"What?" I replied, my voice coming out squeakier than intended.

  Admittedly, he caught me off guard with the way he chose to phrase his words. The increase in the octave of my voice was proof of that. He elaborated further,

  "Us, we keep meeting like this!"

  The sudden flush in my cheeks made it hard to mask the nervousness creeping beneath my expression.

  "I'm heading home. It makes sense, does it not, for you to come with me rather than waiting on a bus, where you might end up seated next to a pedophile who stares at you for the entirety of the ride home."

  I agreed with him, not because of his pedophile comment, but because I wanted to know what it felt like to sit on the back of Peter Menace's motorbike. His bike, for sure, contributed its fair share of exhaust to air pollution. Basically just another death trap machine slowly tainting the air. Normally that would have bothered me but in that moment none of it mattered. It didn't factor into my decision-making. I thought to myself if dangerous fumes were going to be released in the air, mixing with the rest of the world's toxic chemicals and gases that might one day kill us all, then so be it. I was right where I needed to be.

  Yet, I couldn't just climb onto the back of his bike like some eager passenger. Not without a little resistance. That would have been too easy. If he wanted me there, he was going to have to work for it. So I pushed down the excitement brewing inside me and answered with the kind of snark that I thought would get under his skin.

  "You want me on the back of that death machine? Bold of you to assume I trust your driving."

  As I said it, at the same time the smoke chaser's voice came over the PA system,

  "Sorry folks, bus four delayed again for another thirty minutes, traffic jam."

  He smirked, as if he knew I had to forfeit my stance, and handed me a helmet.

  "Let me guess, the helmet is supposed to make me feel better about the whole possible death thing?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

  Still, I took it anyway. I slipped it on, climbed onto the back of his bike, and wrapped my hands tightly around his abdomen. I held on a little closer than necessary, just for him to tease,

  "If you wanted to get close to me, all you had to do was ask."

  I froze for a moment because I wasn't expecting that snarky remark, but I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it. I tried to convince myself that I didn't like the feeling of my hands being clutched around his torso, or the smell of his conditioned jet-black hair as the wind blew it back, allowing each strand to dance individually to the beat of their own drum.

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  I hated motorcycles, yet I couldn't come up with a real answer as to why I was on his. I could say it was because of the bus delay, but that would not have been true. I wanted to be there- on the back of his bike.

  The sound of it taking off was ear-splitting. Normally it would annoy me, but every fiber in my body just felt invigorated.

  Fifteen minutes into what felt like a drag race, the air started to look misty. It was followed by a light drizzle that we thought was okay at first but then it turned into heavy downpour that felt as if the sky had burst open. The sound of the thunder rolling carried for miles and the sight of lightning flashing in the distance was no better. It started to look dangerous, and I think Peter caught onto that too because it led to him taking an old back road, that would extend the length of our journey. On our route, we spotted an abandoned gas station and decided to take shelter there. Peter pulled the bike beside the cracked pumps and shouted,

  "Inside!"

  We both took our helmets off and jumped off the bike. He placed them in the compartment holder, leaving his bike stationary and ran towards the building, water splashing through the puddles soaked our shoes completely as we sought cover beneath its roof. By the time we made it inside, we were completely drenched. Water droplets dripped from my stringy hair and I looked over at Peter and his white T-shirt was now see through. The outline of his pecs printed through his shirt, I could see the curvature of his slender, sculpted abs which revealed to me that I was right about him having a six pack. For a moment, everything seemed to stop. Silence filled the air, all that remained was the drumming sound of the terrestrial rain banging against the station's leaky roof.

  He took a few steps closer to me, narrowing the distance between us. I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed my elbows in a weak attempt of trying to hinder the feeling of the coldness going deeper into my bones. But I had no luck because I was shivering like one of Santa's helpers in the North Pole. He noticed and asked,

  "You, cold?"

  "I'm f-fine," my teeth chattering as I said it. I wasn't the most convincing. He took another step onward and hilariously said,

  "I would give you my jacket but it's soaked."

  A soft chuckle escaped from my lips and this time I didn't try to hold it back. I wanted him to know I enjoyed his slick remark. Suddenly, without warning, the atmosphere in the room changed.

  I looked up at him.

  "Tara," he said my name in the softest tone.

  "I can't seem to get you out of my head,"

  The words hung there for a second. I wasn't expecting him to confess that to me. I didn't know how to respond so I decided to stay mute. For once, I didn't have a sarcastic comeback.The truth was, I felt the same. I had just never been good at putting my feelings into words.

  His hands moved from his sides and gently cupped my cheeks, the tenderness of his touch was careful, I couldn't help but look into the shallows of his eyes as he said,

  "Tara, can I kiss you?"

  After he made that comment, I scrambled for something to say, but I was left speechless so I nodded in agreement. I couldn't help but feel like a block of ice on a hot summer's day.

  I slightly opened my mouth and closed my eyes waiting for his silk-like lips to press up against mine. I willingly submitted to him, it was like I had become unsculpted clay in his hands and he was the artist holding the stencil.

  The blinding lights of a black sedan skidding into the gas station lot ruined our perfect moment. The expression on Peter's face told me he knew the model and possibly the person driving it. Three men hastily exited the car. The engine still on probably for an easy escape. They looked easily provoked. Now, in front of us, stood three men in the doorway wet and enraged.