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“I heard.”
That news went flying through the halls within minutes of it happening. Though Anna was the one who made me aware. I’m not sure what she was expecting from me when she sent me a photo of the two walking together, but I gave her nothing back.
“Nothing to say?”
“No, I told you I didn’t care what you and Gage do when it comes to her.”
I’m not lying.
The thing is, I’m sure Anna thought I’d get jealous about Fallon hanging with one of the guys, since I’ve shown her more attention publicly in just one English class than I have the other chicks here in the last three years.
I’ve fucked, a lot, sometimes even in public places; they don’t hold my attention for any longer than it takes for me to blow my load in the back of their throats or their tight pussies.
Fallon is different.
With Gage and Kyle, two guys I consider my brothers, I trust them with her. They might piss about, but they’d never cross any sort of line with Fallon. Whether I want to openly claim her or not, she’s been mine for our entire lives.
Despite the distance over the last few years, I’d hazard a guess they still care for her like they would a little sister. So, no, I’m not jealous. Kyle can take as many walks, down as many hallways as he wants with Fallon, and I wouldn’t care.
Any other guy?
Then I might have a fucking problem.
“Alright, then,” he says, offering me a rolled joint from his hand. “Well, I’m pretty sure it won’t be happening again. It was fucking awkward, man. I think she’s long past the point of giving any kind of shit about us.”
Lighting the joint, I say nothing.
He’s wrong in his assumption.
She gives a shit.
Probably more than she’ll ever willingly admit to, but she does.
The weed hits my lungs, and I hold it there for a long moment, waiting for the burn before I let it out. I throw my head back on the cushion and watch as smoke rings float through the air. He takes the hint, turning the tele on and flicking through the channels.
Gage joins us a little while later, and we spend the rest of the afternoon getting drunk and loaded before we have to leave for fight night.
“Get dressed. Both of you. We’re going out,” Betty shouts, popping her head around her bedroom door. I glance down at my tracksuit, groaning. Based on the full face of make-up she’s wearing and the perfect curls in her hair, she’s not planning on where we’re going being tracksuit-wear appropriate.
“Why?” Noah asks, not faring much better in the outfit department. He’s wearing a pair of tartan pyjamas his mum got him for Christmas one year so they could do a family photo shoot.
Neither of us are dressed to go out, and after eating our body weight in nachos, it’s the absolute worst thing I could imagine right now.
“Because we’re eighteen,” she snaps, stepping out of her room dressed in high-waisted blue jeans and a white lacy bralette. “We’re freshers. We’re supposed to be living it up, and you two are over here acting like grandmas. All you really need to do is whip out a wad of wool and knitting needles and you’re there.”
“I did always want to take up knitting,” I tell her, my smile dropping when she scowls at me. “Ugh, do we actually have to?”
With her hands on her hips, she walks over to us, eyes narrowed as if we were two children who belong on the naughty step. “Yes.”
Noah huffs, standing from where he sits beside me on the couch. “I can’t. Shit to do.”
“No, you’re coming,” she tells him, before reaching her hand out to grab mine and pull me up. “I want no excuses from either of you. Off you go.”
Placing a hand on both our backs, she shoves us towards our respective doorways, muttering the whole time about how she lives with two old ladies. I roll my eyes while Noah glares at her, though, we both do as she tells us.
There’s something about Elizabeth Williams that makes you unable to ever tell her no.
The next hour is spent trying to get ready while she rushes in and out of our rooms, handing out drinks and shouting for us to rush. I’ve never showered faster in my life, and I keep my make-up to a swipe of mascara and lip gloss in the hope it will stop her stressing.
