more fancy sports cars bought with his inheritance, his favorite movies are the Fast and Furious franchise- specifically the third movie- and that he's afraid of roaches. It's all so ordinary that I expect at some point I'm going to tire of the mundanity but being this way with Connor just feels good.
He takes me to a drive-in movie theater and we sit in his fancy sports car surrounded by beat-up trucks with high school students hooking up, while watching some black and white movie that I can't for the life of me pay attention to. It's been over thirty minutes and I still don't know what it's supposed to be about. My eyes keep darting over to Connor who at some point in the movie removed his jacket and is lounging in his seat that he's reclined while chewing on a piece of liquorish. It's hot, boiling, in here. I force myself to focus on the movie and make it all of two minutes before I look back. This time he's already looking at me.
He raises a pale blond eyebrow, "Yes?" Crap. Now what? There's nothing more humiliating than being caught checking someone out. I'm about to make an excuse, something about needing air so that I can make a quick exit before I do something dumb, when he brings the last bit of his liquorish whip to his mouth, I watch in spellbound fascination as he chews and swallows. My mouth goes so dry, I could drink the entire pacific ocean right in this moment. "Are you not enjoying the movie?" he asks, with a little frown pulling at the corner of his candy-stained lips, I wonder if he tastes like liquorish.
Suddenly, I'm leaning across the center console. The more sensible part of me, the part that I usually let make the decisions is screaming, I ignore it and plant my lips against his. He puffs a startled breath through his lips., there's a second of surprise before he reacts. Then he cups the back of my head with his large hand and takes over the kiss. His lips are soft, and warm; they taste sweet. There are thoughts in my head, I'm aware of that, but I don't have the mental faculties required to interpret them right now. All I know is that Connor is kissing me and I might never want him to stop. It feels like some long forgotten part of myself has just returned, like something crucial has just been unearthed. It's exhilarating.
He must feel it too because in the next moment he hauls me over and into his lap. I straddle him, planting my knees on either side of his body in the seat and tangle my hands in his ashy hair. The strands are soft, like feathers passing through my fingers. He rests a hand on my thigh, his thumb stroking a maddening rhythm against the fabric of my jeans, his other hand is running through my hair. I'm not sure how long we spend like this, just exploring this new aspect of our relationship and I don't care. Anyone could see us right now, and I can't bring myself to give a shit. All I'm concerned with is that he keeps kissing me like this.
When he pulls away for air, I continue kissing my way down the pale marble column of his throat. He makes an appreciative sound that only spurs me on, his fingers tighten where they rest on my thigh and I feel him tug lightly at my hair-not enough to hurt but enough to get my attention. "We probably shouldn't," he sounds breathless. Some smug part of my brain purrs in satisfaction at the thought that I did that. I don't know where this behavior is coming from, and I don't think I care enough to try to figure out why he brings this reaction out of me.
"Yeah," I say dismissively without stopping the trail of kisses I leave down to the collar of his shirt. He tips his head back exposing more of his skin and I don't waste time taking advantage.
"Kiera," How does my name always sound so good coming from his lips, like poetry. "You have to stop." That gets my attention. I jerk away, and scan his face for a sign that I've somehow misread his situation. God, that would be mortifying. I don't think I could talk my way out of this one. Sorry, I lost my balance and fell lips first onto you doesn't seem like it would suffice as an excuse. Did I make him uncomfortable? No, I don't think I did. His eyes are blazing like molten metal, the pupils blown so wide there's only a small ring of silver. His skin is flushed, his chest heaving with every breath. His lips are swollen and pink, I have to stop myself from leaning forward and capturing them in another kiss.
He doesn't look uncomfortable. I try to convey the question sitting like a boulder at the back of my throat with my eyes. Connor strokes his thumb over my cheek where his hand has slid down from my hair. His voice has a strained quality to it, like he's holding himself in check by sheer force of will. "Not here." In a moment of clarity, I get it. I can respect that. I nod and make an attempt at a reassuring expression as I climb out of his lap and maneuver myself into my seat, snatching the bag of skittles I'd abandoned in my haste to maul Connors face. Popping two into my mouth I attempt to pay attention to the movie again, that goes about as well as the first time. This time there's less tension, now that I've made my interest abundantly clear, some of the restraint we'd been practicing flies out the window. He spends the rest of the movie holding my hand, stroking his fingers along the sensitive skin of my inner forearm all the way to the crease of my elbow and back. Twirling strands of my hair around his fingers. Who knew Connor was so tactile? Not that I'm complaining but if he keeps touching me like that I will explode. I don't think I can't take much more of this.