Mio, Run Baby Run

Chapter 10 Declan

The well-worn leather bucket seat moulds to my form as I slide behind the wheel, its custom fit like a tailor-made suit embracing every curve. I turn to face her.

"You okay?"

Finding the bottle of water I store in the side door; I hand it to her silently. She nods in gratitude, her coordination off. Her fingers slip over the grooves of the cap, taking three attempts to twist it open. She raises it to her lips, taking careful sips. Handing it back, she leans her head against the window. Her glasses hang on the bridge of her button nose. Quick glances reveal her wide, doe eyes staring absently outside. The shock of the accident has passed, giving way to worry. Her mind will start questioning if she's really okay, if something is broken or if there's bleeding on the brain. Hopefully, after the adrenaline ebbs away, she'll see sense and go to the ER for tests.

Even the smallest car accidents have a way of putting life into perspective, at least for the next 24 hours. By the next day, the reflection is forgotten, the slate wiped clean, and life resumes. I reach out, my fingers caressing her forearm, touching the sheer fabric covering her skin. She flinches, shrinking back into the seat as if I've branded her with a hot poker. Instinctively, I withdraw and place one hand on the steering wheel, conceding for reasons I don't fully understand. It was only a touch.

Taking in her bland appearance and unmistakably out-of-date fashion sense, I realize she might be from some small, backwater town. She's probably still a virgin, no wonder she baulked at my touch. No doubt it would upset her God-fearing daddy if he knew she'd gotten into a beefy muscle car with a complete stranger. I could put her at ease, show her my badge, but admitting my profession always results in a series of stereotypical questions. And I'm too tired to entertain a grown child.

Besides, it was her fucken Uber driver who pushed the car in front of him forward enough to dent the signature chrome bumper on my dad's car. Jesus, my father would be rolling in his grave. He would have stormed out of the car, berated the driver in half English and fiery Italian, making a show. He would have torn the dimwit a new one. The thought threatens to bring a smile to my face, which I quickly smother. Memories of my father are the worst flashbacks. It's easier to deal with grief when your mind isn't harping on it.

"I don't like people touching me without my permission," she seethes, turning slightly towards me.

"I was just going to ask for your address," I explain. Wanting to add, you ungrateful bitch, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. She's had a traumatic hit to the head.

She states her address, a timid smile flickering across her lips before she purses them together. It's a stoic, miserable smile with a deep sadness. Does she think the sky would fall if she smiled? She has gorgeous full pouty, pillowy lips. Sneaking quick peaks of her flawless set of straight teeth, I am confident that she could deliver a truly impressive and stunning smile. I bet I could make her smile, the inner me rallies. It's a challenge I should ignore. She wouldn't win any fashion awards, but something about her conservative wardrobe makes me want to strip it off and see what's inside.

Her clothes do little for her, too conservative for someone her age. What is she hiding? That was my first thought when I placed her frail body on the curb. I push it aside, reminding myself I'm not on the job now. Not everything deserves the ire of my suspicious mind. This, among other reasons, is why I'm still single closing in on my mid-thirties. I have trust issues, as the department's psychologist terms it. Trust no one, my father always said. It's the only spiritual teaching I live by, though it doesn't help that I work in a profession dealing with society's underbelly.Where the law on the street governs behaviours more so than conscience and the constitutional law itself.

She clearly prioritizes modesty and traditional fashion norms. Definitely a country bumpkin visiting New York. Her makeup is understated, but with her bone structure, she doesn't need much. She's naturally beautiful, with a contoured jawline that could cut through the wind like a knife through French silk. So why dress like a fifty-year-old cat lady? Thoughts leapfrog in my mind, imagining her on the end of my rock-hard cock. Fuck I have to get laid this weekend.

Our eyes meet, awkward seconds pass before I realize I'm staring. She coughs politely, ending the spell. My eyes blink in rapid succession, as she says,

"I'm on 34th street... the Herald Apartments."

Her eyelids flutter like butterfly wings, her long lashes sweeping across tired eyes. The adrenaline is leaving her body; she's exhausted. "You're staying in Manhattan?" I blurt, my surprise evident. She nods. I tap the indicator stick and pull into traffic, oblivious to the underlying insult in my tone. Turning back for a quick peek, I notice her cross her arms over her chest. My eyes move to her face, where I see her lips tighten. Ignoring the evident body language, I foolishly continue, impervious to the clear cool temperature that fills the cars cabin.

"How long are you staying?"

Assuming she's visiting New York was my first mistake. I'd offended her. Though a little dishevelled, she doesn't look like a typical New Yorker who lives in the epicentre of fashion and entertainment. I'd judged wrong. Manhattan is a cultural and entertainment hub, with Broadway theatres, music venues, nightclubs, the nightlife is vibrant and buzzing. This chick is so rigid and stiff, I doubt she'd even feel the buzz of a vibrator if it wasn't buried knees deep inside her. I feel her wrath before I see it. A quick glance registers the scrunch of her nose, nostrils flaring, perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together.

"Staying?" she snaps. It's one word, but her tone implies a question.

Before I can correct my faux pas, she informs me, "I live here." Her tone is indignant, like she's claiming her territorial right as a long-standing citizen of New York.

"I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." My words stumble out awkwardly like I haven't been speaking fluent English for the past 3 decades. Her cheeks rise like she wants to smile, but she holds it back. Her eyes light up with a fleeting sparkle before she extinguishes it.

"I'm utterly exhausted," she admits, exhaling on a sigh. "Do you mind if we don't do the 'getting to know ya' thing?" She's unashamedly abrasive and couldn't care less that she's acting like an utter bitch. I steal another glance, because I'm not quite sure what the fuck I've picked up, Madame Medusa or Cinderella. An image barrels through my head like a clap of thunder. I try to force it out, but it's too late. My mind goes back there again. It forms a new picture: her mouth on my hard cock, luscious pouty lips wrapped firmly around me, cheeks sucked in, my fingers ...

Tearing my gaze away, I blink several times, ushering the image away. I've been on assignment too long. I just need to get home, shower, and now, thanks to her, I need to get laid. Discreetly, I allow my eyes to roll over her body. Conservatively dressed, her uptight appearance has dirty thoughts running through my mind's eye.

My mind concludes it's how she's dressed, sparking the filthy thoughts racing through my imagination like wildfire in a dry bush. She has me feeling like some overly excited schoolboy who's fixated on some porno that stars the overused storyline of a naughty nun. Underneath the habit, one hell of a hot, steaming body—the reincarnation of Lucifer himself. I steal another glance, trying to clear my head of the sinful thoughts. Wide eyes catch my own. Perhaps she's accustomed to presumptuous people judging her appearance. Maybe the joke's on me. There is no doubt if my eyes boasted the stunning depths of hers, I wouldn't cover them up with old-fashioned and outdated, thick-rimmed glasses, better suited to a grandparent. I'd consider contacts, let the world see me. I catch a fleeting sparkle in her eyes before she extinguishes the twinkle. She gazes out the window, her melancholy stare returning. The conversation is over.