A/N: Anything you recognize, I don't own.
My mother always tells me to be careful when riding the Metro.
L.A. is a huge city.
I could be swallowed and eaten up whole.
I pay no mind to what she says.
"Now Mary, don't forget to watch your surroundings." I take off my glasses whenever I sit down. I'm legally blind without them.
"Mary darling, be listening at all times." I always put in my earbuds and crank my iPod volume to the max.
"Mary honey, put your bag on the seat next to you, so no one will be tempted to sit with you." My messenger bag is forever nestled in my lap.
The only way I know to get off at my correct stop is his smell. Drakkar Noir. He gets on two stops after me, and leaves when I do. I've never seen his face; never heard his voice. All I know is that when I get off the bus to go to Pasadena Community College–PCC to all the locals–he's gone. I don't know if he works in the area, or if he goes to school with me. It's not as if I can sniff every man in the greater downtown area. I guess my routine will have to be halted if I want to know.
But my routine; my freedom, my inner child whines.
"Suck it up, Alice," I mutter to myself before my head hits my pillow.
Getting on the bus the next morning is a challenge in and of itself. The decision to brake my precious routine is torture. My hands shake as I show my bus card to the driver. My knees wobble as I walk to my seat. My breath comes out in shallow puffs as pull out a book to read on the way to school. I will not look at him, I promise myself. Not until the end.
The first stop isn't so bad. My breathing has evened out and the print on my book is no longer moving up and down like a seismograph. However, by the second stop, I quit breathing. Hell, I quit functioning altogether. I'm staring at the same page of my copy of Jane Eyre so hard, that the black font is blurring together into a big mass of ink. Ugh.
The temptation to not look up when he sits down next to me is hell. In an effort to look busy, I hastily close my book and shove it in my canvas messenger bag.
"Jane Eyre," a deep voice to my right speaks. "Good novel."
My eyes slowly creep up from my hands to his legs. Black slacks, I mentally note. Then legs to torso; a white button up and a deep, sapphire blue tie. Oh, god. How old is he?
His face tells me all I need to know. He's in his mid-to-late twenties, and probably has a job, whereas, I'm a lowly nineteen year old student who lives still lives with her mom. Awesome difference.
His eyes crinkle with a smile. Oh, I whimper. So beautiful.
He turns to me with his left hand outstretched. "Hello, I'm Jasper Whitlock."
I awkwardly shake his left hand with my own. "Uh..."
"Oh sorry! I always forget that everyone else in the world isn't left-handed like me," he explains.
"Oh, okay. I'm, um, Mary. But you can call me Alice. Only my mom calls me Mary." Oh, God. Word Vomit.
He laughs. Dear Lord, he laughs. "Okay, Alice, I'll have to remember that."
He hums to himself for a bit before turning back to me. "So, what classes do you take at PCC?" Jasper asks.
"How do you know that?" I just about yell. Please don't tell me he's one of those hot stalkers.
Jasper laughs again. "I'm a history teacher there," he explains. "I've seen you across campus a couple times, and always think,'There's that bus-girl.'"
Ugh. Bus-girl? Is he serious? He must notice my expression of distaste because he's quick to save his ass.
"Not that it's a bad thing. I like to think you're a beautiful bus-girl, Alice."
I feel my cheeks flush. Oh boy...
"How old are you?" I ask without checking my verbal filter.
I detect a slight wince from Jasper, but he quickly covers it. "I'll be twenty-six come two weeks from now," he says.
"I'm nineteen," I feel the need to say. Perfectly legal, my inner voice says.
"I'm also a Journalism major, a gemini, and I used to take gymnastics, so I'm really flexible," I spew. Dear God, what is wrong with me?
Jasper laughs a deep, hearty laugh. He turns to me with dark, lust filled eyes.
"So, my beautiful, flexible bus-girl, how do you feel about playing hooky with me?"
The words comes out in an instant, because I know them to be true.
"I'd be honored to."
We get off at PCC, but immediately hop on another bus, all the while sucking each other's faces off.
He lives in a little dingy apartment on Michigan St. I absolutely adore it.
And his bed.
I kiss a sleeping Jasper on the cheek, and slip out of bed. I throw on my panties and his white button up shirt. My phone has been ringing non stop since four o'clock. I wonder why?
I click the little green button to pick up the call, and get an earful from my mother.
Where have I been?
I was supposed to be home two hours ago.
I peeked at the clock on Jasper's microwave. Sure enough, the flashing green numbers said six o'clock. Huh. We'd been in bed all day, and I hadn't even noticed.
"I, uh–" someone grabbed my phone out of my hand.
"Hello, is this Alice's mother?" Jasper asked.
"Hi, yes, this is Alice's history teacher. She's staying late at school for some extra help on a paper I'm having my students write."
He hmm'ed and ah'ed for a bit before hanging up and putting my phone back in my bag. His lips met mine almost instantly after that.
Later that night in bed, I rolled over and faced my new lover.
"Hey Jazz?" I asked.
"Yeah?" he turned to face me.
"I don't have a history class," I pointed out.
"Does your mother know that?" he asked.
"No," I answered.
"Exactly."
"Ah."