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Prologue
LOVERS, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
Robert Frost, Wind and Window Flower (1915)
1
Greyson
Washington, DC
Ipark the car, shaking my head as I turn the engine off, my hands trembling after having had to dodge the moron on a bike who abruptly drove into my lane not fifteen feet ahead of me. I take a moment to breathe before undoing my seatbelt and climbing out.
“Grey!”
I acknowledge Gideon standing across the parking lot next to Kennedy as I slam the car door shut, throwing an infuriated glance over at the idiot I nearly ran over who I now spy getting off her bike.
I press the key fob to lock the car and head towards my friends only for each step I take across the tarmac to leave me bristling with irritation at how recklessly these cyclists ride their bikes around DC.
As I get close to my friends, I find myself veering off course, pivoting to the left, deciding to give the cyclist a piece of my mind, if only to scare her into not doing anything that dumb or dangerous again.
“I could have hit you back there.”
She’s bent over a rusty old bike which looks like it was made twenty years ago, threading her bike lock through the front wheel and around the metal bar of the bike station.
She looks up at me, her eyes dissimilated by the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses. “What?!”
“I saidI could have hit you.”
“Oh,you’rethe Bentley,” she scoffs as she clicks the lock into place. “Not into subtlety, hey?”
My body stiffens. I bought the fucking car because it’s one of the safest in the world and because around here, people drive like… well, with about as much self-restraint and competence as she cycles with.
“I suppose you think riding like that is funny, do you?”
She stands up straight, squaring her slim frame at me remarkably boldly. She must stand around five feet three, about a foot shorter than me, but apparently, what she lacks in height, she makes up for in attitude.
She tugs the frayed brown backpack off her back and drops it onto the seat of the bicycle. “Look, I put my hand up to saySorry.”
Her head pivots to the right and I shoot a glance in the direction of her gaze to see Gideon and Kennedy now standing a few feet behind me.
When I look back, she’s reaching for the top button of her flowy white cotton shirt which is sticking to her sweaty flesh and that I imagine she’s wearing to protect her golden skin from unseasonably warm May weather.
“So what?” I bite as she undoes the first button. “You’ll get yourself run over one day, not to mention put drivers at risk when they have to brake to avoid you.”
“That’s all youreallycare about, isn’t it, sir?” she snorts facetiously as her fingers reach for the lower buttons before peeling the shirt off her frame and rolling the cotton up, shoving it into her tatty backpack.
As she stares down at the bag while pushing it in, my eyes can’t help but be drawn to the bounce of her tits. She’s wearing a navy-blue camisole and must have been riding her bike for quite some time for the thing is drenched in sweat, the fabric around her pebbled nipples wet and translucid. Her breasts wobble as she does up her bag.
“What did you say?” I ask, trying not to growl at this vexing little creature.
“I said, that’s all youreallycare about, right? That I don’t inconvenience the precious out-of-touch Bentley drivers around here?”
