Your pants look better on my floor ;)

Your pants look better on my floor ;) CH11!

- Boy unexpectedly kisses Girl -

Boy : "I've always heard stolen kisses where the best"

Girl : " And...?"

Boy : "I was right."

(; aww, aint' he a keeper or what?

ENJOY BARBIE DOLLLS.

The radiance outside was melting into a dimmed shadow, as the thick trees outlined the house into sheer perfection. Vince propped me up against the kitchen counter top, his hands moving up my thighs. His touch was unsettling against me; it was flimsy and vaguely fastidious like he was afraid to injure me further more.

My eyes we're sealed shut as he dabbed at my forehead with the pallid cloth, tie dying it into a murky burgundy. As he worked I concentrated on the gasps of his breath, deliberating over how surprisingly wonderful he smelled.

"So what happened?" He's being melodramatic, inflaming my conscience with desire.

"Listen, somebody's after me. And if I could just borrow your car for like an hour," I insist opening my eyes, "I could just straighten things up to get these bastards of my back and I'll bring it right back and problem solved!"

"Who's after you?" His thumb is stroking my scar now, his eyes are hypnotizing, and I can't seem but to be aware of how close he is. Our breaths are loud heavy gasps, working in harmony.

"I don't really know. But I think it has something to do with my boyfriend." I don't realize how ugly it sounds until it's out my mouth. Vince's left eyebrow twitches and a slim crease appears between his brows.

"You have a boyfriend?" It seems like he's stumbling over his words, oblivious to how much he slurs them Vince twirls a piece of my loose curls around his finger.

"I do." I swallow feeling my Addams apple dance in my throat, suffocating gradually.

"What about precious Luke?" He tilts his head a bit to the right slithering in closer to me that our noses are almost touching. I can't tell whether or not he wants to know what Luke would say about me having a boyfriend or about me kissing Vince.

And that's when I realize that do; I want to kiss Vince. Essentially I'd be partially fond of /him/ kissing /me/ but either way would be just fine.

"What would you do if I kissed you?" I whisper, my hands are slowly cradling his face now, roaming around hazardous territory.

"I'd tell you to stop." He moans, and the moment has deceased - I've been rejected. And suddenly I realize that Vince has never been interested in me. All the time's he's managed to flirt have been fantasized by me. And who was I kidding? I couldn't stand a chance in comparison with impeccable and unfaultable Auburn.

I remember when I was fourteen I wanted to ride a bike. Mom wouldn't teach me, she just chugged her beer and let a quaint giggle, which resembled a rubber bullet, soar right through my chest, suffocating all that was left of yearning. So instead I worked for weeks, collecting tips, gathered loose change all of which assisted me in buying a grimy two wheeler with thin tires and a prickly seat. I had no idea how to ride but that wasn't going to prevent me from learning. So every day before school, when it was still murky out, I would hop on and ride. I'd get scrapes and scratches incised into my flesh, bruises and bumps carved into my body, and the grueling gratitude of struggling and achieving imprinted into my poise. And I've never felt more /alive/. So after a week, I'd had thought I was getting pretty good and had allowed myself to ride to school instead of walking the usual painful, lengthy road. I was crossing a busy street but something must have preoccupied my attention - a fly perhaps - and a car jetted straight through me.

I remember the pain, it was gruesome. My bones lingered on my scrawny body, my scalp burned from loss of blood; my feet twitched aching to be cut off. But that's not what hurt the most. Mom never came to the hospital. After day three they assumed I was just an orphan and with nowhere to go I stayed for the next two weeks, until one of the nurses stalked mom down in the supermarket and insisted to bring me home. Which she did, giving me the silent treatment for the next week, as if this had been my scheme and was my entire fault. And if you have a sick mind, like my mother and I, you could realize that in some twisted, obtuse way - it was.

I thought my very own mother not caring whether or not I died was the very worst feeling, emotion to ever subsist. But to my great amazement I had been wrong. The very worst sentiment to skitter past ones time is to rely on 'someone, to conviction in their faith, to bathe in their assurance, and them impale and prove you wrong. And that's exactly what Vince had done. He made me believe that I was an actual human being with corruption thoughts and fraud opinions and that I mattered in some sort of conical way to him. But then he denied everything with a flawed motion, throwing me back to where I came from; absolutely nowhere.

"I'm sorry," He was apologizing for not wanting me, a homeless whore. I'd smile up at him and let him know it was fine, that I didn't really care but I was afraid if I moved my facial expression - which was blank - I might suddenly corrupt into a sobbing parade.

"No, I'm sorry" I hovered, sliding off the countertop, "Can I just borrow your car and then I'm on my way. I'll stay out of your way for the next year, and when I'm eighteen I'm out of here. Promise, deal closed." My eyes were glued to the floor, like I was more fascinating in the title work than his exquisite face.

"I don't think so, where my car goes - I go."

"Are you saying you'd like to come along?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

I flashed him one of my extraordinary malevolent smirks and escorted him out through the garage. I've been in his world, competed with his rules, cleansed in his vision, but now it was reversed - he was vacant to discover my world, my malicious dirty world.

I must have been too fervent, covered in layers of rich, enthusiastic excitement to hear the chime of the phone ringing. I had thought Vince had been right behind me, perusing me to leap into his car first, but he must have stopped somewhere in the hallway.

It must have been intuition because abruptly I began to sense an exotic emotion, wafting throughout my body - consuming my flesh and that's when I knew that undeniably something was begin to slant into a intimidating, bloodcurdling night.

"It's for you?" Vince voice is questioning as he handles me the receiver. He remains close to me, so close that I can outline how his breath slithers down my back. I cradle the phone in my hand before I get distracted with cinders smoldering inside my soul from the instant burn I receive whenever Vince approaches me.

"Hello?" My voice sounds strangled, as if someone has tied a rope around my neck to smother me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The accent coming from the other line is brawny, a solid Russian tone. But I can noticeably tell its fake from the awfully tweaked r.

I don't have time to respond with a terrorizing menace because instantaneously the line goes blank, leaving me with a threatening promise which wakens and inflames a spiteful, well alarmed detective.

"Let's stop for burgers on the way; it's gonna be one hell of a night." I tell Vince.