Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Fucking teachers included.
No.
The one thing I want is my goddamn girl back.
Bambi and I stroll into our marketing class together hand in hand. She says she switched into my class because her parents want her in a class that will look good on her college application if she ever fills it out, but she’s full of shit. She just wants to be around me all she can, whenever she can, which is annoying as fuck when it’s not a mutual feeling.
Marketing is the one class Pres and I share.
The one I still look forward to coming up in the rotation in spite of the uncomfortable scene.
Unfortunately, the wedge between us is physical as much as it is mental now.
We sit on the exact opposite sides of the classroom, in opposite corners. Bambi and I sit towards the front all the way on the right side of the room while Pres sits all the way towards the back on the left. The ground in the middle is soil shared by people who enjoy stomping around in our spoken animosity – an SAT Prep word she rewarded me for learning by letting me suck whip cream off her nipples.
Presley walks in shortly after we sit, and my heart instantly sinks.
Fuck, it always does when I see her.
Who am I fucking kidding?
The shit plummets even when I don’t.
All it takes is someone mentioning her name to me or in passing – fuck, scratch that – anything that even sounds close to it, and my goddamn soul completely shatters. My father who I thought would be proud I did something he suggested didn't seem to care one way or another. In fact, he made sure to remind me, not to go around knocking any girls up now that I wasn’t going to be “keeping it in my pants”. I almost drove across town, dropped on my knees, and begged for Pres to take me back when he said that bullshit. I almost cried at her fucking adorable toes to undo all the misery my life has been turning into. I’m honestly not even sure what stopped me. Fuck, I’m not even sure what is still stopping me.
“I can do a fun trick with this lollipop,” Bambi giggles as she leans over my desk. In a seductive voice – or one she believes to be is more accurate – she coos, “Wanna see?”
“Sure, babe.” I thoughtlessly shrug while trying not to let my eyes follow my heart. She shoves the entire thing down her throat, a skill I’ve gotten to enjoy firsthand. “Impressive.”
It wasn’t anything special when I let her suck me sober.
Fuck, it still took my cock too long to cooperate with the idea of coming for her. I had to have us stop, lie about having a headache, have some beers to “help” it, and try again once I was a little buzzed. I really don’t blame my dick for boycotting the situation. Between her insisting on wearing clothes a size too small, and the obnoxious way she constantly baby talks to me before, after, and during the fooling around shit, I wonder how any dude busts a nut quickly. I’m only dating her - and fuck do I hate to use that word – in an attempt to save some face.
Restore a little clout – another whip cream word.
Most of this campus – from freshman to seniors – fucking hates me for breaking Pres's heart the way I did. Dings in my car. Key scratches. Slashed tires. Eggs and shaving cream left to fuck up the paint. And there’s the shit that gets scribbled or carved into my locker. The random hateful texts. The ass whooping promises left in voicemails by anonymous numbers. Worst part of all this shit is I don’t blame anyone for hating me.
Fuck, I hate me.
And if it wasn’t me who had done the shitty thing and hurt the only person I fucking care about, I would be on the bandwagon of making my life a living hell, too.
Guess I kind of still am.
Just from the inside.
“Hey, how about we skip next period, and do the real thing?” she suggests at a lower volume as our teacher, Mrs. Flynn, finally enters the room.
“Maybe.”
“Just maybe?!” she snaps.
“That’s what I fucking said.”
Bambi immediately turns around to pout facing forward, leaving me the open chance to glance over my shoulder and enjoy the breathtaking view I haven’t been able to yet.
Lately, Pres has taken to dressing a little more…provocatively. Our first week apart, it was uniform hoodies and baggy slacks, keeping everything I loved still in the unseen; however, now, almost a month later, she’s wearing mini-skirts that tow the line of “school acceptable” and tit popping tanks that she doesn’t bother buttoning a uniform shirt over. Sometimes, she wears both at the same fucking time! Apparently, Project Runaway did a special “Make Your Ex-Boyfriend Jealous” edition starring her.