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His words sting like an open wound.
A reminder that I’m exactly that.
Taught. Molded. Picked from the streets out of favor and not compassion.
The real one is sleeping silently in her room, that blooming innocence preserved for the man who will sweep her from her feet and bestow her with a life of endless passion.
Not thrown to the wolves, desperate for carnage.
3
BEGGERS CAN’T BE CHOOSERS
~GEMINI~
“Alumni, huh?”
I try to make some sort of conversation as we sit in heavy traffic.
Standstill vehicles have never been a pleasant experience. They force you to delve into your mind for some sort of distraction, bringing up memories you would rather throw in the trash than remain in a closed space.
It’s why I love motorcycles more.
Outside. Exposed. At my environment’s mercy, while cutting and speeding through traffic like a fucking villain.
Motorbikes are my high—the crack in cocaine.
It’s exactly why Warren hates it when I attempt to ride through the streets of this forbidden town. Where half the residents don’t know how to fucking drive, while the other half think they’ll beat the NASCAR world record of the fastest vehicle driven by trying to pass the light before it turns red.
“Intrigued?” Warren decides to cooperate while his dull eyes drift over to the passenger seat.
He notices my twitching left leg, which has been moving up and down irritatingly for the last ten minutes. We haven’t moved, thanks to an accident up ahead.
“Very,” I mutter and look out the window.
Counterproductive, but I don’t want to see the look on his face, knowing I’m getting irritated with this stillness.
“For an assignment.”
I wait for him to continue, the silence drawing out for a full two minutes.
When he doesn’t, I’m forced to return my eyes to him as he stares forward, waiting for any movement to happen in the car in front of us.
“And?”
“And?”
“What happened?”
“Classified, V.”
“Bullshit,” I groan. “You’ve known me since what? Five? Six?” I’m beginning to realize I’ve lost track of exactly how much of an age gap we have. “How old are you again?”
“Classified.”
“If you start saying everything is classified, I’m getting out of this chunk of metal and walking home.”
“You know it’s not safe walking these streets during rush hour,” he reminds me as if I haven’t known how reckless these same streets are.
