Read Online Junk Miles by Liz Reinhardt - Free Book Online
Authors: Liz Reinhardt
Tags: Contemporary, Young Adult
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Raskolnikov and his murderous urges when some faintly familiar scent assaulted my nostrils. I knew exactly what it was I was smelling, but I just couldn’t fathom that it was part of my actual reality. That smell belonged to one person and one person only; Saxon Maclean.
I forced myself to look over the edge of my book, and there he stood, larger than life. Saxon in the flesh. What was he doing here? Why was he suddenly right in the middle of my Paris adventure?
“ Saxon?” He looked at me, a long hard look that gave me absolutely no clue about what he was feeling or thinking. His black eyes were completely dark, his mouth set in a firm line. He held himself stiffly, uncomfortable in the middle of this group of people, who he obviously considered alien and offensive. I felt myself buck under his dark stare, daring him to keep looking so openly. But Saxon, being Saxon, didn’t have the good sense to look away from my angry gaze. He stared straight at me, moved right to me like he was a ship lost at sea and I was the bright blink of a lighthouse.
“ Blixen.” He fell into the seat next to me. I noticed a fabulously beautiful woman with long, dark hair and bright, laughing eyes, the same color as Saxon’s, but with none of his sardonic nastiness. She was slight and bubbly, confident and lovely. She gravitated right to my mother and kissed both her cheeks, like some chic European woman. “I see you noticed my mother.”
“ You never told me your mother was a professor.” My wide eyes followed her as she flitted around the sterile airport longue like some kind of dazzling little sprite.
“ You never asked.” Saxon’s lazy voice dripped and oozed sexily. How did he do that? How did he take the most commonplace words in the English language and turn them into something undeniably sexy? I hated him for it, and hated him more because I felt like rubbing up against that thought. My brain didn’t even have the power to link him to Paris, but it bubbled around that possibility, and it was as powerfully delectable as it was toxic.
“ You’re going to Paris?” I asked, even though the answer stared me in the face.
“ Looks that way.” He flicked his eyes over my face.
I hated that I felt relieved to have put makeup on this morning. What did I care what he saw, what he approved of? Saxon and I had no business even attempting any type of relationship with each other. We were gunpowder and one hell of a spark, and I wasn’t about to test our combustibility.
“ I can’t believe this,” I muttered, and I knew myself enough to admit that I hoped he heard me mutter it and would respond. He did.
“ Can’t believe what? That I’m crashing your mommy-and-me Paris trip? Trust me, it wasn’t my choice.” He slumped lower in the molded plastic chair and pressed his fingers to his temples.
I tried hard not to notice how good he looked in his slightly wrinkled button-down and fraying jeans. His hair was a little too long. One piece needed to be pushed back from his eyes. Not that I was about to do it. It just needed to be done. That was just an observation.
That’s all.
“ What would your choice have been?” I closed my thick Russian book over my finger and tucked my legs up under me.
“ To be in between Sara Olsen’s legs.” His mouth curved into a wicked smile. He wanted to shock me, but I refused to let him. My facial muscles didn’t budge. “But mi madre said it was Paris or rehab. And I’m not living for two weeks without a cigarette or a decent meal. So Paris it is.”
“ Rehab for what?” I asked, even though I didn’t want to ask. What did I care what he’d been smoking/snorting/inhaling/shooting up? I didn’t. But I asked anyway.
“ Rehab for drugs and drinking.” Saxon looked right at my breasts. I crossed my arms over them. “She’s cool with rock n’roll. And a little sex, just as long as it’s safe.”
“ I wish you’d gone to rehab,” I griped. I clutched my novel until my
I forced myself to look over the edge of my book, and there he stood, larger than life. Saxon in the flesh. What was he doing here? Why was he suddenly right in the middle of my Paris adventure?
“ Saxon?” He looked at me, a long hard look that gave me absolutely no clue about what he was feeling or thinking. His black eyes were completely dark, his mouth set in a firm line. He held himself stiffly, uncomfortable in the middle of this group of people, who he obviously considered alien and offensive. I felt myself buck under his dark stare, daring him to keep looking so openly. But Saxon, being Saxon, didn’t have the good sense to look away from my angry gaze. He stared straight at me, moved right to me like he was a ship lost at sea and I was the bright blink of a lighthouse.
“ Blixen.” He fell into the seat next to me. I noticed a fabulously beautiful woman with long, dark hair and bright, laughing eyes, the same color as Saxon’s, but with none of his sardonic nastiness. She was slight and bubbly, confident and lovely. She gravitated right to my mother and kissed both her cheeks, like some chic European woman. “I see you noticed my mother.”
“ You never told me your mother was a professor.” My wide eyes followed her as she flitted around the sterile airport longue like some kind of dazzling little sprite.
“ You never asked.” Saxon’s lazy voice dripped and oozed sexily. How did he do that? How did he take the most commonplace words in the English language and turn them into something undeniably sexy? I hated him for it, and hated him more because I felt like rubbing up against that thought. My brain didn’t even have the power to link him to Paris, but it bubbled around that possibility, and it was as powerfully delectable as it was toxic.
“ You’re going to Paris?” I asked, even though the answer stared me in the face.
“ Looks that way.” He flicked his eyes over my face.
I hated that I felt relieved to have put makeup on this morning. What did I care what he saw, what he approved of? Saxon and I had no business even attempting any type of relationship with each other. We were gunpowder and one hell of a spark, and I wasn’t about to test our combustibility.
“ I can’t believe this,” I muttered, and I knew myself enough to admit that I hoped he heard me mutter it and would respond. He did.
“ Can’t believe what? That I’m crashing your mommy-and-me Paris trip? Trust me, it wasn’t my choice.” He slumped lower in the molded plastic chair and pressed his fingers to his temples.
I tried hard not to notice how good he looked in his slightly wrinkled button-down and fraying jeans. His hair was a little too long. One piece needed to be pushed back from his eyes. Not that I was about to do it. It just needed to be done. That was just an observation.
That’s all.
“ What would your choice have been?” I closed my thick Russian book over my finger and tucked my legs up under me.
“ To be in between Sara Olsen’s legs.” His mouth curved into a wicked smile. He wanted to shock me, but I refused to let him. My facial muscles didn’t budge. “But mi madre said it was Paris or rehab. And I’m not living for two weeks without a cigarette or a decent meal. So Paris it is.”
“ Rehab for what?” I asked, even though I didn’t want to ask. What did I care what he’d been smoking/snorting/inhaling/shooting up? I didn’t. But I asked anyway.
“ Rehab for drugs and drinking.” Saxon looked right at my breasts. I crossed my arms over them. “She’s cool with rock n’roll. And a little sex, just as long as it’s safe.”
“ I wish you’d gone to rehab,” I griped. I clutched my novel until my
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