KARTER Read Online Free

Suburban? Like a Chevy Suburban? The SUV?” he asked.
    I nodded my head, “You got it.”
    Were you jumping it sideways or lengthways?” he asked.
    “Lengthways. Shit anyone could make it sideways,” I responded, half irritated he would think I was interested in the easy way out of anything.
    “A Suburban’s eighteen feet four inches in length,” he chuckled.
    “Probably. But you know what?” I asked.
    He raised his eyebrows, “What?”
    “What’s scary is you know that. The length of a Suburban,” I laughed.
    He looked somewhat embarrassed. I reminded myself to attempt keeping my mouth shut for the remainder of our lunch meeting. The fact he helped me get my bike to the Harley dealer and waited until I got it running was far more than I would have ever expected from a person passing by. One advantage of living in the Midwest, I suppose. The meal was my idea, and a last ditch effort to spend a little more time with him. Hopefully my charm and good looks would lure him into asking for my phone number. 
    “I’m full of useless information,” he smiled.
    “Okay. So, down the ramp as fast as I could go and I hauled ass up the other side. As soon as my front tire got to the top of the ramp, I heard a snap. The ramp collapsed. Fucking two by fours couldn’t hold that much downforce. My bike shot in the air like a rocket, flipped half way over, and I landed on my head and shoulders. My right clavicle ended up cracked. It hurt like hell,” I looked down and began to pick at my salad again.
    “How far did you make it?” he laughed.
    I looked up from my salad and smiled, “Half way.”
    “Not bad,” he grinned.
    I sat staring at my salad, relieved he didn’t ask when it happened or how old I was. Had he, I would have felt a need to tell a lie. I really wanted to see him again, and I didn’t want my age to come into play. Luckily, I just turned twenty-one years old and was able to legally go into bars and clubs. If we would have met six weeks prior and he invited me out to a club, I couldn’t have gone. Thank God for the treatment program keeping me off the streets.
    “So, how old…”
    “Excuse me?” I stammered, not quite hearing the end of his question.
    “Your age,” he rubbed his chin and appeared to look through me.
    Son of a fucking bitch, seriously? I’m twenty-one and I think you’re gorgeous, interesting, sexy and for some fucking reason you make me comfortable. I don’t care how old you are and I want you to take off your clothes.
    At least your shirt.
    “How old were you when it happened?”
    “Huh?”
    “When you broke your clavicle?”
    “Oh, twelve. I think I was twelve,” I lied.
    He nodded his head and looked down at his plate. He picked up his fork and stirred through his salad. Slowly he looked up. As our eyes made contact, he smiled.
    Fuck, dude. Please don’t ask me how long ago it was.
    “I’ve got to be honest,” he sighed.
    About what?
    Fuck, can’t we just enjoy this?
    You’re married, aren’t you?
    “I’ve been picking through my lettuce for an hour. I really don’t want this to end. I haven’t had this much fun in years. Not to sound like one of life’s inexperienced assholes slinging cliché remarks, but…” he paused and stared into my eyes.
    Thank fucking God.
    “I’ve never felt such an immediate interest in someone before,” he smiled, revealing his dimples.
    I want you to pick me up and hold me off the floor so my legs dangle.
    “That’s not too cliché. Kind of, but not bad,” I smiled.
    Jesus, Karter. Tell him how you feel.
    “Well it’s true. Karter, you interest me. Let’s do this again,” he sighed.
    “I want you to pick me up and let my legs dangle.”
    “Say again?” his scrunched his brow and looked confused.
    Did I actually say that? Like out loud?
    I sat and did my best to act like I didn’t hear him.
    “Did you say you wanted me to pick you up?” he asked.
    I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, “Maybe.”
    “Well, we’ve