Rush

I take the long way to her hotel. I know it's a completely fucked up way of keeping her close to me for as long as possible, but I don't give a shit. Everything inside of me is raging at the idea of letting her go. And the outside's not far behind. My skin is hardcore addicted to her. Like even now, with her arms wrapped around my waist, it's just not fucking tight enough.

Jesus.

As we hit the Strip, I take my turns easy instead of how I like them, fast and as close to upside down as possible without getting my skin peeled off by the asphalt. Because we're close. Too close. I don't know what we're doing here, what I'm doing, but I don't want to push her. If I push her and she fucking kicks me to the curb again, I'm done for. As in, major therapy and lots of colorful pills.

When we pull into the hotel's driveway, I don't stop in front of the sliding glass doors. Those bozos who check bags and shuttle tourists around aren't going to witness our farewells. Shit, I don't want anyone to see it, especially me. Instead I park down a ways, in the shadows of the building.

I step off the bike, then help her. I think my hands are shaking, which they've never done-ever. But this girl, she just fucking tears me up. I watch as she pulls off my helmet and holds it out to me. Her long hair is mussed, her cheeks are pale, and those eyes-fuck me-those mismatched eyes that belong to me, well, at least the one, bore into mine. And this time, I let her. I let her look. I let her take a good, long gander inside my ribs to my newly repaired and fully-functioning heart.

What do you see, Ads? I want to ask her. Grab her by the shoulders and force her to tell me. Tell me she wants nothing else but me. But shit, that's not fair. Twenty-four hours can't demolish a whole life. She has friends and school. Shit, she's graduating in a few weeks.

"Addison..."

Her eyes prick with tears and she shakes her head. Really fast, really manic. Her hands are balled into fists and she looks like she's about to lose it. And frankly I'm not far behind.

"Call me?" she rasps out.

"Sure," I return, my gut rolling, eating itself alive because I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can hear her voice and not go insane. Wouldn't it better to block her ass out, leave it here on the stained Vegas concrete and go back to real life?

She starts to walk away, but I grab her wrist and haul her back against me. She melts into me like chocolate, and I breathe in the scent of her hair. For several moments, we cling together like scared monkeys, then I release her. Our eyes connect one last time before I turn away and straddle my bike. I don't look up as I drop my brain bucket on my head and kick start the engine. Don't look back as I haul ass away from the curb.