Love, Romance And A Boy (bxb)

Part Fourteen - Part One

Part Fourteen - Part One

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I really need to stop thinking about Scott.

But how can I, when he peels off his shirt and wraps it around his waist? The sunlight glints off his back muscles, making every flex and shift mesmerizing.

We trudge through what feels like hours of relentless heat, my legs on the verge of collapse. Scott suddenly stops, and I glare at the back of his shirt.

"Hey Squirrel," Scott's voice carries a note of urgency. "You might want to see this."

I step closer, my brow knitted in confusion, and join him. Before me stretches a vast, sun-scorched plain, almost like a desert.

"No way," I say, shaking my head and turning to walk back. "I'm not risking heat stroke!"

Scott grabs my wrist, his grip firm as he spins me to face him. "We can't just turn back. How are you going to find your way home if you do? Look," he says, rubbing his temple in frustration, "there's a place over there. They might help us."

I cross my arms, skepticism etched on my face. "That's what you said last time, and we nearly got shot!"

He meets my eyes with a steady gaze, his hands gently cupping my face. "We can handle this," he says with quiet conviction. "I believe we can."

Reluctantly, I follow him into the blinding sun, grumbling under my breath. I untie the hoodie and use it to shield my face from the scorching rays.

My breath comes in heavy pants, and Scott glances back, his concern evident.

"You alright?" he asks, brows knitted.

I nod, even though my legs feel like lead. "Yeah," I reply, meeting his gaze. "Just keep moving."

To my surprise, he keeps pace in front of me. I touch my burning cheeks, feeling the intense heat. Just as I'm about to complain about the walk, Scott's voice cuts through, "over there!"

I follow his outstretched arm, spotting a bar-house in the distance. It's bustling with activity; heads and bodies move through the windows.

"Think we can go in?" I ask, spotting a man revving a Harley-Davidson. "They're bikers. They might not be friendly."

Scott chuckles, and I scowl. This is serious, but he seems to treat it lightly. "We're not looking for trouble," he says, brushing off my concern. "We just need directions. They'll know the way out."

I sigh in resignation. As the bar-house looms closer, I grab his hand, and together we jog toward what might be our salvation.

The row of bikes parked outside the bar makes my stomach churn. Music thumps from within, and I force a smile despite the nerves tightening in my chest.

Tattooed men and women spill out of the bar, barely noticing us as they huddle around a table, engaged in an intense arm wrestling match.

Scott tugs at my hand, but I pull back, shaking my head. The scowls on their faces say enough; approaching them could be a bad idea.