Leather Kisses

Leather Kisses. 13

Dean briefly paused, tugging on his dark hair as he made a sharp turn. "Okay, fine, because it's your birthday, we can go to my house for a little bit."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I exclaimed. Due to the circumstances, I didn't mind getting special treatment on my birthday. This was the only exception.

"You're welcome," Dean warmly replied. "But you have to promise that you won't complain when we go to your house."

I grunted a lousy, "Fine."

The drive to his house was longer than I expected. We drove on for miles, to the outskirts of town, and eventually, the area became foreign and unfamiliar to me. The houses were smaller, and the landscape and roads were shoddy. It felt like I was in a a completely different town.

Finally, Dean pulled up to a quaint, white cottage. His motorcycle was broadly parked in the driveway, and a miniature garden surrounded the mail box. Compared to the rest of the area, their property was actually very sweet. Hesitantly, I stepped out of the car, and followed Dean into his house. The inside of his house was not nearly as well kept as the outside. The walls were bare, painted in a mucky earth tone and mismatched furniture filled every room of the house.

"Wait here, while I wrap your presents," Dean ordered, before flying up the staircase.

Awkwardly, I stood alone, unsure of where to go. I drifted into his living room. The television set was propped up on the coffee table, which was placed just feet away from the worn fabric couch. Next to the couch were random sitting chairs, and lamp desk. As I decided against sitting, I drifted towards the mantle.

Baby pictures, cards, and other ornaments were sporadically placed along the cement block that hung above the fireplace. My eyes wandered, stopping on one individual photo. The dreary man in the frame was not Dean, though they shared similar features; dark, messy hair and intense eyes. Captured by the very essence of the old photograph, I picked the frame up, and tried to get a closer examination. A prayer in Ecclesiastical Latin was tucked into the corner of the frame. Intrigued, I began to try and translate it.

"What are you doing?" A deep, burly voice asked from behind me.

Caught off guard, I yelped. My hand lost grip of the picture frame, causing it to land on the floor with a clunk. As I caught my breath, I turned around to see another man.

He was younger than the man in the photograph, but older than Dean. He was shirtless, revealing rock solid abs and tattoos. His black eyes pierced at me, as he bent down to pick up the photo. When he came back up, he shadily glared at me, and crossed his arms around his chest.

"Sorry," I stumbled, adverting his judgmental eyes. "I was just looking."

"Yeah, okay," he muttered. He walked passed me, leaving the scent of cigarettes, alcohol, and cologne behind him. "What are you doing in my house?"

"I'm . . . a friend of Dean's," I awkwardly replied.

"Oh. I usually know all of Dean's friends," he replied condescendingly. "I'm Alex, his brother."

"Nice to meet you," I stammered.

"Yeah . . ."

Alex sat there, quietly, his eyes slowly observing me. Then, he looked away, patted his thighs, and reached into his jean pocket. In his hand, he pulled out a Swiss army knife, which caused my eyes to widen in fear. Alex didn't pay notice to that, and went on to carve into a piece of wood.

As he worked, I stared, silently begging for Dean to come down and end this awkwardness.

"Are you going sit, or just stand there like an idiot?" Alex asked, his eyes still focused on the wood piece in his hand.