I don't know why that thought lingers in my mind. If he wants me to go to a stupid party and he'd come to pick me up, it makes sense. At the same time, though … I turn the helmet over in my hand, noticing that—unlike the one he now wears—it's unscratched and pristine as if he just purchased it.
“You getting on?” His voice is muffled by the plastic covering his face and roar of the engine, but it still drives me out of my thoughts and I nod, sticking my head inside the fresh, clean smelling helmet and buckle it on before swinging my leg over the back of his bike.
I press myself against Dean’s back and close my eyes as he presses the gas and together, the two of us go shooting forward, sliding dangerously across the pavement. Whenever I’m around him, my adrenaline seems to be ever present. As if she senses something more in the man in front of me that I still have yet to see.
It makes me curious and that’s dangerous.
Dean doesn't say a word as he parks the motorcycle and lets me slide off the back. I wait for him to turn off the engine, stow the helmets, and pocket his keys so we can head up the path that leads towards the open ledge overlooking the lake.
Even though this is only my second time coming here, I remember the path well. He follows behind me, for once, letting me take the lead. I can sense his curiosity, but he doesn't ask any questions, letting the peace of the sounds of bugs screaming and animals scurrying around in the underbrush be. Halfway up, I pause and stare through a copse of trees at the mossy-green, still surface of the lake below.
"You know," I find myself saying, "when I was a kid, we didn't have places like this. Not in my hometown. We had trees and we had some mountains but no lakes where I was at."
Dean takes a step closer to me, his head lifting as he follows my gaze.
I turn and start the climb again, continuing as I walk, keeping my eyes on the ground in front of my shoes. "There was an old man that worked at the elementary school," I start. "I think he was a janitor or something. He worked for the school and the local church, but in the summer he'd drive out to the ocean—it was only a few hours away—and stay with his brother to teach deep sea diving classes."
"Did you know him well?" Dean's question startles me.
I bite my lip before answering. "I didn't know him at all," I admit. "I only know all that because when I was in second grade, there was a big announcement about an employee dying. They passed around a few papers in class and I read his obituary. Something happened during one of his last classes and he got caught underwater and he drowned."
We come to the ledge. "What does that have to do with us being out here?" Dean's voice deepens as I drop my bag and pull off my shoes. The sun dips below the tree line, but the sky remains awash with tones of reds, yellows, and oranges. "Ava?"
"Can you imagine?" I ask, staring across the open space the ledge presents us with.
"Imagine what?"
I pull off my clothes until I'm clad in nothing but the worn second hand, ill-fitting bathing suit. Dean's eyes track my movements as I step towards the ledge. I half expect him to reach for me, but he doesn't seem surprised at all.
Turning away from the water below, I face him with a smile. "Can you imagine the rush he must've felt before he died?"
"I doubt he would've felt any sort of rush," Dean replies quietly, no inflection in his voice. "Most people don't get excited by the prospect of dying."
My eyes find the ground once more as a smile comes to my lips. He's right. Most people don't. "I guess I'm not most people," I say, just before turning around and taking a step closer to the edge.
"Avalon..." His tone is a warning, but I don't care. "What are you doing?"
I laugh, spreading my arms wide. "It's called cliff diving," I say. A pebble slips out from beneath my bare feet and goes careening down the side of the ledge until it plops into the water below, causing a ripple to shudder over the once smooth surface.
"Why do you do it?" he asks.
I pause. Why do I do it? For the rush, of course. For the feeling of being in control of myself even when danger is so close. I like it—trailing that thin line between sanity and insanity. One wrong slip up could cost me. Yet, I keep coming back because I like the feel of my body rebelling against my mind and knowing that it has to do what I say anyway. The sweat that coats my skin. The heartbeat racing in my chest. It fights back with everything it has and yet nothing can stop it but me. I'm the one in control. Control that I've ceded time and time again—to school officials, to the fucking Patricias of the world, the Rogers, and even … I'll admit … the Sick Boys.
They have all the power. They have all the authority. Where I have none.
But here. Here, it's me. No one can control the things I do to myself but me. Not even my own body can stop me.
"It's dangerous," Dean says, bringing me back to the present.
"I know." I hear myself speak as if the words are coming down a long dark tunnel. My feet move beneath me as I turn to face him. His brows are creased and unlike earlier, he now looks like he's half a second away from grabbing me.
Dark brown eyes leap from where my feet are, the heels half over the edge already, to my face. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" he asks.
I shake my head. "If I did, where would the fun in that be?"
"Aval—"
I don't hear the rest of what he's about to say because, without another second to think, I push off and leap back, sending myself flying over the edge. Wind whips at my hair, sending it all forward, shooting over my face and obscuring my view. I should've leapt forward, I think absently, but then, in a brief moment—my hair parts and I can see the molten sky above.
It looks like a cascade of fire over the ocean. And for a split second, the discomfort of the strands of my long hair that I'd forgotten to pull back before I'd jumped is forgotten. Then I crash into the water and the darkness swallows me up.
36
Dean
I don't need to read her fucking file to know that Avalon Manning is fucked up. All I need to do is see her as she is right now.
For once, her eyes are clear and unclouded by thoughts or actions. She simply stands there, swaying back and forth as if she's dancing to music that only she can hear. I don't know if she even realizes it. I tell myself to act cool, to keep my hands down and not show her just how fucking freaked out she's making me.
I know she has a penchant for reckless behavior. That much was in the file. I never expected to experience it first hand, though. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I ask, tamping down on my nerves.
Her head twists from side to side, more of that swaying rippling through her body. I blink, realizing just how much of it I can actually see. Fuck, she's got curves. Her abdomen is almost completely flat—it would be if not for the lines along either side of her stomach and the small swell just above her bikini line. Her top is held tight against her frame, two small triangles of fabric all that stands between my eyes and those tits.
When she lifts her head, though, and smiles at me, all my thoughts of her smoking hot body recede. "Where would the fun in that be?" she asks me.