to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

xiii.

xiii.

[lost]

lost, lost in
the heat of it all
girl you know
you're lost
lost in the
thrill of it all

lost — frank ocean

| "I'm lost in the heat of Sol—poetic." |

MIKE.

How the fuck did we end up here?

With the windows rolled down, one hand out, mimicking the patterns of waves, Sol lets the barreling wind blow dry her once glistening face with sweat. I'm going seventy-five, and inching close to eighty on the highway, and still, the air charging at her doesn't seem to phase her—neither what we've just done in my backseat, nor the gravity of what's to come phases Sol. But what should happen? What do I expect? I keep glancing at Sol, almost willing her to look at me, which she doesn't, and it's a jolt that electrocutes me every single time. I don't know what to do, what to say, and the gnawing curiosity of what she may do from now on hacks away at my patience. I may not know much right now, but I have, without a shadow of a doubt, an idea that she's not going to say anything to me. And, admittedly, it seems to sting my insides. Now, I've gotten a taste of my own medicine—fucking someone, then going ghost, staying silent, choosing not to converse any further past having sex, because I've gotten what I wanted; this is a two-way street, though, because most girls I fuck know that that's all we want from each other.

Maybe, once or twice, when I'm severely unlucky or decide to act like the biggest fucking asshole on the planet, that of which I'm not proud of, I have to completely leave a girl hanging. I've had many car rides after a hookup exactly like this; the car is silent, because I've chosen to keep it as some sort of business transaction; the girl is talkative, trying to keep the same banter going from before, but I don't engage. Or, times when I've had to give short, one-wondered answers, fake smiles and laughs that are so ingenuous it makes my insides cringe...

It's cruel, yes. I've done this so many times; fucked a girl, then detached so quickly it'll give you whiplash.

But, this? I can't stomach this.

Sol isn't one of those girls to sit in my passenger seat, high on sex, and allude to the fact that she wants more from me—a relationship, that is. Or, more simply, more sex, and that I could and would most definitely consider. All Sol would have to do is ask me to fuck again, and I'd find someplace to park so quick... And, yet, given that we haven't spent more time together, I understand Sol won't make me detach myself from whatever we've got going on. Because, here she is, reversing the roles, being as distant as she's always been. But, at least, I don't sense any malice.

The thought that maybe she's playing a game with me, just to get back at me one of the best ways she knows she can, has my face aflame with embarrassment. It's aggravating—how stupid I let myself be, to get fucked, if she's completed some mission by doing it.

Damn it.

That must be it.

There's acid, a bitter, nasty taste swirling in my mouth. My fists are tight around the steering wheel.

I floor it.

The speedometer inches closer to ninety.

I'd be so pissed the fuck off if this is the case. And, you know what, it's a pain to admit it, but I've no one else to blame except for myself. I brought this upon me.