Sometimes, Neil Graham doesn't hate Tyler Beckett.
Sometimes, Neil Graham isn't scared of his own home.
Sometimes, Neil Graham can be a bit of a walking contradiction.
And sometimes, Neil Graham doesn't think his father's murderer will ever be fou...
I watch Neil as he comically struggles with the rusty lock of his shed, pushing and pulling at it, shaking the wooden door. He twists the key again, murmuring more curses, before it gives away. The door opens with a creak. He gives me the side-eye, then steps inside.
I hear clanks of metal against wood. A grunt follows. A few struggling moments later, he's hauling a dusty bike out of the shed, all-the-while passing me dirty looks. It makes my chest bubble with laughter.
Neil slams the door to the shed close with his foot. The action releases a plume of dust into the air. He sneezes violently.
"Bless you." I say. He says something that sounds suspiciously like 'duck you, moo' under his breath. It hurts, but only a bit.
"C'mon." He briskly walks past me with the bicycle at his side.
"Wait!" I exclaim. He stops and slowly turns around, huffing a tired breath. I raise my finger and point towards his porch. "What about the hairball Greg puked out?"
He stares at me silently for a few moments, his lower lip twitching. It unnerves me, but oddly, turns me on, too.
"That's his dinner." With that, he turns around, lifts his right leg, and settles onto his bicycle seat, leaning back to adjust it. The muscles of his arms flex with the movement, dark veins bulging against tan skin. I inhale deeply, and shake my head, focusing back on my own cycle.
He passes me another annoyed look, and we begin on our way to the City Centre.
The sun beats down on us directly, causing sweat to collect above my upper lip and chin. Neil rides a foot ahead of me, and I slow down every time he does so I can catch up with him. The dude doesn't even know I'm being slow for a reason.
To stare at that sexy, stiff back.
When we stop at a traffic light, he takes the moment to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. The light turns green. A honk sounds from behind us. Neil raises the finger, then begins pedalling again, a malicious smile on his face.
