DIRTY

7 BAYLEIGH/SAM

The ride was quiet, with the exception of the seatbelt censor beeping every few minutes, it was almost peaceful. The full moon glistened in the clear chill of the sky. It had to be nearly one or two in the morning. The clutch groaned in protest as Sam switched gears on the jeep. The heat was cranked to nearly full blast and a soft slow song played quietly over the radio. I leaned over on the door of the jeep as we continued our trip.

I could feel the stickiness of the strawberry wine cooler on my breasts and stomach and I reeked of Cynthia's beer. I felt like if I didn't get home and take a shower immediately I'd be carried away by ants, or a biker gang. I couldn't believe Cynthia was so cruel. We'd had beef in the past, but I thought we'd gotten passed it.

I glanced over at Sam; his eyes were laser focused on the road it seemed. He gripped the steering wheel with his left hand, his rings rubbing into the leather. With his right hand he held on to the gear shift. With the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up, his arms were exposed up to his elbows. Veins protruded aggressively through his tattoos every time he shift gears.

His hair was wild and disheveled on his head; I guess from being hidden away under his hood for so long. His face was brooding and contemplative as he drove, as if he was mulling a thought over in his mind. His jaw flinched and the muscles in his forearm flexed every time he shifted gears. His movements were fluent, gentle but aggressive at the same time. It was almost erotic and my vagina responded as if it were watching soft porn, sending a wave of heat and tension through me. I decided to turn my attention elsewhere. I focused at the weird tattoo on his left arm as he held on to the wheel.

Breaking the silence I pointed. "What is that?"

"What's what?" he reciprocated.

"The ink?" I probed softly, pointing to his arm.

He angled his arm to glance down at his tattoo for a moment, and then he looked back at the road.

"It's just ink" he said.

"It looks like a wheel, or a fruit with vines".

"So what?" he shrugged.

"So, what is it?" I repeated.

He exhaled deeply, pausing for a moment before answering.

"It's Romanichal" he finally said.

"Roma what?"
My brows furrowed.

"Romanichal. Most people call them gypsies" he said.

"Gypsies?" I said.

"My mom was Romanichal and my dad was descendant from Vikings" Sam explained.

"Your mom was a gypsy?" I continued.

Sam's jawline ticked.

"I hate that they call it that" he grumbled.

"I'm sorry" I said quietly, shrinking down in my seat.

"You're fine" he said.

The jeep was silent once again as I strained to look out the heavily tinted windows. I looked at him once more, admiring his ink. He looked like a human painting, each piece of ink telling its own story. The rose on his left hand was so beautifully detailed. I wondered how much he paid for it. On his fingers, above his knuckles were the letters C-E-R-A.

"What does that one mean?" I asked, as we pulled into the parking garage of our apartment building.

"Why are you friends with that girl?" Sam interrupted.

The question took me so off guard I felt like I was dizzy.

"W...what?"

"The girl who poured the beer on you?".