Someone who's not rich and in their social circle.
They'll shit bricks if they find out I'm a felon.
I've already gathered that she's a trust fund baby, and while that thought still makes me uncomfortable, like I'm not good enough for her, she reassures me every time her little hand brushes mine or she smiles at me.
I don’t know what the fuck I've ever done to be able to deserve a girl like this, but I know that I'll never lose her. I'll do anything—anything—to keep her, and I swear to god I'll live my life trying my best to make her happy.
I know I need to tell her about my felon status, but I can't bring myself to say the words just yet. I'm terrified of seeing fear in her eyes or her saying she doesn't want to see me again if she finds out.
I don't know if I'll be able to accept that if she does. I'm not exaggerating. I don't know if I'm physically capable of letting her go.
It about kills me when I close her safely up in her ridiculous little pink convertible, making sure she's properly buckled up, before watching her drive away.
And I know I shouldn't follow her, but I can't help it.
I do. I want to make sure she's gets home safely.
I keep a good distance behind her since I'm on my motorcycle, and she'd recognize me in a heartbeat if she happened to look back. I don't want to freak her out by following after her like a dog with its tongue hanging out.
I watch from across the street as she pulls into a huge, gated mansion. I watch as she gives the keys to her car to some valet who comes forward to park it for her.
She's beautiful. She's classy and well-bred. She looks so perfect amongst all the richness and finery of the place, and suddenly I'm filling inadequate again.
It doesn't matter how hard I work. I'll never be able to give her that. Would it be right of me to ask her to give all that up to be with me? The felon who's so down on his luck he's working Santa gigs at the mall just to make ends meet?
I should just walk away now before I make this harder than it's going to be. My heart starts hammering hard in my chest at the thought of never seeing her again, never hearing her witty retorts or the way she throws my full name, Nicholas, back at me when I tease her by calling her Jennifer.
I don't fucking know if I can do it. I'm already in too deep. When I think about her moving on with another man, another man touching her, another man holding her, another man fucking her, my vision goes red.
I don't know how long I sit there propped on my bike contemplating everything, but I straighten when a luxury vehicle that's not Jenny's begins coming out of the gates. I watch cautiously as the car pulls across the street over to where I've been sitting discreetly—or so I thought. Apparently not.
The back window of the vehicle rolls down, and then I'm met with a pair of emerald green eyes just like Jenny’s, but they’re in a male’s face.
It's her father.