“Then why not just get down on your knees and offer to suck my dick?” I ask dryly.
Again, she blinks, stunned.
“B-because I want?—”
“To fuck me, to date me, then marry me, in that order. Would we get a puppy together, and would you take me home to meet your family? Have you imagined the ring I picked out for you already? And the way I’d propose?”
Her cheeks flush tomato red, and she guiltily glances away, answering my questions despite the way she tries to deny them.
“Of course not.” Another awkward laugh. “I’m not that desperate, Dread. Jesus.”
Another lie. She’s very fucking desperate. I could smell it from between her thighs after ten seconds of speaking to her. I could probably smell it at the party, too, which is why she wasn’t even slightly memorable.
“You think you’re different from the rest? Maybe try coming up with a speech I haven’t heard before,” I say, my irritation growing. For the life of me, I don’t know why the hell she’s still standing in front of me.
Her mouth drops, hurt flashing across her eyes. My annoyance climbs, so I spin on my heel and walk away before I make her cry. Eventually, I'll come to my senses and go find her to spit out some charming apology that'll have her batting her eyelashes and thinking I'm dreamy again. But right now, I’ll burn through all my calories searching for a fuck to give, and I need those for swim practice later.
I don’t know why the hell I’m so angry, anyway. Women hitting on me is a daily occurrence, and typically, it’s something I don’t think twice about.
However, these past couple weeks have been especially irritating, and every single time a girl has stopped me on campus, on the street, or even at an event, I’m ready to wring someone’s neck by the time I’ve finished kindly rejecting them.
I haven’t seen Reverie since the party, and for whatever reason, it’s gotten under my skin. During the three days I was home last week, she was nowhere to be seen, and I was too busy with practice to go looking for her.
I can’t stand that she hid from me. It’s pathetic. Weak. Something she’s never done before.
Andfuck, is it pissing me off.
Usually, I’m met with some type of fire by now, whether it’s putting a padlock on my locker in the gym, forcing me to walk across campus in nothing more than a towel in the dead of winter, or writing a goddamnReddit post claiming to have gone to high school with me and said I had an addiction to fucking citrus fruit—literallyfucking them. It went viral, of course, and she spent a solid nine hours replying to people, saying school faculty had to hide all the oranges and lemons from me during lunch because I kept sneaking off to the bathroom to jack off with them.
Eventually, my publicist got the post removed, and real people from my high school spoke out and refuted the rumors, but occasionally, I come across comments from people who still think it's true.
That'sthe Reverie I know and hate.
But tohide from me?
That’s fucking new, and it’s driving me insane.
Maybe I went too far these last couple times, but even considering being regretful only pisses me off more.
She deserves to be reminded of the women she continues to ignore. Because the only ones who deserve my fucking compassion arethem.
I slam the exit door open as I charge out of the Ada Lovelace Center, where our finance class is located, but the icy air does little to soothe my temper.
Christ, maybe I do need a quick fuck. Between Reverie’s insistence on existing and Lionel’s parole hearing, my head is all fucked up. And Istillhaven’t heard a single goddamn thing about the board’s decision, which has weighed on me more and more each day. I'm supposed to receive a letter as soon as they reach one, but it’s been over a month since the hearing, and still fucking crickets.
I’ve been checking the CDCR’s website several times a week, confirming he’s still in custody as of this morning, which has been the only thing keeping me from losing my mind completely.
I’ve had so much pent-up aggression because of it, and neither swimming nor fucking with Reverie has been cutting it, but the thought of getting any woman beneath me makes my insides recoil. Doesn’t matter which pretty face I picture—they all look abhorrent to me.
All except one, at least.
I've become desperate. I’ve googled countless celebrities, models, and sex workers in hopes of ridding her from my mind, but then I blink, and I'm suddenly staring at my screen saver. I blink again, and my dick is in my hand, and I’m coming all over myself.
I keep trying to change it, but it's like fighting a demonic possession. Every time I try, it takes control, and I jack off to the fucking pictureinstead.
It'sreallypissing me off.
Exhaling harshly, I run an irate hand through my hair as I head toward my dorm, my thoughts spiraling into different scenarios of drawing Reverie out from her room and making her cry those pretty tears again.
