Aftertaste, noun
Af·ter·taste
: persistence of a sensation (as of flavor or an emotion) after the stimulating agent or experience has gone
There was once a time she was running away from her life, from people, from everything and everyone; running a...
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Alexander's POV
I'm parked in front of my parents' house with my window down, a cigarette in one hand and flipping my phone in the other. I'm late, but she's even later. I look at the clock, deciding if she doesn't come in a minute, I'm going back home. I hope she doesn't come.
But she walks out at that moment in a mini skirt and a crop top with a jacket over her, obviously not caring about the cold. I have to blink a few times and I don't know if I should start laughing or just continue staring in disbelief.
There was a time I would find this hot and would be even smug about the fact that she took the time to make herself look hot for me. But those times are over for me. I look away from her, wishing my mother wouldn't ask me to take her around the city. For God's sake.
When she sits in the car, her strong, sweet and pure girly perfume tickles my nostrils and I just want to gag. I keep my window open to let the fresh air in. "Hi! I'm so sorry I'm late, I couldn't find my phone." Her accent is strong, her voice high.
"It's cool," I say, not even looking at her. I put the cigarette out and then drive away.
"So, you're a smoker," she says as an observation.
"Mmm," I mumble, not interested in the small talk.
"Is Gabrielle not bothered by you smoking in the car and your place?"
I raise my eyebrow, my scalp prickling at Gabrielle's name coming from her mouth. I don't know why the hell she bothers me so much, but I truly can't stand her. "No," I grumble.
"You two are cute together. It seems like opposites really do attract."
I just eye her sideways. What the fuck is she pointing at? I don't say anything back, I just rather clench my jaw and grip the steering wheel tighter.
"Hmm. You're not very talkative," she muses.
I want to bang my head against the steering wheel. "Have nothing to say," I murmur.
I hear her sigh. "Okay. Can I put some music on, then?"
I point my hand to the radio. "Be my guest."
Master of puppets by Metallica starts blasting from the speakers and I bite down onto my lip, turning the volume down. "Oh! I love this song. Are you a fan, too?" Lena asks.
Obviously. It's my USB with my music on it, although Gabrielle hates this kind of music, so we rarely listen to the radio when driving. I can't stand her shit she listens to. "Yeah," is all I say.
I take us to the centre of London and park the car. I don't come here that often because I hate the crowd and I have nothing to do here, really. Lena seems to be all excited about it. I wonder how Gabrielle was the first time Sam showed her the city. She was fascinated, no doubt, because she always gushes how much she loves it here whereas I don't find it anything special.
