Thrasher's King of the Road

Chapter 4

I keep my head down as my mind starts racing with what I'm going to say to the person attached to these torn-up Sk8-hi Vans. I'll just say something like,"Oh, sorry for staring at you guys skating and if I'm being weird. I swear I just really like skateboarding and I'm not some drooling girl who objectifies shirtless g-"

Before I can even move my lips to get the sentence out, a relaxed, smooth voice carries down from the guy standing above me. When it hits my ears, my eyes instantly snap upwards to look at the stranger in front of me.

"Uh, excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but um, my friends and I are kinda in the middle of a scavenger hunt thing and could use your help. One of the things we have to do is make-out with a natural redhead. Actually, we have to see who can make-out with the most people during our skate trip, but gingers are worth an extra point. Unfortunately, you're the first one we've ran into the whole trip, and tomorrow's our last day. We're really trying to win this thing because there's 50 grand on the line, so any points we can get this late in the game would be crucial. I know it's awkward and you're probably just trying to have a quiet picnic in the park without annoying skaters bothering you, but we can offer beer in exchange for a quick kiss if you're down."

While he's giving me his sales pitch, I can tell that he's uncomfortably shuffling his weight back and forth on his feet. Not in a nervous way, but in a way that makes it clear to me that he's been slamming into concrete for the past 12 days straight. There's an obvious pain in the way he stands, slouched on one side with a dusty blood stained wrap around one knee. He's covered in wine colored bruises spreading across his arms and peaking out through a hole in the side of his Independent t-shirt. The circles under his eyes are so dark that they almost appear sunken into his sun-tanned skin. There's no doubt in my mind that this guy is in some serious agony based on how disheveled he looks.

But yet, with all of those injuries, combined with the layers of scabs and bruises he has spanning his body, they barely negate how handsome he is.

Although my perception of height is skewed because he's standing over me, I can still tell that he's tall. Not Evan Smith tall, but definitely taller than me. He's bulkier than the other guys on his team. Stereotypically, skaters have a rep for looking like they're one cig away from death. And while that's not entirely true, there's some truth in the fact that skaters are typically slim and lanky. But not this one in front of me. He's got some muscle on his arms and legs that imply he should be doing contact sports, not 540 alley-oops on transition. A few tattoos are scattered over those muscles, some that appear to be home-made.

And then my gaze meets the features of his face. The tiredness in his eyes and present darkness underneath them are completely offset by the emerald green shine of his irises. A small cut on his chin only makes the shape of his jaw more apparent, round yet still defined. Even the fact that his facial hair has probably gone a few days without shaving doesn't even matter. The stubble totally works for him. He's got on a Red Bull hat that's covering his shaggy dirty brown hair, but some stands are sticking out just enough to lay across his ears.

Wow. I wonder if this guy would make Mara's hot skater list. I'd bet that he'd be a strong contender for sure.

Still a bit thrown off guard from the very direct proposition, I try to regain my composure so I can force myself to say something back to him. Instead of answering his question, I respond with one of my own, "Tt's for King of the Road, right?"