runaway

NINE | FASTEST GET LAID

NINE | FASTEST GET LAID

With a racing heart and a doubtful mind, Emmett stares at the window seeing into her apartment. The idea to bring her along seemed brilliant at the time, but now, he wonders if such was nothing more than briefly being swept up in the closeness had with her in that moment. He is not necessarily worried how she will react, considering she is Jett, after all, but he fears the possibility of what is to happen afterwards, of how long she is to continue to stay the more of himself seeming to be revealed. Perhaps the blue-eyed Brit is simply overthinking the entire task at hand, or at least he hopes. With one last drag, the cigarette crushes beneath the sole of his shoe just before opening the door to enter the building.

The clock reads just shy of five o'clock when a whistle rings through the air. Bent over, tying her Dr. Martens, Jett glances over her shoulder at the newly arrived young man stood at the threshold, her unlocked apartment door laying open. She would deny it were it to be acknowledged, but a smile immediately decorates her lips at the mundane sight.

"Damn, Jett," Emmett says, smirk evident. "Your ass is almost as fine as mine." In all honesty, his eyes lay on all of her, admiring her rather than simply one part of her, but his words are unfiltered and too wrapped around her to make any sense.

Chuckling softly to herself, she quips, "At least my ass doesn't have Casper tattooed on it, sweetheart."

His previous smirk transfers to her when his face falls briefly at her comment. Only she ever seems to have the power to render him speechless and unable to retaliate. Still, he manages to recollect his composure enough to ask, "you ready?"

"Yeah," she says, pulling the loops of the laces' bow tight before moving to follow him from the apartment. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Emmett rolls his eyes and guides her down the steps leading towards the street where the car is parked. Heat from earlier still persists in the dwindling Georgia day, greeting them in a warm wall upon exiting the building. Streets and sidewalks alike grow more crowded with the conclusion of working hours, Jett and Emmett disappearing among their midst while he guides her to their vehicle.

It is not often that Jett is left in a state of absolute flabbergast, but when the car, black and slick and beautiful, in front of which Emmett stops, Jett is utterly shocked.

"You have a Porsche?" she stares at him with wide eyes, the passenger door opening at his guidance. The young man has made several comments only noticeable by someone who pays attention of his funds being less than ideal, and yet, here he stands, holding the door open for her of a car worth more than she has ever seen.

"Not exactly," Emmett admits, though offers nothing more. Rather, he gestures to her in a silent inquisition as to whether or not she will still come. She remembers then his words, "Only slightly illegal," when asking about his occupation. Perhaps, he is fulfilling his telling of showing her sometime. Either which way, whether the sporadic ray of sunlight reflecting to enhance the blue of his eyes a thousand shades lighter or the devilish smile adorning his soft pink lips or the assurance in his words of the night being anything but boring, Jett slides into the passenger seat of the car, already drunk on him and the excitement he invokes within her.

Athens passes by in a blur of manmade and natural beauty, the city's excessively low speed limits offering little incentive for Emmett to lift his foot from the gas, not that Jett minds in the slightest. The purr of the engine is almost silent, easily drowned in the bass of some Spotify-shuffled rock song flowing through the aux claimed by the young woman even before buckling her passenger seat belt. The wind rustles her hair through the open window; the sun warms her hand hanging out the vehicle, mimicking the waves of furiously passing air.