3. Maxwell
Maxwell
Ifinished my homework quickly because, unlike the popular belief, I’m smart. I do know what I’m doing.
My brain is just wired differently, and I always need something to stimulate myself. Something that isn’t homework. Something like weed or pranks and jokes and dares.
Or even maybe a ride down an open road, hands free of my bike’s handlebars to feel the wind rip through my fingers.
Cleaning up my textbooks and notes, I grab my leather jacket, the one that is all black with scuff marks and tears. Replacing it would be the correct option, but this was the last gift I had ever received from my father for a birthday.
I hate it, but I love it, too.
It reminds me of when our relationship was better. When I wasn't constantly living to piss him off. Eventually, something inside of him changed, and it changed me too.
Sure, I might miss what was, but it doesn’t matter anymore because all I have is what is.
Sliding the leather onto my body feels comfortable. Familiar. I grab my keys from the bowl on my desk and head outside to student parking.
As I round the corner of the hallway to the elevator at too fast a speed, I knock into a wall. Blinking myself out of it, I realize it’s not a wall at all, but Clayton Reeves.
“No wonder you can’t open a textbook to read; you can’t even watch where you’re going,” Clayton snaps. His backpack hangs over his shoulder, fighting to slide its way down.
“You need a drink or your dick sucked. Something. You’re so fucking tense,” I respond, leaning against the wall since he is in my way, feigning indifference. My eyebrows quirk up, coming up with an idea.
“What?” He says to my face, wondering why I look excited.
“Come with me, pretty boy” I say, starting to step forward and let him follow me, but when I turn my head over my shoulder, he doesn’t move.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he scoffs as if the idea is the equivalent of asking for his firstborn. “I don’t even want to look at you. Thought I made that clear in class.”
I laugh, deep from my chest, wondering what has him hating me so much. He must be the only one because everyone else finds the humor in my pranks and dares. I’m always doing the shit that people are too chickenshit to do. It’s not my fault that I was born with a big set of balls.
“Come.” My voice is rough, leaving no room for discussion.
Clayton shakes his head. This isn’t a battle I’m going to lose, because that isn’t something I do. Leaning closer to him, I grip his wrist and drag him behind me.
“Let go of me,” he tries to pull away from my grip, but despite my lean and slender look, I’m stronger than my body shows.
“No.”
We get into the elevator, and the air is thick between us, something that I can’t quite place running through the air. A tingle in my fingers where our skin touches, but I ignore it, not looking into what that could mean.
It doesn’t mean anything.
At the ground level, I shove the grand doors open and walk out, still dragging Clayton behind me, but it feels like I’m lugging dead weight because he keeps trying to dig his heels into the ground.
“Where are you taking me?” He asks, but I don’t answer. Just continue on my way to my Kawasaki Ninja 500.
When we get to it, I grab the helmet sitting on top of it and hand it to the hunk of meat beside me.
Clayton almost drops the protection, but catches it before it hits the ground.
His backpack slides from his shoulder and falls to the ground with a loud thump.
I smirk at the fact he is protecting my things rather than his own.
“I'm not getting on that death trap. We are in one of the top three highest motorcycle fatality states. Not to mention, I don't even know you,” Clayton complains.
I grab his glasses from his face, grab the helmet with my free hand, and shove it over his head. He tries to argue, but his words are muffled beneath the helmet. Pointing to my ear, I say, “Sorry, what? Can't hear you. Get on.” I retort, flinging my leg over the bike.
Clayton bends down to pick up his bag, arm muscles straining against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Turning toward him, I reach up and press a button on the side of the helmet to click on the microphone to hear him better.
“If I die because of this ride, I'm going to haunt your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say before starting up the engine. Roaring and echoing in my ears, vibrating and shaking beneath my body. Home, that's what it feels like.
Clayton puts his leg over, sitting right up behind me. Both of us are too big for this bike and take up too much room. He's big, bigger than me, and I know damn well that he could have stopped me from dragging him out here if he really wanted to.
His body is flush against mine, the front of his torso pressed against my back. His hands aren't on me, probably hanging down and holding onto the bike.
“Hold on to me or you're going to regret it,” I shout over the sounds of the engine revving. When Clayton’s hands slide around my waist and lock together in front of me, I fly out of the parking lot.
His hold tightens, and I hadn't thought he could get any closer to me, but his body feels as if it’s entwining with mine.
The speed accelerates, wind smacking against us, and without my helmet I feel a sense of freedom that I don't usually have.
Traffic is heavy now, it's around 7 pm, but that’s normal for Florida. I zigzag through all of the cars passing by. Clayton is tense behind me and silent, and if I couldn't hear his breathing through the mic, I'd think he wasn't at all.
The whole time we ride, we don’t talk. Not a single word is spoken. I just live in this moment with Clayton, and he allows it, fearing for his life while I live on this high.