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“I have an epic right hook.”
“Then save it for the fella actually banging your sister, not the fella admiring her from a distance,” he said, laughing.
“He’s not banging her.”
“Not yet.”
“Stop it.”
______________________
Weathering the storm that was Hurricane Molloy, I managed to keep off her radar and out of trouble for the first four classes. Until double maths before big break, where not only did I have to face her wrath, but I had to do it in the seat next to hers.
With a face like thunder, Molloy strolled into class five minutes late, which was abnormal for her, while spinning some yarn to our teacher about needing to use the bathroom. With all eyes on her, and her long legs on full view to every eager-eyed prick watching her—which, let’s face it, was most of the class—my girlfriend strutted down the aisle to our desk, with her tits pushed out and her hips swaying.
See, that was the thing about Molloy—and one of the earliest things I’d learned about her—when she got pissed, she got sexy. That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t ridiculously sexy every day. It was more that she was never more aware of her feminine supremacy than when she had a point to prove. Like right now, for example, she was letting me know that I was topping her shit list, and she had plenty of options if I didn’t get with the program and up my game.
“Molloy,” I decided to breach the silence by saying when she took her seat next to me. “Nice legs.”
Her lips reluctantly tipped upward, but she quickly steeled her features, keeping her scowl in check as she set her books and pencil case on our desk.
“Can we just…”
She shook her head, letting me know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t ready to wave a white flag of her own. She had a lot of nerve. If anyone had the right to be pissed off, it was me, the misfortunate bastard whose stash she flushed down the damn toilet the night before.
Shrugging at her prissiness, I leaned back in my seat, pencil in hand, and stared out the window, watching as the March rain pelted against the pane of glass outside. Deep in my thoughts, I let myself delve into the mess that was my life, all the while wondering how the fuck the girl sitting beside me was still, well, beside me.
Yeah, stash flushing aside, I knew I was punching.
And in the wrong.
I’d made a hash of everything.
Again.
I’d gone back on my word.
Again.
I’d let her down.
Again.
Nothing about our relationship was balancing in my favor anymore, and honestly, aside from my ability to put my dick to good use, I couldn’t see the appeal of being with me.
I thought she was done with me that night.
I expected her to be done with me.
My father assaulted her, for Christ’s sake.
No relationship, no matter how much love or loyalty there was, came back from a blow like the one ours had taken. But here she was, mad as hell and pulling on her boxing gloves to go another round with me.
I didn’t know how Molloy could love me after what he did to her, much less want to be with me. I sure as hell couldn’t stand the sight of myself.
“Joseph, do you need a hand with something?” our teacher asked, dragging my attention away from the window and to the front of the class.
I stared blankly up at her. “Huh?”
