Runaway Girl (Girl 2)

Don’t I?

There’s no sense in lying to myself. In the middle of all this freedom, I’m a prisoner to my own thoughts. I can’t tone them down or ignore them. Especially since human nature is in full swing around me. As much as this parade is about self-expression, those nobler intentions are slowly giving way to human nature. The sexual kind.

In the darker sections of the parade, nude, painted bodies press close, mouths move as one. I find myself watching couples kiss far longer than is polite, my endorphins popping wheelies south of my belly button. My hands move of their own accord, trailing up my stomach, following the curve of my hips. The music pumps louder and my breathing matches the pace, sounds of laughter and drums joining together to form white noise in my ears. The sense of anonymity adds to the riot of sensations, too. No one knows me here. I’m just a body.

A body that suddenly needs pleasure so bad, it’s aching all over.

Jason.

I swallow.

Jason’s hands. Touching me there. His foul words in my ear.

Stop. I’m making myself damp.

I hear whispering behind me a second before a hand catches mine.

A jolt of fear has me pulling it away and spinning around. “Excuse—”

It’s him. Jason is…here? Is that him standing in a sea of colorful nudity, putting everyone to shame by being ten times as compelling? No, there was something in those green drinks and I’m hallucinating. Oh Lord. I should never stray from Sauvignon Blanc. “You’re not really here.”

He’s pissed. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him. His jaw is bunched and ticking, that huge, sculpted chest rising and falling beneath his gray T-shirt like white caps during a storm. That anger is cut with something much more intoxicating, though. Lust. It’s the lighthouse in the middle of a hurricane, guiding me in its direction when I should avoid it, well aware it’s surrounded by jagged rocks and surefire ruin.

Dark eyes envelop me in a long head-to-toe sweep, that rapt attention lingering between my legs, raking up my stomach to devour my breasts. “If you need proof I’m here, baby, I’ll give it to you.” Jason grabs the back of his collar and whips the shirt off over his head, earning whistles from several directions. He doesn’t seem to be aware of any of them, which shouldn’t turn me on more than I already am. But it does. He’s like a bull standing in the center of a flower patch and I’m the red flag. I’m so overwhelmed by the authenticity of him, I can only stand there as he drags the T-shirt down over my head, not even bothering to help my arms through the proper holes. “I thought those conspiracy theories about you being a nudist were exaggerated.”

My gasp turns several heads on the street. “How dare you read those without telling me? They’re complete and total nonsense!”

“Are they?” Jason steps closer. “You’re two seconds away from being kidnapped by Bigfoot.”

“Excuse m-me, miss,” stutters a man to my right. I turn to find a bespectacled man in bike shorts with a dragon painted on his torso. He’s half the size of Jason and at least fifteen years his senior, but he’s leveling a frown up at him anyway. “Is this big jerk bothering you?”

“Listen up, motherfucker…” Jason fumes, before he trails off into a sigh. “That took balls. If I wasn’t here and a man was harassing her, I would want someone to intervene.” He passes Dragon Man a nod. “Thanks.”

Dragon Man sniffs and tugs up his shorts.

Jason turns his attention to me, and I almost blister under the heat and tenderness of it. “Naomi, please tell this man I would willingly lay down my life to keep you from injury.”

“He would,” I whisper.

“Without hesitation.”

“Without hesitation,” I repeat, shivering.

We must stare at each other for longer than I realize because when I zone back in, Dragon Man is long gone and Jason has come closer. Closer, until he’s lifting me into his arms. A wicked combination of dread and anticipation is booming in my ears. No. No, the pulse is everywhere. Under my skin. Shooting down to my toes. My sex is heavy and throbbing, my nerve endings in such heaven from being pressed up against Jason’s safe chest, I almost moan. I should be screaming at him to put me down. I should demand to know where he’s taking me, but I don’t care. He’s given me permission to stop making decisions. And it’s exactly what I need. I need to be absolved of my conscience.

I can barely look away from the determined set of his jaw to absorb my surroundings, but I see we’re traveling away from the crowd. Moving down a side street, turning one way, then another until we’re on a brief strip of cobblestones between two restaurants. Both establishments are in full swing, music and laughter spilling out of their doors, but we exist in the empty alley between, visible if a passerby looked close enough but far back enough from the street that the darkness swallows us whole.