Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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Strawberry shakes, warm golden streetlights, and old Christmas music in late October.
It's not exactly how I imagined I'd spend my twentieth birthday, but I'm not complaining. Micah gave up trying to fix the radio five minutes into our drive, but since the broken radio seems to only pick up a station dedicated to old Christmas music, I've been humming along softly as we cruise down the dimly lit highway.
We've been driving for forty-five minutes. In that time, we've managed to eat the bacon burgers he stopped to grab us before he pulled us onto the highway. Now, dipping my hand into the brown bag sitting on the seat between us, I rifle around the fallen fries on the bottom of the bag and pull one out. Dipping it into my strawberry shake, I take a bite, smiling at his thumbs drumming absently on the steering wheel to the beat of the classic Christmas carol humming softly from the speakers.
Reaching in for another fry, I manage to ladle a much larger scoop of the thick strawberry shake and lean over the middle seat, sliding it into his waiting mouth. His eyes never leave the road as he closes his mouth around my fingers, sucking the sugar and salt from my skin. My veins flood with kerosene when his tongue caresses my finger, but it's the lazy, suggestive hint of a smile — the insinuation of what that tongue will taste later — that lights the match. His teeth graze the pads of my fingers as I pull them away, only adding more kindling to the fire scorching my veins. The hint of a smile dances in his eyes when he glances over at me, his gaze dipping down to my lap.
"What are you making?" The way he's reading every passing exit sign like he's not familiar with the area only makes me more curious, but when I look back down at the bracelet in my lap, I cross one leg over the other and attempt to mirror his cool indifference.
"You'll see."
It's the same thing he's said to me every time I ask where he's taking me.
His cheek twitches at that.
I've been working on it in my spare time for the past two weeks, but since I've been at the studio so much lately, I've barely been able to pick it up. Once I realized he wasn't going to tell me where we were going, I settled back in my seat and pulled it out of my bag. I've been intricately braiding and twisting this thread for the past twenty-five minutes, smiling down at the thread whenever the warmth of his gaze would linger on my fingers for a few seconds. I'm only a few braids away from the end now.
Sliding the final knot into place, I tie it off with a satisfied smile and hold it up, admiring it in the passing streetlights. It's a quarter-inch wide, made up of silky smooth black, white, and red thread in a delicately braided design.
"Can I have your hand?"
His brow raises, but he doesn't argue as he extends his arm, resting his hand in my lap palm up. "You know you're not supposed to give me a present on your birthday, right?" The truck's cab is so small and warm that I can feel the low vibration of his laugh as if he pressed his lips against my neck to do it. The warmth of his gaze lingers as I tie the bracelet around his wrist and trace the line of it against the smooth, black-stained skin beneath. The veins in his arm protrude even more when he flexes his hand and rolls his wrist as if he's getting used to the feel of it. I've never seen him in jewelry — not a necklace or ring, and certainly no bracelet.
