Page 56 of Dean's Delinquent

No. I’m running plenty fucking fast. Though I don’t hazard a glance down at my arms, they’re already damp and sticky. Blood, no doubt, or dew. Hopefully, just dew.

How am I going to explain that to Mom?

What is Dad going to think?

“Seven.”

Do I even care?

“Eight.”

Eight. Fuck. Nearly a fourth of the way there, and I can still hear his voice clear as a bell.

“Nine.”

Dead end.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Whirling around, I go back the way I came and take the other route.

Why the hell did I think this was going to be easy?

“Thirteen.”

His voice is a touch softer, but not by much. Still, that means I’ve lost out on a few more precious seconds. But this is good. The softer his voice, the further away I am.

My fingers tremble as I run them over the leaves, hoping to somehow find my way.

This is insanity.

Pure and simple.

“Seventeen.”

Oh god. His voice is even louder now, as if I’ve somehow backtracked and I’m right next to him. It’s as if I can reach through the leaves and touch his arm.

“Eighteen.”

For a moment, I stand there as I catch my breath. I’m not going to escape him. There’s no way. All that thought does is cause arousal to slide down my inner thigh and slicken my skin as I pull away and go down another path.

“Nineteen.”

Finally sounding further away again. Perhaps I’ve made a correct turn?

Turning another corner, I nearly bounce against a wall of muscle. A startled scream clogs my throat as I stare up at the Russian behemoth.

“Exit only. Turn please.” His eyes seem to only hold curiosity and no condemnation. “Right. Left. Left. Left. Right. Right Left. Repeat what I say.”

“I- what?”

“Dean fucks girl with no sense or hearing?” he grumbles, pulling out a pen. With quick strokes, he writes a series of r’s and l’s against my palm. “Hurry. He’s twenty-five. Good luck.”

Without pausing to thank the strange gentleman, I tear off into the path and go down the trails as the letters on my hand dictate.

Right.

---