The backyard was mostly dirt, surrounded by a chest-high chain link fence. The snow was just beginning to fall under the dark and gray, gloomy sky. I tightened my sweater around me, the air chilly.
Even though my clothes were still wet with alleyway muck.
"Ava, come on, it's cold out here," Jorge said.
"No, dammit," I said. "I'm going to prove I'm not crazy."
Rusting in the corner of the backyard was a so-faded-it-might-have-been-red 1958 Plymouth Fury—a fact I only knew because me and Jorge played in it a lot when we were kids. I still have a scar on the side of my finger from a rusty, super-sharp, torn-out door lock.
Thank god for always having had all of my shots.
The dog trotted along behind us as we made our way to the car and as I kept trying to convince Jorge.
"I don't know how else to say this," I said, "But look... Henry is like, super-strong. I literally just saw him do some really crazy stuff."
He might have even killed someone.
"Okay... and...?" Jorge said.
"Watch. I bet he can pick up the Fury." I gestured to Henry, then the car. "Go ahead."
He gave me a confused look.
He could pick it up, right? At least one end of it—I watched him swing a huge metal dumpster around like a twirler, for God's sake. If he can't pick up a car, he could at least bend a bumper or something, right? For SURE.
Easy as pie.
I went to the rear of the car, between the two giant rusted shark-fins that protruded from the sides. I crouched down, pantomiming putting my hands under and pulling up.
"Lift, Henry," I said. "Lift."
Jorge said, "Ava, chica, I know you love the dumb ones, but... this one might be a little too pretty, even for you."
Henry smiled at me.
I almost fell backwards—I loved how one corner of his mouth would slowly go up at first, in a smirk, before his lips would break open in a huge, beautiful smile, that made his eyes squinch in a super half-sleepy, full-seductive sexy-ass way.
Okay, anyways.
Henry came over and squatted down, putting his hands under the bumper—memory or not, he had perfect lifting form...
And just a perfect form—full-stop.
I stepped back next to Jorge to admire the view from the rear. Boy definitely worked out, no denying it—it was round, full, and perfectly shaped. I couldn't believe how it was making me think... things I've never thought before.
Like, I wanted to grab it... and squeeze it... and bite—
"Mi gusta," Jorge breathed.
Henry said, "Ava?"
"Yes, go ahead," I said, sucking the drool back into my mouth.
If the view from behind was good before, holy smokes... all of his muscles tensed, and that perfectly shaped, shelf-like rear-end popped in all its glory—I mean it was so curvy and chiseled and carved through his pants that they almost split.
Nothing happened.
"Henry?" I said.
He tried again, his body tensing.
YOU ARE READING
Getting Home
Teen FictionAva Mather is a normal 17 year old who has her life suddenly turned upside down when a young man jumps into her car. The young man has amnesia - and after Ava realizes he's harmless, there's something about him she can't resist. It soon becomes appa...