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After my face got burned, I knew I'd spend my life alone. I wasn’t stupid. Who’d wanna be with someone with half a face?
So, I got ready to be alone. That loud, wild girl who ran with crazy-ass boys turned into that quiet girl with the fade.
Into that “shy” teen with the thick watch and the dark, bold tats. Into that coulda-been-sexy stud with the five-, okay, four-pack, nobody in the gym had heard talk.
I’d stand in the mirror with my hand over the broken half. Skin tight like a trampoline, shiny like plastic. Glass eye replacing my real one.
The good side was great. The bad side was me.
I was my burn. Had broke myself so nobody else could.
Who would love me as I am?
Her. She would. Does.
Bean.
We in a corner of the almost empty gym, facing a wall. Been here for about 30 minutes.
She’s gruntin’ loud. Takin’ up space and silence. Bean is big even though she only 5’1. People think we aggressive, but we not.
I’m chill, and Bean? Bean is hard, but only to people who bring it out in her. If you wanna go there, she always ready to fly the plane.
To me, though, she as hard as a double-stuffed pillow.
Sweetness wrapped in Pair of Thieves and too-big, saggy jeans. Softness hidden by her chiseled arms, sculpted from years pickin’ up car parts with her momma.
Mmm. She throwin’ a big medicine ball against a wall, then shufflin’ from side to side to do it again.
She say she love picking up heavy stuff. I know she just miss her momma.
The 25-lb weights sit at my feet. I don’t remember the last time I did a rep.
Been watchin’ her. Sweat dripping onto her gray, fitted tee, rollin’ down the shaved half of her head and the long, thick twists on the other side.
Soaking into her dark grey shorts.
Her skin, ooo, cinnamon with a bit of sugar, don’t have any tats. Tons of scars, but none given by an artist. I lick my lips.
Her skin is… wet.
The excited jitteriness drops, makes my clit hard. She's not the only one wet. Gonna need to change my boxers when we get home.
Bean pauses a few inches from me, breathing hard. Sweet exertion and spicy Bleu de Chanel waft off her. She looks at me. “Watching me work out is not gonna get you fit.”
She leans over to kiss my left side. I whip my head to the other side. Her lips brush my defective skin. Unleash a painful tingle, a deep grief. I shift more, and her lips land on the corner of my smile. Exactly where I wanted them to.
“Fitter. Won’t get me fitter.” I lift my shirt, show her my four-pack. She don’t care about gettin’ ripped, and I still got less than her. “Also, you sure about that? My heart’s runnin’ real hard.”
It’s thudding everywhere. But it ain’t a constant thump just because of watchin’ her. She touched my burn. Not for long, but long enough.
“Sorry, I forgot you don’t like me to kiss you there.” She drops the ball, then points near my feet. “Pick up those weights.”
I laugh and bend down. “Ay, I don’t like being told what to do.”
She caresses the swirling patterns in my fade, then pushes her hand against the top of my head. I look up. She’s in my face. Brown eyes boring into mine. Whispers, “25 each arm. Now.”
A tremblin’ breath. Images whipping through my mind. Her above me. Rubbin’ against me. Teasing high-pitched noises out of me I’d never admit I could make.
Oh, devas, help me.
I stand, three inches taller than her. Curl my right arm. This burn feels good.
“1.” She crosses her arms while counting. Her stern look disappears for a sec when she coughs. “2.” Flexes her biceps at each new number.
I lift excruciatingly slow, smirking at her.
“I do not have all day, Von.”
Maybe not, but how I’m feeling, my Bean better have all night. |
