Emara Stone

The wind fiercely flows through my hair like showing its aggressive powers.

But to me, it felt like a lover's gentle kiss. I close my eyes and feel it tickle on my skin as I pretend to be in a Disney movie.

I unfold my arms and spread it out in the open, letting the wind untame my wings like it did to my braid.

Morning bike rides are the part of my college like that I don't hate. Because right now.. I feel free.

My hair floats like music cords in the air, playing along with the icy breeze, creating a song that-

*Screeeeech*

"FUCK!" I scream in pain as my nose collides with the back of a rock-hard helmet, sending jolts of aching sparks all over my face.

Ouch. Bitch. Ouch!

"What the hell was that?" Ethan barks as he yanks off his helmet and checks for any damage.

This son of a biscuit!

"My nose hit your stupid helmet when you pulled the brakes out of nowhere like a lunatic!" I yell, holding my poor nose.

"Well, that's what people do when they reach their destination." Ethan yaps as he hops out of the motorbike, almost hitting my face again. 

This lil dick!

"At least give me a heads-up before attempting to smash my nose again." I snap at my idiot brother.

"Stop being so dramatic. With or without a nose, you still look gay to me." He comments after looking at my majestic face.

"We have the same features, silly ass." I scowl in return. Audacity of this bitch!

Ethan is just a minute older than me, but we are nowhere similar. He is like the descendent of Einstein, whereas I am like Lady Gaga, too weird to describe.

"We got late again. Shit!" Ethan curses under his breath and jogs towards the university building. What a nerd!

I tie my tangled static hair and bury them under the cap of my hoodie. I am so skilled at changing looks that I can dress up like anyone, even as a man and no one would ever come to know of it.

Wow! Nice plot. I could write a story on it.

I pop some M&Ms as I look around the campus, the Instagram beauties are updating their morning selfies and replying to their hungry fans who masturbated on their night selfie. Their eyeliner, mascara, contour, and glossy straight hair are flawlessly styled. On fleek!

I wonder at what time do they wake up to groom themselves, probably at 5 o'clock in the morning? 

And here I don't even get time to shower.

I massage my helmet-punched nose as I walk to the stationery to buy a pen. The number of people I see around me, makes me want to pray to the almighty to set my college on fire.

Let the fire burn all my test papers and data of my past exam records along with the sadist teachers who love to torture students.

Amen!

The crowd around me subdues knowing the first lecture has been started and here I am walking clumsily towards the building without any passion to attend the lecture.

Suddenly, I hear a roar, so powerful that it made me skip some of my heartbeats to call it a heart attack. I turn around and see charcoal black big SUV rolling on its thick black tires like it owes the campus road.

There is a shiny Devil's Trident on the car as its logo and I remembered someone call it Maserati. The car once again roars as it stops in the parking lot two spots away from our bike. The door opens and the beauty queen of our college, every guy's dream girl, Rose Damison walks out.

She is tall, well-built, possesses an hour-glass figure, and a face straight out of a Hollywood celeb gene pool.

Her long dark hair flows in the wind in a wild way, she tucks a lock behind her ears in slow motion as she looks around. Her black jeans are stuck to her legs possessively, on top, the red jacket screams about her all rich-rich and out of reach.

Rose says something to the driver and closes the door behind her leisurely.

I watch her in awe as she tucks a lock behind her ears in slow motion and walks past me in a hurry. Her baby powder smell lingers behind her as she jogs on her heels to the building.

I look down and see my faded jeans brown sneakers that were white once upon a time. 

Don't! Don't even think of comparing yourself with her. You didn't even shower.

Sound of the engine goes down, I look back and suddenly my heart beats like a church's bell, loud and clear as I see him.

Ryan Damison.

The beautiful bastard.

Six feet tall, a package of pure terror dressed in black leather and denim. His shoulders broad enough to carry his egoistic head, topped with a smirk that could burn down civilizations.

Honestly, I am surprised there aren't warning signs plastered on his back that says 'Approach-at-your-own-risk.'

Ryan is so hot that the government should ban him and name him illegal!

He along with the other two guys open the car doors all together as if they had planned and set up a timer. They all climb out smoothly like a pro. Probably practiced a hundred times in a day to achieve such expertise.

I have spent months watching them and collecting notes like a wildlife researcher studying endangered species.

By now, I know their routines better than my own class schedule.

Ryan always adjusts his leather jacket when he steps out of the car, giving the world a little glimpse of his sculpted arms underneath.

Daniel always groom his hair like he is in a shampoo commercial and Drake, well he always looks like he is trying to remember something.

And then I wait for the next 50 seconds for the entrance of Shawn and Mendes.

Honestly, it's impossible to tell the difference, they are highly unpredictable and savage, just like their leader.

And that's what exactly makes these guys the perfect characters for my future best-seller book.

They got drama, chaos and just the right amount of What-The-Fuck!

I stare at Ryan, as he leans against the car, looking hot and brutal at the same time.

A healthy person can get cancer just by looking at him whereas girls can get pregnant with his one smile. He is lethal in every way and he knows it very well.

I feel like to remove my panties and throw them at his face screaming, 'Catch me if you can!'

But I ain't stupid, I know he is dangerous. 

He would throw me and my panty into the hottest pits of the hell, and torture me for the rest of my college days.

I pull out my phone and secretly take pictures of them, especially their clothes, so it would be easy for me to describe them later. For my book.

Call it research, call it an unhealthy obsession.. I call it dedication to my masterpiece.

As a true writer, I want to deliver authentic content to my readers. I want them to feel Ryan's essence through the pages.

Their mind should picture him perfectly, as if they are watching his hotness in front of their eyes.

Their noses should smell him through my words, as if they are sitting next to him, inhaling his toxic fumes.

And for that.. I need to smell him first.

I need to experience how this walking red flag smells in real life, before I can write it down on pages. 

I need to know, is its spice and if his hair smell nice, or is it tutti-fruity and he smells like a booty?

Maybe it's a smoky masculine cocktail of cigarettes and danger? Or perhaps something primal, like he bathes in Chanel's Bad Decisions No. 5.

I have imagined and guessed it all. But guessing doesn't make a bestselling novel.

I need the real deal.

And the real experience is just twenty bold steps away.

I can do this.

For the book community. For my readers. I have to do this.

I take a deep breath, adjust my hoodie's hood, and take my first step in his direction.

One down, nineteen to go.

The plan is simple: Walk past him like a ghost, inhale deeply and lock his scent in the brain forever.

Sounds perfect to me.

By step five, I am wondering where all this courage is coming from?

I feel like a suicidal moth that can't stop itself from flying towards the fire, even after being fully aware it's going to burn into ashes.

But like they say.. For the sake of art, some sacrifices must be made, right?

By step ten, my palms feel sweaty, knees weak and eyes shamelessly staring at him.

Ryan is lounging against his car, looking every bit of villain in my story while talking to his group of minions.

His jet black hair falls menacingly over his dark sunglasses, concealing his brown catastrophic eyes, which could be looking anywhere.

Even at me.

By step fifteen, my heart races fast like a caffeinated hamster on a wheel, knowing very well that I have entered the danger zone.

There is no going back now!

I am doing this for literature. And that's how great writers collect information. Right? Right.

Five steps away now. Four. Three.

I glance back, just to confirm there is no one lurking around us. Even if I get punched, I don't want that scene to be in everyone's gallery.

Confidently turning back, I take the final step and then, it hits my nose.

Not his raw masculine scent, but with something hard, like a brick wall.

My head jerks back and a sharp pain resonates through my sore nose.

Fuck-fat-ducks!

I stumble back, clutching my poor face as a thundering growl cuts through the air.

"Watch where you going, dickhead!"

My heart beat stops as I hear that deep, gravelly voice which doesn't need an introduction, yet I look up to confirm my fear.

Oh my Gelato!

I have just rammed my nose into Ryan's sexy chest.

･ิ(•̀.̫•́)･ิ

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