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“I am?” His brows shot up in surprise. “About what?” Before I had a chance to respond, his eyes widened in comical awareness. “About you fucking yourself?” Or at least, it would have been comical if it wasn’t so fucking depressing. “Holy shit, Johnny. You haven’t or you can’t?”
“I tried, I failed, I haven’t tried since, so now I’m fairly sure I can’t,” I decided to throw out there.
There was no goddamn point in trying to evade the question. He wasn’t going to let it go, and I had bigger issues right now than my temperamental testosterone.
“How long has it been?”
“Before Christmas,” I quickly replied before saying, “but that’s not the problem here.”
“Jesus, Kav, I’d say that’s a very big problem, lad.” Gibsie let out a low whistle. “Have you tried lube?”
“What—no! Stop talking about my dick,” I barked, then ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “It’s her, man. You were right. I am completely fucked in the head, and I need you to stop me from doing something stupid with that girl.”
“Which girl?”
“Which girl do you think, asshole?” I snarled. “Shannon.”
“Oh, that girl.” Gibsie chuckled. “The resurrectionator.”
“Stop laughing. It’s not funny. I need your help,” I snapped, flustered. “And ‘resurrectionator’ is not a word.”
“Yes, it is,” Gibsie challenged. “Jesus was resurrected. It was a resurrection performed by God, the ‘resurrectionator.’ Similar to Shannon, the ‘resurrectionator’ of your bollocks that day outside the P.E hall.” Snickering, he added in a deep voice, “She shall appear and he shall arise.”
“Which made God a resurrectionist and/or a resurrector,” I growled. “Nowhere in the English language was he called a bleeding resurrectionator.”
“I’m talking about the bible, not the dictionary.”
“You’re talking out of your hole,” I countered.
“The terminator is called the fucking terminator, asshole,” Gibsie shot back. “Not the bloody terminist.”
“Terminist,” I mused. “Another word that’s not a word.”
“Well, ‘resurrectionator’ is a word.”
“No, it bleeding well isn’t.” I shook my head, aggravated. “It’s not phonetically or grammatically correct.”
“Grammatically correct?” Gibsie balked at me. “Look at you, Mr. Higher-Level English, thinking you know everything with your Great Gatsby and Shakespeare. Well, not this time.” He tapped his temple. “This time, I’m the smart one.”
“It’s called basic comprehension, Mr. Foundation-Level English, and I’m telling you now that you are wrong.”
He scratched his head.
“Concentrate, Gibs,” I ordered. “I need your help here, man.”
“I can’t,” he grumbled, brows set in a deep frown. “I know I’m right, Johnny. I go to mass every Sunday, you know.”
“Good for you,” I mocked. “Maybe you should pray to Jesus for some common sense—” My words fell off my tongue when he stalked over to me and dragged my seat out of the way. “Dammit, Gibs!” I barked. “Where the hell are you going?”
“To the library,” he shot back, yanking the door open. “You’re wrong. I’m googling it. And then I’m printing it off and posting it all over the fucking school,” he added as he sauntered out of the room. “Watch me resurrect the truth.”
“Fine,” I muttered wearily. “Go for it.”
Less than ten minutes later, Gibsie returned with a sheepish expression.
“It’s not a word,” he announced, stalking back through the doorway.
“I know,” I deadpanned. “Now that you have that worked out of your system, do you think you can you help me?”
