in another world, he tweeted a few days later, after she'd had enough time to get out of her downward spiral. in another world, she spent new year's eve in the bed of a boy who loved her.
but not in this one.
she'd liked the tweet in a daze, not because she expected anything. oh, she knows him, and he knows her, but only as a lame goody-two-shoes who doesn't know how to have fun.
what she gets is a hey there sweetie, and suddenly her world is turned on its head. she freezes, unsure how to respond, until finally her shaking fingers type out the words and here i thought you considered me lame. he tells her he'll reconsider if she can fulfill his needs. it's a one-night stand, because of course it is, and it's nothing she hasn't done before.
(that's not strictly true; he likes hard drugs, wants her to tighten the band on his arm before they get to anything else, but she's just the right stage of desperate to forget how much she doesn't want to be near a druggie.)
the poison words of her stepmother are echoing in her head & so even as she tweets back i've known boys like you before, she knows she'll be saying yes to whatever he wants of her. five minutes later, she gets a response: you've never met anyone like me, i promise you that.
when and where? she asks.
"come back to bed."
she doesn't come back to bed. she keeps getting dressed, pulling a pair of her pants off of his dresser and snatching one of his white t-shirts from off of the floor. "i have class in an hour."
he scoffs, then leers. "that's plenty of time for what i want."
she shoots him a glance over her shoulder just before she pulls his t-shirt on, and the look in her green eyes is decidedly unamused. "not if i want to shower."
"you showered last night," he complains, propping himself up on his elbows. she must have already brushed her hair; there's no sign of it being mussed from the night before.
"i don't want to smell like…" the sentence goes unfinished, so he's not sure if she means booze or sex or you.
"don't be a lameass," he says.
she stops at that, like he knew she would, because insulting her always fires her up. "i'm not being a lameass. just because you forgot to shower doesn't mean i need to, too."
"you're just too chickenshit to go to class after fucking me," he taunts. she turns on her heel, and when she glares at him, he knows he's won.
"i am not chickenshit."
"then get over here," he says, smirking, "and prove it."
"want a drag?" he asks, holding out his cigarette lazily. she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.
"you know i don't smoke."
he bites back the word lame because he sees the look in her eyes and he knows that pissing her off is not going to get him laid tonight – and he wants to get laid.
"we could always shoot up."
another shake of her head. "you just shot up. and you also know that i hate needles." he knows that's code for i don't like hard drugs, but again, he lets it slide. he's in a good mood. kind of.
"pot, then? there's brownies in the fridge."
she's only gotten high with him once before, in the backseat of her car, but he likes her high. it's better than having her around drunk, when she gets a little handsy but doesn't want sex, just to sleep on top of him. she's fearless when she's high; that time in her car, he'd put his hand around her throat and pressed his mouth against hers, and when his other hand had slid up her shirt she'd gasped someone might see us and he'd asked so what? and instead of pushing to find somewhere private like she usually does, she'd just ground herself against him and pulled the shirt off herself.
now she hesitates, but instead of heading for the edibles she just winks at him, a taunting smile pulling at the corners of her red-painted mouth. the dark lipstick won't smudge no matter how hard he kisses her, no matter how many times he has her on her knees. it pisses him off more than the taunt in her expression, more than the way she's wrapped herself up in a blanket so he can't ogle her form. "why do that when you're my drug of choice?" she asks, and her voice is laden with innuendo, that smile – no, that smirk – getting wider and wider.
he puts out the cigarette because he knows she'll just dance away from him if he comes near her with it lit, but even without it in his hand she darts away from him, smirking all the while. there isn't far she can go, of course, not with how small his bedroom is, but she gets far enough that he can't grab for her.
"come on, saint jimmy, show me what you're made of."
his name from her lips is a novelty, usually reserved only for when they're in bed (or against a wall, or in the car, or when she's bent over a table). it's how he knows she's in the mood, because he swears that sometimes she only remembers his name when she wants to fuck him.
(not that he can blame her; he only remembers hers when he's moaning it into the crook of her neck.)
he crosses the room in two strides and backs her into the wall, hard, though going by the sparkle in her eyes she doesn't mind at all. in fact, she's still smirking, and he swears that he's going to smudge that perfect lipstick of hers no matter what it takes. he puts his hand around her throat, just the slightest bit of pressure (the way she likes it, he knows), and she laughs, teeth bright in her pretty face. she's wild today, and he's not sure why, but he's not going to complain when she's looking at him like that – like she'll take whatever he gives her and she'll love it. so instead of choking her until he's blue like he wants to, he grabs her wrists in one hand and pins them to the wall above her head.
when he kisses her, she presses against him until their bodies are flush together. she's all soft curves but her teeth scrape at his lip and in return he moves his mouth to her neck and bites, relishing in the surprised moan that slips from her lips.
"you fucking like that, don't you?"
she looks at him through lidded eyes. "you taste like cigarette smoke, jackass."
she's avoiding his question, and he knows it, so he sucks another hickey into her neck until she's moaning again. "you do like it."
she bucks against him as if trying to free her hands, but he's too strong. "quit fucking around," she hisses. "i don't want to wear a scarf tomorrow."
"so don't," he says, rolling his hips against her and taking satisfaction from the sharp inhale of breath he hears her take. "nobody gives a shit about a few hickeys."
"they'll ask questions," she counters, and goes to say something else – almost certainly another fucking complaint – before he cuts her off with a rough kiss.
"shut the fuck up, sweetheart," he snarls against her lips, "they'll be asking questions about more than the hickeys. like how you won't be able to sit comfortably once i'm done with you."
that makes her laugh again, wild, and this time when his teeth scrape against her collarbone she doesn't bitch about it.
"what am i doing here?"
he turns his head to squint at the clock – 9 am, too fucking early for any day of the week – and then closes his eyes again. "you don't have class this morning," he says, certain she'll miss the fact that he has to know her schedule to say that.
(he doesn't care about her, that's not why he knows; he's just tired of trying to sext her and getting angry i'm in class! responses. it's easier to plan hookups when he knows what the hell is going on with her.)
"not here right now," she clarifies, "just in general. what am i doing here? with you?"
his eyes blink open and he regards her apathetically. "you wanted a fuck and i wanted a fuck."
"yeah, but your original offer – you wanted someone you never had to talk to again." and she's changing out of his shirt, which is never a good thing. he's had girls change out of his shirts before, and it usually ends with yelling and one of them storming away. "yet here i am, weeks later, watching you get high and letting you fuck me even when you've been smoking cigarettes."
"so what? i happen to like fucking you," he says with a shrug, finally sitting up a little as she turns her back on him. "where do you think you're going?"
"home," she says curtly. "i don't know why i…" she sighs, turning around. "you aren't my type."
"not your type?" he echoes, rubbing at his eyes. "that's not what it seemed like when you were on your knees, or with my hand around my neck begging for my – "
"stop," she says, drowning out the end of his sentence. "you were a good lay. i'm not denying that. but i've never been able to do things like this without…" she makes a gesture that he assumes, based off of interactions with other girls, means catching feelings.
"if you've got a crush on me, sweetie, just say it." he doesn't love her, of course, even if she does have a nice set of tits and a pretty face, even if she knows just how to get him going and when to stop being a smartass.
"i don't," she says, and for once he can't tell if she's lying or not. he doesn't like not knowing. "but it might not stay that way, and you are the last person i want to have feelings for."
he knows why that is, but he asks anyway. "why?"
she doesn't answer, just picks up her purse & slips on her heels. "goodbye, saint jimmy."
and then she's gone.
"good riddance!" he yells, and then throws his clock at the wall.
she takes everything of hers with her. every piece of clothing she's left at his place, every reminder that she was ever there, except one.
saint jimmy goes to put on his white t-shirt after picking it up, crumpled, from its place on the floor. there, on the neckline, is a smear of dark red. he scowls, rubs his thumb over it, but only succeeds in rubbing the stain in further. when he brings the fabric to his nose, it doesn't smell like blood.
he throws the t-shirt into a corner and picks up another piece of clothing.