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)
And fuck me does she look good.
We’re talking so damn good all the time that my dick literally hurts at the end of this class period for standing at attention for so long.
Last week I had to pretend to take a dump at the start of my last class to jerk off instead.
“Collins,” Mrs. Flynn states, catching me redhandedly watching my girl – goddamn it, ex girl – tuck an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. My head rolls back towards her before anyone else can notice. “Why don’t you start the reading? Page sixty-nine.”
Of course that would be the fucking page number.
Bambi enthusiastically turns, so that we can share her marketing book. I somehow managed to leave mine at home. Again.
I’ve actually started making a habit of leaving books as well as my homework someone did in my room for the maid to throw away or shove on my bookshelf like it’s for random reading rather than school.
I’m also almost always fucking tardy in the mornings now. What can I say? It’s hard to get out of bed – even with my mom’s bitching about not raising a high school dropout. What’s even fucking harder to do is to care about getting an A on a paper or quiz or a sectional test when the only thing that matters, the only thing that ever pushed me, is now pushing me away.
Well, I pushed her away.
So, once more, for the people in the back looking down her top, instead of listening to the sound of my depressed voice, I deserve to suffer for it.
My reading leads to an annoyingly long discussion about marketing techniques in the media and an absurd amount of questions I feel a preschooler would ask, courtesy of my current girlfriend. It feels like it takes forever to be dismissed to do the review worksheets amongst ourselves, yet when the moment finally does arrive, the motor mouth thing I hate myself for choosing, refuses to not only shut up, but to let me pretend to work in peace.
“Ry,” she whispers my name, the end of her pen next to her lips.
“Don’t call me that.”
“How about Ry Ry?”
“Worse.”
“What can I call you?”
“Collins, like everyone else.”
Her bottom lip pokes out like a child encouraging me to figure out what she wants so maybe she’ll shut up for longer.
“What’s up?”
She sloppily wraps her tongue around the end of the writing tool.
Wow…very subtle.
“Well, I know what’s on your fucking mind.”
“Well…can you blame me, babe?”
Her?
No.
I’ve got a great dick.
But can she blame me for not being into her?
I mean it’s like getting blown by a baby kangaroo.
Instead of responding, I let my eyes drift behind her at the sight of Pres heading out of the classroom, most likely for the bathroom.
“You’re so sexy, and we haven’t even-”
“I need to take a leak.”
Bambi's face instantly twitches into a pout that you could not pay me to give a fuck about.
I quickly pop up and head to front where Mrs. Flynn is distracted by a romance novel she’s pretending isn’t on the other side of the newspaper. “Can I use the pass, please?”
She absentmindedly hums her approval nods and shoos me away with a frantic hand.
Based on her response and the fact she didn’t even pretend to look up, it’s safe to assume I have more time to fuck around in the halls as opposed to less.
I grab the extra pass, head out of the room, and damn near jog to the restrooms to ensure I have at least one private moment with Pres.
One tiny moment that won’t be seen by the watch dogs that document our every move like a sick fucking celebrity news report.
The nook where the bathrooms are is also home to a drink vending machine, which is what I casually lean beside while I anxiously wait for her to exit.
First time the door swings open, I’m immediately disappointed at the sight of the goth student who hisses at me in passing. Next is a petite blonde who also sneers over my presence. After her it’s a petite brunette that delivers the same response. Uneasy with the idea that maybe she used the other set of restrooms that are of equal distance from the classroom yet next to the snack machine, I prepare to abandon what can only be labeled as a move of desperation.
“Ry?”
The syllable lifts my fallen face and fills it with unmatched relief.
Happiness.
Need.
I let old habits guide me like I’m on fucking autopilot and reach out to gently tug her body to mine by her left hand. “Hey you.”
“Hi you,” she replies back in the same spirit, her too falling into the movements and motions we did for so long.
The stroking of my thumb over her ring finger is a classic action that used to make my heart beat easier knowing the whole world knew she was taken by the diamond I put there thanks to the credit card my father wouldn’t look twice at since it was technically Noah’s.