Saving Scout O'Brian (REMASTERED)

Twelve

Scout

The cold air made my lungs burn in the best way. My feet sank into the sand, the edge of the sea at my fingertips, the soft spray a relief on my flushed skin.

For the past two weeks, I woke up before the rest of the world, my body aching and drenched in sweat, my mouth dry, and the only thing I wanted was another taste of her. Gritting my teeth, I willed myself to speed up, to think of anything but way she tasted. But it was fucking difficult. I shook my head, pausing to bend over my knees and gasp for air. I'd put my long hair up in a bun today, and I was grateful. This morning I'd gone farther than I had before, nearing the miles of rocky terrain that bordered these beach houses, and for an early Saturday morning, it was busying up fast. A few people walked their dogs, or were on their morning run like me. An elderly couple smiled at me, their hands interlocked and love in their eyes as they looked at one another. My stomach clenched, Evelyn's face swimming behind my eyes.

More visions came, and before I knew it, I was drowning.

"Scout," she whimpered. I drew her closer, addicted to the way my fingers fit perfectly into the handholds of her waist. Enthralled by the buttery softness of her skin, her supple curves melding with my unforgiving muscle. My eyes were half-mast, watching her as I slid my tongue along her flat stomach, looping around her belly button. At her succubus moan, I delved into the warm, wet heat between her legs, my mouth watering like it was the only thing to sate me. Her moans and soft sounds urged me on, and the way her hips lifted to meet me, god it was sweet torture. "Scout."

A raspy sound came from deep in my throat. My fingers tightened on her thighs, hers winding through my hair.

I could stay here forever, I thought to myself, my eyes slipping shut as she started to come apart.

"Miss?" I jump, startled, blinking at the woman in front of me, staring at me in concern. Her short black hair came to just above her shoulders, and she was dressed in a tank top and running shorts, like me.

"Sorry," she laughs. "You looked like you were about to keel over. Just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Um, thanks. I'm good." I mutter awkwardly.

She seems amused at my discomfort, her green eyes surveying my scarred and inked skin with curiosity. "Well good, I'm glad. You're new here, right?"

I eye her warily, my defenses already lifting. "Yes. My daughter and I moved in a month or so ago."

She bobs her head. "Right. Well, not to sound like a total creep, but I've passed by your house a few times and couldn't help but notice the sick boxing set up you have. Where did, or do, you train?"

"I don't," I replied, gruff. "Train that is. It's a learned habit."

She nodded again, like this wasn't a surprise.

"I see. My husband and I own a boxing gym, if you wanted to stop by. It's "Four Silver Knuckles" off of fifth ave and main, with a red and silver sign. We are open from six to ten on weekdays, and eight to 5 on weekends."

The offer genuinely surprised me, and I actually felt a small kernel of excitement flare in my chest. Somewhere I could legally beat people up? I'll take it.