#bootscooted

It’s not the kiss she was hoping for, not the hurried rush to unzip her dress when he’d hardly gotten it zipped in the first place, hands fumbling a little ‘cause maybe he’s nervous.

But she’s blushing all the same, butterflies fluttering in her stomach like her entire body’s blossomed into milkweed and zinnias. She’s beaming at the floor, but when that electric touch urges her to turn around, she bites her lip. It takes her a second to muster up that same bravado that had her speaking up a moment ago, but now she drapes her arms around his shoulders. Gods, he’s so beautiful. Sometimes she swears she can see the good in him shining through all over, like the sun streaming through a gossamer curtain.

@bootscooted liked for a starter.

she can tell he's something right out of the gate, even through all of the summer's heat sweat and the scent of too fatty foods being deep fried and handed over for exorbitant amounts of money to the throngs of people willing to pay an arm and a leg for fried dough. she can smell him through the bulls and the horses, the sheep and the sows, all lined up in their respective kennels for proper protection from the public before they're saddled out as show beasts.

where he leans over the railing of one of the bleacher sets, she comes to stand beside him, her arms hooking the metal railing and its boiling heat with barely a hiccup as her hip tilts. she fits in well with this new age idea of what cowboys are supposed to look like, because she has to, if she wants to get even a taste of what things used to be like. when nothing was here but dust and brush, the people that came before and the ways of life they'd passed down for ages.

-- a closed thread with @bootscooted

    The good thing about Texan highways is the apparent complete disregard for speed limits. The bad thing is they're full of Texans.

    Unleashing the bike's full potential with a banshee scream never fails to scratch an itch good somewhere in William's soul. Let them call it a rice cooker. They wouldn't know a Ducati if it bit 'em. Let the road rage bullets fly. They have to hit a target doing one hundred sixty kilometers. His biggest concern is the trucks both large and small weaving through the lanes. They don't need to rush.

    He does.

    The good thing about the bike is its blistering speed. The bad thing is it doesn't last forever. Amidst the blur that is the side of the road, William spots it. The patron deity of the beaver temple.

    Beneath his leather riding gear, his skin crawls. It will have to do.

    He takes the off-ramp's shoulder, bypassing a line of cars that blast their horns indignantly. Skill issue, he thinks, one of his favorite sayings of the past century. Slowing down in the minefield that is the parking lot, he swoops to a stop at a gas pump.

    Okay. Hasn't died so far. Good.

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