Fighting the Wolves

Chapter Twenty

I roll off of Jackson as soon as my mind registers what I'm actually doing. It takes longer than it should, but I eventually realize I'm kissing probably the worst person in this town. I lay on my back, staring at the sky in my best attempt to imagine myself flying away.

"You got paint on me," Jackson is sitting up now, looking down at his shirt with already drying white splotches.
"Sorry," I almost whisper as I sit up next to him; careful to not brush against him as our bodies are uncomfortably close right now.

Actually it's quite comfortable.
It shouldn't be.
But I like it.

"Why are you covered in paint?" I hesitate, as I was suddenly about to spill the story, "I saw you leaving Missy's party, did this happen there?" I shake my head with a fake smile.

No shit Sherlock.

"Nah, I was just wondering if I could be any whiter, ya'know?" Jackson looks as if he's not sure what I'm playing at. As if he wants to smile or laugh but he's not sure how I'll react.

Good dog.

"I kinda like it, I feel like I need some lulu leggings, some UGGs, and take a bath in pumpkin space lattes!" My voice slowly morphs into a valley girl tone as the sentence progresses. I begin to twirl my hair with my fingers and giggle like a little girl as I stand up. I look straight into Jackson's eyes before trying my best at a sashay, then proceeding to strut away with my best model walk and slight booty wiggle.

Ya'know, the Iggy Azalea, 'I'm trying to hard to be Nicki Minaj' walk.
The worst walk in existence.
I've probably made it look ten times worse.
Maybe the paint really is affecting me.

I feel long arms snake themselves around my waist, pulling me backwards. I throw my elbows back in attempt to escape, but I never hurt him. If I am, then he must be extremely good at holding back the pain.

Guess we do have something in common.

I notice something stirring in both my chest and in my stomach, something that's warming me from the inside. Despite the sun already penetrating my skin with heat, I don't feel overheated. I continue to struggle in Jackson's arms, but not as hard as before.

Something has changed and I'm not sure I like it.

I'm placed into the passenger seat of Jackson's car with the door closed and locked behind me. The whole car smells like a mixture of Jackson's personal scent, and the smell of two dozen batches of greasy French fries.

Overall, not a bad smell.
I like French fries.
Still not sure about Jackson.

Jackson gets into the drivers seat beside me, buckling himself in as he closes the door. I don't buckle myself in, somehow I'm hoping that as revenge for years of bullying I'll get him pulled over.

As if a ticket would make up for years of torture.

"Click it or ticket, dumb-dumb." Jackson reaches over to buckle me in, I smack his hand away from a mixture of stubbornness and shock. Who's he calling dumb-dumb?
Unfortunately for me, I feel the unwanted tingly sensation in my hand flares as my skin makes contact with his. I'm not exactly sure what sort of supernatural bull crap this is, but it's making me begin to feel things again. Emotions I've repressed.