Perfect Kind Of Trouble

14 Daren

Kayla looks positively forlorn. Her rosy cheeks have lost their color, her bright eyes are clouded with sadness, and her pouty lips are… well, they’re still sexy as ever. But the point is that she’s obviously unhappy and I don’t know how to change that. So I try to distract her.

“Well frankly, I’m disappointed,” I say in a righteous manner. “For the last time, Kayla Turner, we are not strangers.” I let out a dramatic breath. “Good God, woman. What does a guy have to do to achieve ‘friendship’ status with you? I thought tonguing each other would do the trick but clearly we didn’t do it right. So come on. Let’s try it again.” I sigh in mock weariness, waving her in. “I’m willing to rub tongues all day if that’s what it takes. Hell, I’ll tongue you all night if it’ll get me off your Stranger Shit List.”

She shakes her head and snorts through her downtrodden expression. “You are shameless.”

I place a hand against my chest. “I prefer to think of myself as an opportunist.”

“That too.”

“So what do you say?” I flash my dimple. “Are we friends yet?”

Amusement plays in her eyes. “Why do you care so much about being friends with me?”

I scratch my cheek, feeling more unsettled than I care to admit by her question. “No idea. I’ll get back to you.”

She straightens her shoulders. “Okay. Well while you’re pondering that, I’ll be over here trying to figure out this clue.” She pulls the note from my hand and examines it with a frown.

“What does ‘something you liked more than stickers’ mean?” I glance at her.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. What about your thing? Something you looked forward to in February? What, like Valentine’s Day?”

I choke on a laugh. “Yeah, no. Valentine’s Day is my least favorite holiday. Too much pressure.”

“Oh-kay. Good to know where you stand on that,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “So it’s probably safe to assume this clue doesn’t have anything to do with Cupid’s holiday.” She mutters, “One possibility down. A trillion more to go.”

“Let’s head back to the car and do our sleuthing on the road. I’m starving.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

I tuck the paper clue in my pocket as we walk to the edge of the boxcar and stare down. “Do you want to climb down first or should I?”

Below, the ground declines into a steep hill just a few feet from the boxcar, but the drop to the flat area before the descent isn’t too bad.

Kayla says, “Let’s just jump.”

“All right.”

She takes off her shoes and grips them in her free hand while I wrap my cuffed hand around hers.

“On the count of three,” I say. “One… two…”

“Wait. Wait,” she says. “Are we jumping on three or after three? If we jump at different times and go flying in different directions, we could snap our arms off at the cuffs.”

Girls. So dramatic.

“Yeeeah, no.” I shake my head and press my lips together. “We might bruise a wrist—or two—but I’m pretty sure our arms won’t snap off.”

“Still.” She juts her chin. “On three or after three?”

“After three,” I say.

She nods.

“One… two… three!” I tighten my hand around hers as we jump out of the boxcar. But we overshoot it and jump too far out. We miss the flat area and land in the dirt with heavy thuds at the top of the hill. Then we promptly tumble over each other down the steep decline.

Our bodies flail in opposite directions as we roll, but the handcuffs force us to smack back together as we topple over each other, skidding through the gravel and dust in a tangle of limbs until we finally reach the bottom of the hill and come to a dusty stop.

Kayla lands sprawled across my chest with her long hair no longer tied back but now completely loose and splayed over my face. My right knee is wedged between her legs, where her skirt has ridden up and is now barely covering her ass. And our shackled hands are trapped between us, with my open palm pressing against her large, soft breast.

There are worse ways to fall out of a train.

Kayla raises her head and glances over our bodies before removing her breast from my hand and lifting her gaze to mine. Her blonde hair is tossed all around her face, tangled with tiny pebbles and twigs while smudges of dirt mark up her face and her clothes are covered in dust. Her blue eyes stand out against her flushed cheeks and throat, and there’s a dead leaf stuck to the shiny gloss on her pink lips as she tries to catch her breath.

I let out a low chuckle. “You’re a hot mess.”

Her eyes rove over my ripped clothes, dirty skin, and dusty hair with a sparkle. “So are you.”

We sit upright and stare up the hill at boxcar #23.

She sighs. “Well at least we can say we’ve been on a train now.”

I smile. “We sure can.”