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“Oh will you stop teasing each other? Fucking hell.” The toothbrush nearly falls from my hand, head spinning to look at Penny leaning against the doorframe. Part of me resists claiming that I’m not ‘teasing’ him; I’d just told her through a frothy mouthful that I’d written his name as ‘Bass’ again today, and now she has the bollocks to tell me that we’re flirting?
“We’re not flirting, Penn,” I mumble, taking the brush out for a moment before jabbing it back into my mouth and scrubbing. I’m looking in the mirror when she responds, only seeing the back of her head, but by her gesture I can tell she’s got some sort of feeling here.
She snorts, raising her hands in the air. “You said flirting, not me.”
I roll my eyes, scrubbing my mouth for a solid 15 more seconds before spitting out a mouthful of soft green foam and rinsing my mouth, turning to Penny and pointing a finger at her. “We are not flirting. He’s practically my nemesis; why the hell would I flirt with my nemesis?”
A loud snort comes from her throat. “I think nemesis is a tad of an over exaggeration. You work at opposing shops, it isn’t like he killed your first born.”
Twisting the cap off the mouthwash, I roll my eyes and let out a “not yet” under my breath. That deserves me a solid pinch on the arm.
And like that, she disappears into her room and leaves me here to sulk, staring into my eyes through the bathroom mirror, cheeks full of burning rinse. I gargle, then spit, eyes locked down on the drain as I flick the water back on and brush it over my lips, then splash it in a wave over my face. Once, twice, then grab a towel and pat myself dry.
I don’t know why I agreed to go to this party knowing that he’ll be there.
All six feet (and maybe a few odd inches), perfect hair, flawless cheekbones and eyebrows and bloody fucking eyes and pretty much the rest of his god awful face of him.
All his fucking sharp dressing, condescending, “I’m-Better-Than-You-Because-I-Shop-Local”, leather wearing, sports car driving, posh accent-having of him.
Basilton fucking Pitch is gonna waltz right up to the party, probably his fucking henchmen at his sides because that’s what they are; he’s practically a supervillain. If you caught Basilton Pitch in a dark room with a spotlight in a turned around armchair, I can nearly guarantee that it’d spin around with him stroking a white, longhaired cat and you’d be like “Well fuck, this is where he belongs”. Even the name sounds like he’s got a master plan to destroy you (or maybe just steal your fucking customers by guiltripping them into thinking that by going chain for anything is killing local businesses). I need tips, too, and not all of us have rich fathers at home who can pay for what benefits cover instead of shitty corporate options.
Standing in front of my mirror, I scan over my sad excuse for a party outfit. I feel like a fucking fool whenever I’m next to him. It’s probably because he wears ridiculous button downs that don’t even have breast pockets somehow while I stand next to him in a 1970s nike tee that I found in a thrift shop dollar bin.
I grab a hoodie as I step out of the bathroom, throwing it on while patting around for my wallet and phone.
It feels like Penny’s practically dragging me there. Honestly, I have no idea whose party this is; shit, all I know is that Baz is gonna be there. Even when I asked Penn, she was vague about every part of it. “Oh, the host’s someone I met in a baseline Business Writing course.” When I’d asked what the hell ‘business writing’ even entails, I ended up bored and tuned her out after hearing ‘grant writing’ and ‘sponsorship proposals’.
You’d think that a student who takes ‘Business Writing’ wouldn’t be so popular, but here we are, a crowded one bedroom, one bath flat ten minutes from campus filled with the reek of spilt beer and hot from people’s continuous breathing.
It takes me nearly five minutes to actually get to the alcohol, and once I get there, I just grab a beer and start chugging.
Add a few shots, maybe one more beer, then definitely another shot or two and I’m completely smashed, eating half a pizza slice in one bite as I sway to the music blasting on the speaker by my ankle. I think it’s Whitney Houston, or Kesha. I can’t remember.
And there he fucking is, across the room with his head leaned back against the wall all coolly. His hair’s knotted up in some bun, and his eyes are shut. You’d probably mistake him as sleeping upright, somehow in full fucking control of his body (honestly, wouldn’t put it past him), but instead he’s got a slight nodding to the music going. He’s got a drink in hand, mostly finished.
I don’t realize my feet have been taking me to him until I’m staring close enough that I can count the eyebrows on his forehead, then he snaps his eyes open to me. Immediately, his lips pull down into a snarl and his gaze narrows in on me. “Snow.”
My jaw hangs open as I squint at him and slur a “Basilton”, trying not to lean forward and topple myself over. My feet steady on the floor, a little too far apart for a normal pose, but I guess I could be preparing for a physical brawl.
He sticks his nose up at me, slowly raising his cup to his lips and sipping with unfair grace. As he pulls away, his lip’s shiny and dripping a tad. Clearly he's fucking pissed and didn’t catch the last drop . My first thought is to lick it up, but then I trickly try to snap away from it.
I want to ask myself why I'd want to lick that up, but that’s a loaded question and I don't think I can even think in “real” sentences right now.
“Who invited you?” I half taunt, raising my eyebrows to him. I’m trying to be intimidating, but it’s failing miserably. In return, he’s just making a deeply offended face and retorts back.
“It’s an open party; I had a class with Megan. And Dev fancies her.” His head tilts slowly to the side as he talks, eyes resting boldly on mine. He rarely seems to break eye contact, making me squirm under his intense gaze.
I snort, raising my eyebrows to him in a very Baz-manner to mock him. “Good thing you’ve got classes; can’t stay making shit lattes all your days.”
He just laughs back; shortly, all in my face (granted, we’re practically in breathing room). “At least I have a future beyond barista tips, Snow.”
“Funny, you talk all up about your fuckin… free… range… beans… then look at you, eh? Economics major, dickwad.”
“I’m no fucking capitalist,” he spits, sneering down at me. I think I’ve leaned closer, because I can see the close details of the recently shaved smoothness of his chin. “You work low wages for a large company without good benefits, you’re fucking bold.”
“I’ve got benefits! Loads!” I call out, waving my arms to the side. My beer sloshes in my hand, spilling a bit onto the carpet. I disregard it, feet stumbling forward. “I’ve got plenty of customers too, since they can read our fucking menu.”
He gasps this time. Genuinely, outright gasps in the meanest way I’ve ever heard anybody fucking gasp, staring at me and looking borderline hurt. “My cursive is exquisite, you uncultured heathen .”
I smile with my entire face, wrinkling my nose up at him. “I don’t scare away my customers though, mister big fuckin cranium! And see! I can speak in big fucking words, arsehole.”
Now he looks more confused than anything, squinting at me as his jaw hangs open and eyebrows knit together. He blinks, squinting further. “You… are quite possibly one of the most pea-brained people I’ve ever encountered,” he laughs square into my face. I think our noses are touching. “Do you think about the words as they leave your mouth? It’d be a goddamn miracle if they even went through any critical thinking process!”
“I’m fucking loveable,” I hit back, head swaying a bit as I talk (or maybe just tilting? Leaning? What the fuck is happening?) “Everyone thinks I’m a ball of fucking love, bitch .”
“You’re more than insufferable, that’s what you are,” he breathes into me.
Then, what feels like out of nowhere (or perhaps it isn't), I’m pushing him against the wall. His mouth’s against mine, and he tastes like the poorly mixed drinks he’s probably been downing all night. Vodka, spiced rum, sugary juices and lemon lime fizzy. I don’t think the taste matters much, though. I don’t think anything really matters much, frankly, because he’s currently spilling the rest of his drink down my back as he wraps his arms around my neck and hauls me closer. I couldn’t care less. I’m on my tiptoes, snogging the life out of him in the middle of this party (I want to take him home and see how he's look below me). He’s leaning down, kissing me back like I’m worth all the air in his lungs (seriously, I need him in my bed now.)
Seems like he’s got the same thought on his mind because the hand on my back keeps tugging my tee, taking fistfuls and just holding me towards him, not letting me go (I might not fully know what I’m doing, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a mistake).
It isn’t until Penny finds us, tugging my shoulder away from Baz and starting to pull me back from him. He lets out a whine, eyes wide as I’m dragged off and Penny shoves herself between us. “You are trashed,” she accuses, poking a finger at my chest before swivelling to Baz. “ You are trashed too.” She glances between us then huffs. “Give me your phone.”
“Fuck you, Bunce, I was in the middle of something” Baz mumbles, dragging his phone out and slapping into her palm. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody with the balls to say that to her. Fuck it, I was that something was in the middle of, but she just looks like she has some sort of feeling (I don’t really know, she’s complicated and usually she says a lot of words that I don’t entirely get and the musics really loud and god I need to pee). While I'm struggling to figure out the situation with my lips not attached to Baz's, Penn types something into the phone and shoves it back into his hands.
“Dial his number in the morning. If you dare fucking ghost him, I'll show up to your flat with a knife and I'll make a handbag out of your skin,” she says flatly, grabbing me by my wrist and dragging me out as I’m complaining loudly. She doesn’t stop dragging me until we’re back to the flat.
After probably the best piss of my life, I find her waiting in the hall with her arms crossed, looking awfully pleased with herself.
I groan, rubbing my face as I practically stagger in place, giggling to the spinning motion of the room. “I wasn’t making a mistake, Penn,” I mumble, rubbing my face as my shoulder leans against the wall (it’s an awfully tight hallway).
“I know, Si,” she says, tutting as she opens my bedroom door for me. “Just get some sleep; you’re going to have to actually use your brain tomorrow and figure wherever the fuck that was..”
“I was snogging,” I mumble. “That's all.”
“With Baz ?”
I shrug, smiling at the memory of his lips against mine. Penn just scoffs beside me.
“You're gonna have to talk to him, Si.”
I groan again, this time much louder, hitting the pillow and nuzzling into it immediately. “Mmmm I hate that.”
“I know, I know. Goodnight, Simon.”
“Mmmhmm nighty nighttime, Penny.”