We Make Mayhem [boyxboy]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The last bell rang on Monday, and I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding since the night I was grounded. Noah crossed the art room in two giants steps. "Let's get out of here," he whispered, a wild grin taking over his face.

We tossed our backpacks in the truck of the Edison and took off. We flickered into invisibility once we were alone on the highway and then the tires left the pavement and we soared off, headed south. Noah wouldn't tell me where we were going, and I didn't care. I was just happy to be alone with him, holding his hand, good music on the stereo.

No more than two hours later, we were enjoying lemonades and walking on the beach in Santa Monica, California. We had spiralled down from the sky, invisibility mode on until we found an empty stretch of highway and flickered back into existence. Suddenly we were in a different country, flying down the highway between the ocean and the hills and canyons of Hollywood. I'd never been to L.A. before, and I could scarcely believe any of this was real. My head was spinning, both from the jarring strangeness of going from drizzly Vancouver to sunny SoCal, and the sheer speed of it.

"How far are we from home?" I asked Noah as we strolled, hand-in-hand like a real pair of cornballs.

"About twelve hundred miles," he said like it was nothing.

"So we flew here at six hundred miles per hour," I said. "In your four-door sedan."

"Mhmm."

"We may as well have teleported."

"Teleportation is much faster. Like, over four million miles per hour. And with an additional space-time modification."

I stared at him. He just grinned.

"You're really something, you know," I said.

He dropped my hand and walked backwards in front of me. "I bet I'm different from anybody you've ever met."

"Now you're just fishing for compliments."

"Me? Never."

"I love flirty banter and all," I said, "but are we just going to act as though us being here isn't impossible?"

"Yes."

I stopped. He took a few more backward steps and feigned an innocent expression.

"Noah," I said. "This should be impossible. Fuck, it is impossible."

Noah looked around. There was no one nearby, but this conversation was a landmine.

"We don't have to talk about it here," I said. "But you can't just spirit me off to L.A. in your flying fucking car and not expect me to ask questions."

He nodded, turning his face to the ocean. The sun was edging toward the horizon. Noah looked angelic in its golden light. I stepped closer to him and pulled his hips against mine. I still wasn't used to the feeling that crashed over me when we touched. Relief. Ecstasy. A sense of singularity.

Even if there were big questions surrounding him, I loved him. I wanted him.

Hell, the questions made me want him more.

"Do you ever just... fly off somewhere? Spend the day in the Amazon or Paris or fucking Australia or something, just because you can?"

"All the time."

"That's wild."

"I'm very wild. Do you want to go for a swim?"

My dumb ass said, "We don't have swim trunks."

Noah laughed. "Who cares?"

We stripped down to our boxers and ran into the sea. It was cold—we shrieked like kids when the icy waves splashed up our chests. When we caught our breath, we stood in the surf hip to hip, watching the sun sink. What did I do to deserve this? It didn't feel fair to everyone else on earth.