A Thousand Storms

10 burning

I stared at him, open-mouthed. My cheeks stung with the influx of heat.

He really needed to wash his mouth with soap.

Repeatedly.

"No thanks," I said eventually, "I'll pass."

I pushed my arms through his jacket, the heavy leather hanging on my smaller frame.

"Fine by me," he said, eyes roaming his jacket on my body, "you're the one missing out."

I clenched my jaw. "Can you stop talking about your stupid-ass weiner already? Geez."

Mason snapped his head up to me, and my eyes widened at my own words.

"Weiner?" he repeated, amused. "What are you, seventy? It's called a dick, blondie. Verga. Huevos."

I growled under my breath, the blood not leaving my cheeks. "Let's go. Now."

He shut his mouth, finally, but couldn't get the amusement out of his eyes.

"Okay," he said, tapping the seat of the bike, "get on."

I stared at him as he held his bike upright for me to mount.

"Get on, blondie," he repeated, "I'd love to stand here all day while you stare at me, but unfortunately the world doesn't really give me the things I want."

The bike was huge, and I was so very, very small in comparison to it. It was too tall for me, and he knew that.

"Help me up, idiot!" I snapped.

Mason gaped at the monster he'd brought out. I was done with his shit. Done.

"Ask nicely," he said.

I narrowed my eyes. Nicely? Nicely? Was that even a word in his messed up dictionary?

"Help me up, idiot," I repeated, my voice high-pitched and sickeningly sweet this time.

I shot him a fake smile at the end.

Mason chuckled lowly. "Retract the claws, blondie. We still have a whole day ahead of us."

I inwardly groaned. What had I gotten myself into?

Before I could register anything, his hands were at the sides of my waist, and he was picking me up. My shirt hitched up and his warm skin made contact with my own, sending a shiver down my spine.

He set me down on the seat with ease, winking subtly, just enough for me to notice.

The breeze swept through his hair, ruffling it further. I found myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hands through it...

I snapped myself out of the thought hard and fast.

It was not the time, ovaries.

He passed me a red helmet from a storage box that looked too neat to be true.

"Here," he said, "it's my old one. From high school."

I took it. "Should I be worried?"

Again, that amused glint in his eyes. "No. I'd like to believe I keep my things in good condition."

I was beginning to get the inkling that Mason Valdez was a fully-fledged Neat Freak.

The thought made me smile.

I placed it on my head, clipping it on. He took out a slightly larger black helmet, so shiny I could see my reflection in it, and clipped it on.

Then he climbed on in front of me with ease, placing his hands on the sidebars.