Moved (#Wattys2014)

Chapter Seven

He groaned and leaned toward me.

“What are we doing?” he murmured.  I doubted he even knew he spoke aloud.

His lips brushed over mine, the barest of touches, there and gone again.  My heart thrummed faster, my lungs forgot to keep expanding and contracting, and my stomach did a flip from esophagus to hips.

“Gillian.”

Hearing him whisper my name unlocked all my caution.  His lips met mine again, still light and testing.  My hands snaked up behind his neck and fisted in his hair.  I pulled him down hard for the kiss I wanted.  He growled and opened his mouth.  Our tongues met in a violent storm.  His arms curled around me, holding me tight enough to bruise.  His hips tilted into mine, and my insides melted.

Just as suddenly as the storm claimed us, it was gone...and so was Racer.  All I had to show for the kiss was an elevated heart rate and two fistfuls of hair.  I let my head fall back to the mat and tried to catch my breath.

After a few minutes, I stood and turned off the blaring music.  Then, I made my way inside.  Passing his firmly closed door, I went up to my apartment.

*    *    *    *

Racer didn’t talk to me for five days.  Five days of sullen silence with only the brief evening calls from Dad to keep me company.  I tried to occupy myself with reading, research, music, and online movies.  None of it distracted me from the details of that kiss, though.  Thoughts crept in whether I was awake or asleep.  My dreams went beyond the moment and played out what might have happened next had he not run.  I often woke in the dark, my heart trying to beat out of its cage.  In those seconds after waking, I wanted it to break free.

On the sixth morning, I’d had enough dreaming and set a trap.  I poured vegetable oil on my kitchen floor and went back to bed to wait.  Some might consider it juvenile.  No more juvenile than avoidance or the silent treatment.  Besides, a man on his back was less likely to run again.

After seven hours, I got up to use the bathroom.  My head was starting to hurt.  I refrained from taking something for it, took a large drink of water instead, and went back to bed.

I dozed lightly until something crashed downstairs.  Definitely his door hitting the wall.  My eyes immediately popped open.  I listened to him bound up the steps.  He banged on my apartment door.  It was about time.  His noise made me smile.

“Go away!”

Another door slammed against the wall.  One thumping step.  Two thumping steps.  Thud.  Cursing.

“Gillian!”

I tossed aside the covers and walked down the hall.  He lay on his back on the floor.  His face was red as he studied a shiny, oil-licked palm.

“What the hell is this?”

I walked toward him, careful of the oil.  When I stood beside him, I lifted a foot, gingerly placed it on the floor on the other side of him, and sat on his stomach so I straddled him.  His eyes flew to mine.

“It’s vegetable oil.  I’ll need you to pick up some more from the store, by the way.”

His face took on a darker shade of red.  That wouldn’t do.  I scooted back, my rear bumping his hips, and he froze.  Carefully leaning forward, I waited until we were nose to nose before speaking again.  My forearms rested on his chest.

“I’ve come up with a couple of explanations for your avoidance, but I’m not sure which is the truth.  Either you’re staying away because you’re afraid of what will happen if my father finds out we kissed.”