The Flames In Mind 9 Change Of Heart || Part 2

Typically, the drive takes an average of two hours long, regardless of so, it takes at least thirty minutes shorter since I come here too often to count.

After shutting my door, I take a deep breath uncontrollably marveling – through the window – the grey-tipped haired beauty napping in my backseat. She's barely noticeable due to the tint but when I walk over to the other side, you can clearly see the scrunched b.u.t.ton nose and wrinkles sporting that her milky complexion is disturbed by.

Contemplating on rousing her from her slumber, I open the door and pull the seat forward. It creates a light shake and a soft click. My car has two doors, so the front seats have to be s.h.i.+fted forward in order to access the back.

Her eyelids slowly flutter open before I could reach in; a light sleeper? Bee is one herself, but the seat never wakes her up. A very slight sleeper perhaps, or maybe she wasn't asleep?

Putting my thoughts in gear, not trusting my driving skills or where I would be taking us, I don't blame her. I practically forced her out of the house nearly forgetting she had to put on proper clothes and shoes.

Oops.

If it wasn't for my father's whiskey cabinet, this girl needs saving from Bee. I inwardly scoff at the thought, heroic much? Why am I worrying about this person? I could give a f.u.c.k less whoever has to deal with Bee's wrath.

I'll do that next time, the thought alone giving me a distasteful feeling.

"Um..." a throaty mumble pauses my train of thoughts; I see I am trapping the strange girl from getting out of the car.

"Sorry," muttering, I awkwardly s.h.i.+fted myself away from the door, stoically asking, "Do you need help?" Her jade-like eyes bore into mine, a foreign p.r.i.c.kle infuriating my skin, rises until she downs her head shaking out denies.

Gripping the seat and pressing her hand against the wall of the car for support, she hoists herself up. I step back further as she puts one foot out and onto the rock-filled ground leading the rest of her body out of the car.

While making the effort of taking her other out, it gets caught on the seat, tripping her over. Automatically, I lunge forward to hastily grab any part of her body before she faceplants the ground as I've been theatrically doing so for the past several hours.

A small blaring scream escapes her cherry red lips; at the prospect of her near death, the force stumbles me backward, leaning on the opened car door.

How many times is that now? I crumble up my face and lightly push her off my chest before she felt my heart give a start from the close proximity.

Moving away from the door, the annoyed expression I held gives her the hint to close it. I didn't say anything after that and begin to walk through the trees. A thin trail of sand barely covered from the leaves or branches, made its wake the further we walked and closer we got.

I halted as a thought crossed my mind, truly realizing where I brought her. No one knows of this place other than myself, why the f.u.c.k did I bring her here?

And if it wasn't for how quiet it is other than the crickets chirping, I would have completely missed what she utters beyond her gasp.

I turn around facing her, she jumps at my quick motion and progresses to look smaller the closer I advance her with a questioning glare.

My voice nearly cracks as I speak, nevertheless I mask it with a cold tone, "What do you mean it hasn't changed?" I breathe harshly, my nostrils flaring.

She flinches from my sudden change in demeanor; never taking her green eyes off mine, she gives me her answer.

"F-from my dream. It's..." her frightened eyes dart away from mine to look behind me, probably the moon. With furrowed brows, she bites her lip as if she was preventing herself from blurting something wrong, "...memorable," she finishes.

Memorable? She says memorable?

What is that supposed to mean! I know that can two f.u.c.king ways. Two! What is she trying to imply? So many questions on the tip of my tongue and I don't f.u.c.king say s.h.i.+t, holding them back.

With no idea what made me, I have questions. Maybe it was her emerald green eyes seeming to have gotten grayer by the moon. Maybe the biting of those luscious cherry-red lips; my eyes glance at them for a moment. I quickly look away into the trees behind her as my thoughts run amok. Maybe it's her freckles that are sprinkling on one cheek to the next, crossing the bridge of her alabaster b.u.t.ton nose. Or maybe it was her long black hair wrapping her in a coc.o.o.n of safety; it has my fingers itching to thread through its tresses. Or possibly the little pinkish scar under her front bangs.

Recalling not noticing it until we made o – no.

Taking a deep breath and a few steps back from towering over her short stature, I sigh aware of her shoulders going limp then relaxing. Let's me know I reacted way too much without intention. Having a short-fuse behavior hasn't always been peaches and cream.

I was lying when I said only I know of this place. My father is another.

Was another.

The man died when I was a young before then he'd always driven both of us up here at least a few times a year. We only went during the summertime because that's when the luscious gra.s.s of open field was genuinely an out-of-sight to see. Multiple acres of land he bought hoping to build something in the future.

With the full moon or the drawing of crescents, mounting itself on the canvas of the pitch-black sky, it is the only source of lighting. No lamp posts were around the area unless you had a flashlight, natural lighting in all its s.h.i.+ning glory would be enough.

It gives me a thought, is that why I f.u.c.king unintentionally brought her here? The full moon didn't have any clouds to shy behind tonight.

Either way, I never found what that something was. I knew or vaguely remember was how his green eyes blazed in astonishment of what his thoughts prevailed this piece of land could bring whilst holding me in his arms.

But now he's dead.

And I don't remember how he died in the first place. Mom said it was a horrible smoke addiction, I never believed her story of him dying of lung cancer.

Or at least that's what my stubborn self refuses to accept. It's confusing, I stray away from the thought of his death and still do.

I have asked my mother what he was going to do here, she tells me nothing sort of the obvious. Instead, her words were something along the lines of 'despite his eyes showing his human being, the skin covers it all too well.' I understood her representation a little as she cried me of those words. Never bothered to question further after that.

"Where are we?" She lightly whispers – the rasp in her voice licking all the sounds she produced. It put my turbulent thoughts at bay about my father. I hate talking about him.

I feel to say something neutral; I've never really been on to hold my tongue. "I thought your dream clarified that," I spit. Internally cringing, the pale cheeks reddening on her milky complexion nearly made me regret snapping out.

She bows her head down and takes a deep breath. After a moment, lifting her head, she glares in my messed-up orbs. Those green irises are swirling, turning darker – smoking embers eclipsing what I really see. Nothing but a spitfire ready to give me a piece of my own medicine.

"Correct me if I'm wrong..." clicking her tongue then poking the inside of her check before raking her eyes to study my face. I feel myself squirm under the intense gaze, instead, I raise my eyebrow regarding her course of action.

"You'd be nice, but you get hurt easily; is that why you're such an a.s.shole?" She never stutters a word.
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Sa.s.siness oozes out an extra when she proceeds to put her hand on her hip and tilt her head to the side; a little smile perfected those tempting lips. I lick mine, telling myself they feel dry as my throat.

The sudden change in demeanor flips a switch inside and I refuse to let her think she has me all figured out. Beverly has known me longer than anybody and she still tries half the time. That's why we work together, knowing half of each other is a nice whole chocolate chip cookie.

Except it's made with a lot of salt rather than sugar.

I give the black-haired beauty my honest response, kinda. "Studying me won't help you graduate," I banter, a cool smirk gracing my chapped lips.