Maxwell
Myheadhitsthebathroom wall, a groan slipping from my lips as the brunette on her knees in front of me takes me whole cock. She takes it slow, her tongue licking up underneath, following the vein and it makes chills run through my body.
It’s not enough though. Too sensual and laid back.
“Faster or I’ll fuck your face,” I growl.
She moves her head fast, hollowing out her cheeks. I grab the side of her head, controlling her pace more. She chokes on my cock, taking it as deep as I can go, and my balls tighten.
“Swallow,” I groan as I spill into her mouth. I feel her swallow around me, causing my cock to twitch in her mouth. She pulls back, a string of saliva still connected from the top to her mouth. Pushing her back, I step away and tuck myself back into my jeans.
“Thanks, Harriet,” I mutter.
“My name is Harper,” she corrects.
“Whatever,” I say before leaving the room back to the party I stepped out of. Mav and Dax are standing by the door, waiting with a closed beer can for me.
“You done using girls yet?” Dax ponders.
“No.”
I pull a pocket-knife from my pants, shoving it into the bottom of the can before shot-gunning the beer. The liquid slides down my throat quickly.
It’s been a week since IbetrayedClayton. The first few days were filled with me blowing up Clayton’s phone, all for the messages and calls to be ignored. I’m surprised he hasn’t blocked my number. The rest of the days consisted of calling out of work, skipping Anatomy, and drinking so much that I'm surprised my liver isn't screaming.
A matter of time before someone calls me to the new dean’s office and gives me shit for it. The only downfall this time is I don’t have a cushion to fall on. Randall Levine isn’t here to save my ass. I don’t really care.
Mav and Dax have been putting up with my shit. Despite it only being a week, it feels like it’s been an entire lifetime. Mom calls and texts to check up on me, but I can’t be bothered to answer the phone. The only reason I even socialize with Mav and Dax right now is because I’m too lazy to go out and buy my own weed.
Speaking of, I pull out my cigarette pack from my pocket. The box is crushed and dinged to shit. Opening it, I slide the pre-rolled joint out and spark it up right here in the dining hall. The lights in the room are cascading shadows of blues, pinks, and reds from the usual colored-disco ball hanging from the ceiling.
I hear my friends talking behind me, saying that they should do something about this, but what could they do? The only thing thatmight stop me from sending myself to an early grave is to give me a time machine.
God, how I wish I had one.
All that goes through my head is what Clayton said to me at the amusement park.
You wanted to hurt me, Maxwell? Well, good fucking job! I hope you're happy!
I’m not happy. Not in the slightest.
“I need air.” I tell my friends before walking across the room to the door. On the way, girls try to grab my arm, pulling me to dance, but I yank away and keep going outside.
The school yard is empty. The sun long passed under the horizon. I haven’t gone outside during a sunset in days because all I see is Clayton sitting before a setting star. He’s everywhere and nowhere.
I plop my ass on the ground, puffing on the joint. With my free hand, I maneuver the pack back out of my pocket and grab a cigarette. A joint in one hand, a cancer-stick in the other.
There’s a door that shuts off in the distance and a few minutes go by before someone is walking in this direction. I’d recognize that figure from anywhere though. The light hair, even in the dark of the night. The tall and broadness of the man walking over.
Clayton.
When he gets closer, he turns and sees me. I don’t speak, afraid that if I do it might send him running.
“What are you doing?” His voice is calm. No emotion. No sadness, no anger, no happiness. Blank.
Just like I feel.
“Smoking.”
