It only takes one moment to change your life forever.
It only takes one decision to alter the course of your future.
It only takes bravery to open your heart.
But once your heart is open...it's open to being shattered.
Lyra and her mom had little in...
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Chapter Nineteen: Inter-stepping and Interlocked
Lyra:
It's beautiful...complete and utter chaotic mayhem...but beautiful nonetheless. Bright strobes of multi-colored lights wink in and out, illuminating the night sky, with their candy colored perfection. The evening air drapes like a heavy cloak, and lays thick with the scent of cloying sweets, and untold, buttery goodness. Every which way I look, lights and unfamiliar sights meet my wide eyes, and capture my attention—I'm breathless in rapt fascination. Bells, whistles, good natured shouting, screams, and laughter cut the air, painting a picture of pure joy and revelry.
"Whoaaaa there..." Trent says suddenly, while steadying the uneven gait of a little boy who has just run headlong, right smack into him.
"Ohhhh...I'm so so sorry, he totally wasn't looking where he was going, he should have been, but he's just so quick and...and..." a pretty woman, clearly the little boys mother, her face flushed pink from exertion or possibly embarrassment, rushes over, and gently pulls the child to her side, her words seem to die out, however, the second Trent bestows upon her, one of his hugely beautiful, 'Colgate-would-be-jealous, and pay money for,' smiles.
Trent's already megawatt smile seems to brighten even further (amazing, I know—as it's already at a, 'sport your shades,' blindingly, bright level), and, as he shakes his head, he sends loose strands of his hair to swing, and fall haphazardly across his forehead. And God, even his "disheveled-falling-out-of-his-arranged-artful-hairstyle," hair, is hotter than all flipping heck. Hell, honestly, it only makes him hotter—gives him a kind of "careless" and "roguish," appearance—messes a bit with the "All American Pretty Boy," vibe he has going for him.
Jesus criminy crap on a crapped on cracker! What in all the blazing infernos of hell am I even saying...thinking? Am I really ruminating on the roguish, and hotness factor of his hair, his freaking hair, of all things? I mean, really? Ugh. Ugh, and triple flipping ugh times a bazillion. It's just that he is so freaking handsome. He's so handsome that it's kind of nuts—and (I laugh inwardly as I think it) kind of not even fair to all the billions of other just, handsome, but they'll never be Trent (or Tal, for that matter), men out there. Honestly, his looks should come with a surgeon generals warning, something along the lines of; looking at this face can cause severe, and serious heart palpitations, loss of all common sense, vocal inability, and major overheating of your body—in some areas/parts, worse than others. Look at your own risk. Proceed with caution. Side effects; Under such good looks, be prepared to be rendered completely stupidly witless, and more than probably, make an utter fool out of yourself.
I'm still chuckling, laughing, (at myself) at the truly ridiculous nature of my thoughts, when I come to realize that Trent has begun to speak to the child's mother.
"No worries, or apologies are necessary at all, ma'm." Trent flashes her another smile before he shifts his attention to the little boy, and kneels down so he's now on level with him. "You're mad, crazy, quick, huh, yeah, I can totally tell...a real, and awesome, speed demon. Maybe your name should be Usain Bolt."
