Exceeding the Limit

Let me start by saying I have never been in a more uncomfortable situation in my entire life and I was already regretting my decision after the first words that slipped from his mouth. As we sat there, together, in his car, surrounded by his stuff I realized my nerves were getting to me. My fingers trembling with a secret thrill as I pulled my bag of books to my chest as if it could keep me safe.

I felt like I might accidentally stumble upon drugs or a dead body in the trunk, and it was weird, because everything appeared spotless.

“So where is it you live, Elle Larrson?” he gave me frisky smile, tampering with that hadn’t ever before resurrected in my mind.

I was uneasy about telling him, and half tempted to spit out a lie and have him drop me off somewhere else. I didn’t want him, of all people, to know where I lived. But I gave him my street name, to stunned by the throw off question to care.

“You know where that it is, right?” I asked, my voice shading off into the air a lot more vulgar than I had originally intended.

He gave me a shrewd look, as if questioning his logic was senseless. Instead of biting back a sharp reply, he tossed out a new conversation.

“So what is it you’re actually going to do tonight? Homework seems a little overrated? To easy I guess…” he barely looked to me, instead, kept his hazy eyes pasted on the twisted road in front of us.

I ignored his question and asked my own, “Are you a good driver?”

That made him smile. Oliver shot me a wry look, winking at me and shutting my thoughts down for a moment or two, “I like to think I am.”

I turned my head, quickly deciding that it was safer not to make eye contact. The less attachment I had to him, the easier it would be to forget him and go on with my normal life.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” He persisted, obviously refusing to drop the subject.

I released a heavy sighed, allowing myself to relax slightly against the firm seat pressed to my back, “As surprising as it may seem to you, I am actually doing homework.”

His face twisted immediately in disgust, “Damn, Elle, that’s not much fun.”

“Life isn’t meant to be fun.” I muttered under my breath, tracing the strap of my bag that was draped over my leg. I slowly eased into my own question, throwing out, “What did you think I do?”

He shrugged, as if it were a reasonable enough response, “I don’t know. I just thought that maybe Elle Larson was hiding a secret personality under the good girl act.”

“What good girl act?” I snapped quickly, “Excuse me if I want to get the hell out of this small town.”

Oliver looked from the road to me, and back again. He seemed a little thrown off by my sudden need to stab words at him, and he surprised me with a soft, “I’m sorry, Ella, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just…think there’s times you want to say more than what you actually say.”

I turned my head, not wanting to forgive him easily. But I already did.

“So what is it you want to do?” he asked, curious that I brought it up.

I nearly groaned out loud. I couldn’t stand his prying questions. I didn’t want to ‘open’ my feelings or dreams up to him. I didn’t trust him, nor did I want to trust him. He was still balancing on a bad boy peg and I didn’t want to step on glass and fall through.

“Come on, Elle. It can’t be too embarrassing.” He insisted, still pressing in and in so much that I felt like my ribs would shatter from my rapid pulse.

I hid my face as I turned to the window, speaking to the glass, “I want to go into Graphic Design.”

He looked to me, a little surprised it seemed before turning back to the road, “Really?”

“Yes really.” I said sharply, “I’m not as boring as I seem.”

He frowned, my sudden statement throwing him off. And he threw out a knife that twisted me in the stomach, “I never said you were boring. I think you’re quite interesting.”

I hiked an eyebrow, facing him now, “Oh really? You make me sound like I’m a science experiment.”

He smirked, giving me a rash look that made my heart hiccup, “Elle, you got to admit you’re pretty damn interesting.”

I turned away, allowing silence to settle in before asking my own question, “So what is it you plan on doing?”

His wicked smile resurfaced, and he proudly stated, “I was planning on going into photography.”

“Photography?” I didn’t even pretend to act like I wasn’t a little shocked by his answer.

“Yes.” He was still smiling. I wanted to hit him, “Surprised?”

“To be honest, yes.”

It almost seemed like he was just to blunt to many things. But than again, I guess I was more than him and graphic design and photography played on the same side.

We reached my street and I shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t like the idea of him knowing where I lived, not that I thought he was going to stalk or follow me, it just made me feel…vulnerable.

When he stopped the car at my house, I reached for my stuff at my feet, but he snatched by hand up.

My gaze darted to him, to our hands, back to him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped automatically.

He frowned at me, “Umm…trying to keep you from bolting out of the car.”

My heart was racing, echoeing in my ears making me red and nervous and excited.

I didn’t like the feeling, by the way.

He chuckled, flattening my hand out on the arm rest between us, before meeting my eyes and leaning across. He was lethally close to my face, so close I felt the tickle of his breaths fanning out over my nose and cheeks that were turning rosy red.

“Elle?”

“Hmm?” I didn’t look at him.

He was curious, leaning in closer it seemed, spiking my neck with the exotic heat of his mouth, “You know you don’t have to leave.”

There was a long awkward silence.

I could feel his lips, hovering over the skin drawn over my cheekbone. I was confused, very confused. I didn’t do that type of stuff. Guys and me were…polar opposites. And as a matter of fact, I was having trouble understand what it was he was trying to do with me. I mean, come on. There were only so many things Oliver could have ever wanted from me, Ella Larrson, in the first place.

“Actually, I kinda do.” I beckoned away immediately, but he pinned my hand in place.

He frowned, a little disappointed maybe in my abrupt cut off to whatever it was he had been planning, he sat up a little, leaning his chin into his hand as he gazed after me with dark eyes, “You should show me your work sometime.”

“My work?”

He plucked the sketchbook from my book bag, waving it about in front of my face.

“Oh, that work.” I felt a little stupid, but than again I didn’t know he had been eyeing my bag all along. I finally managed, “You don’t want to see that work.”

He frowned, clutching it to his chest, “I sort of do.”

I pulled it from his hands, tucking it away neatly in my bag, dismissing it quickly as I pushed the door open.

“Look, thank you for the ride. But I need to get inside. Do homework. Explain to my parents why I have someone dropping me off.”

He smiled a little, watching me as I gathered my stuff together, “So you don’t usually have boys dropping you off? Not even the stiff, button-up preppy guy I always imagined you’d want?”

I felt my breaths buckle in my chest, “Don’t act like you know me so well, Oliver. You don’t. For all you know I might like bad boys. Or whatever you call them.” I slung my bag over my shoulder, waving a little goodbye before turning to shut the door. But he was quick, lunging to lean across and catch the door before it clicked shut.

“What’s your definition of bad?” he was staring me down with his dark, dark brown eyes.

I smirked at him, he was staring at me with a puppy dog look, longing it almost seemed. But I realized quickly Oliver wasn’t that type of person and I murmured, “The opposite of good.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” I had to catch the door from slamming it in his face once again.

“Like bad boys?” he was curious, not smiling, just focused and determined.

I felt my smile bite in, and I shook my head trying to hide the pleasure I was taking in from his stupid questions, “Goodnight, Oliver.”

I sealed the door shut, walking up towards the door, but the sound of the window rolling down cued me he wasn’t giving up.

“You didn’t answer my question!” he shouted, sounding more frustrated than anything.

“Because I don’t think you deserve an answer.” I snapped, before waving back as I reached the front door, unlocking it quickly and stepping inside. I shut it behind me, sealing out the image of his face or his pestering questions, pressing up to the door breathless.

I walked away, and I hated it, but I was smiling.