02 | 𝐻𝑜𝑙𝑦 𝐶𝑜𝑤 𝐵𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠

"Ow. Ow. Ow." In the same monotonous tone-- "Ow."

"Will you shut-it?" A raspy voice asked seamlessly out of nowhere.

I popped my head up towards the figure, unfurling my eyes to the glaring rays of morning sunlight. I assumed this strange entity was in my bedroom, but until my vision adjusted, I noticed this room was most definitely not mine. My bedroom is a combination of pink and light gray, it's been that way since I was six and my mom and I never really got around to changing it. This room, however, is the color of what I'd imagine the Titanic to look like if it was a bedroom theme. There's hospital white framework and navy blue pools of color between. Though right smack in the middle was him.

I felt like I was suffocating on confusion and delirium. This had to be a dream.

The warmth and heaviness of the covers compiled on my stomach felt more burdensome as I raised my body to see none other than Victor Vislocky. He walked to his desk and collapsed onto the office chair, scribbling relentlessly on a piece of paper.

Shit.

He beckoned with minimal interest towards the hickory nightstand to my right-hand-side. "Advil and a glass of water," he advised, returning to the desk and allowing his black hair to fall into his eyes in one fluid motion. It looked effortlessly natural but a painful reminder that something just wasn't right.

Let me introduce Victor Vislocky... notoriously known for starting and finishing fights, hooking up with any girl availably wanting him (which was usually everyone) and in that moment, particular, I hadn't spoken to him prior nor did I really understand his smirk. Also known as Kayla's ultimate crush. She swooned over his black, messy, bed-ridden hair and lean muscular torso, typically clad in a black tank.

As I stare, unconventionally thinking of his nonchalant flexing biceps curved onto the table as he intensely wrote, looking like he was sculpted and cut by Greek Goddesses themselves, I remember that he isn't all my type after all. I'm more for the dreamy, "just walked out of Heaven" rather than the "I own hell" but could still appreciate a good looking guy when I see one.

"Holy shit," I gasped, my eyes enlarged. I'd hoped that if I rubbed at the bleariness any harder it would fade into some weird, lucid dream. How I would wake up again, only to realize I'd been in the comfort of my bedroom all along, but I was greatly mistaken.

"Yep... let it sink in," he teased.

From the angle at which I was seated at on his bed, I noticed an uprising grin on his mouth before fading. His Italian, sun-kissed muscles were tauntly gifting my eyes in his all-but-concealing black tank as he rolled his office chair closer to the desk. My undying love was prioritized on Sullivan Corbett, but Victor was attractive; I had to give him that.

Things started coming back to me. He was the guy mounted onto the balcony while I trekked through Sullivan's hallway, but the memory vanished into his understanding, habitually leaving my brain, leaving me with the fragments to decipher what should've been a drunk-free night. My mind was still attempting to plug in the huge gap of information. I went from the golden boy's balcony to the bad boy's bed.

How the fuck did that happen?

I knew I shouldn't have been an idiot to ask such a thing, but the truth was, with my terrible remembrance of last night combined with his reputation and my lack of action, I questioned the most cliche thing of all, and felt ashamed for even saying it. "Did we...? Did I...? You know?"

"Fuck, Girl," he moaned, tossing his head back. "You were freaky last night, I didn't even think I could keep up." The horror intensified in my vision before he gave me the reprimanding look that told me I was oblivious. "You are... in better words, stupid."

"I don't even know where I am!" I released quietly. Not aware if there was anyone else in the household, I tried to avoid the possibility of becoming overly annoying, more than what I already was. "I don't know why I'm here! Let alone, I don't remember anything! Seriously, where am I?"

I swiftly did a once over of the mahogany wood furniture stamped throughout the blue and white interior. It was a dark room to begin with and wasn't exactly easy on the eyes despite the in-your-face black suitcase arranged corner. There were picture frames hung on otherwise, bare walls and one or two classical literature posters as well as a pile of laundry outside of two white folding closet doors. Among many, many, black garbage bags in the shape of deflated balloons wrinkled on the floor.

Hmm, serial killer alert much? Maybe?

"You're at my house for Christ sakes," he drawled.

My legs sunk into the mattress, drained and remarkably stiff as my hands felt around the fabric of my, or Kayla's, mini-skirt, inched all the way up to reveal my pale pink polka dot underwear. "Shit, I'm still wearing a skirt," I grunted, trying to shift the fabric further down my legs, but Victor stood and walked to the piece of furniture beside his night-table.

"I'm getting you sweatpants now. I would've let you get changed last night, but that would require me doing that, and guaranteed, I would've been okay with it but... assault's a thing." His tone trailed whilst he fixed open the dresser drawer and plucked out a crumbled up pair of black sweats. That's when I realized like the idiot he called me, I was wearing his black hoodie.

"What a gentleman," I murmured with two pills of Advil in my mouth, I downed them with a gulp of water. "But I still don't know why I'm here." I slipped out of the possession of the comforters, kicking my legs off the mattress once he walked back to his desk. I stumbled into his sweatpants, then undid the skirt, tossing it to the end of the bed.

His clothes were baggy and hugged me in a nice containable heat, but they also smelt like man, not bad, but just, his smell. It was strong with cologne, but had some underlying coconut worn into the fabric as well as nicotine.

He looked over his shoulder and explained, "You got drunk and Wilson, the high school perv, walked you to a bedroom. I gave you a ride back to my place and you stayed the night," he dumbed down. "Now, are we good here? All caught up?"

In a detective-sounding tone, I interrogated, "What do you know?" He arched an eyebrow and I couldn't stop the conjugation of butterflies quivering in my stomach at the sight. I got a little light at the way he skeptically viewed me.

Weird turn on, I must say.

He pushed the tip of his sneaker into the mahogany frame of the desk, propelling himself backwards on the wheeling office chair to situate at the end of the bed frame.  In a fluid motion, Victor propped his gray sweat-pant clad leg over the other on the mattress and asked, "Excuse me?"

"I'm a bitchy drunk," I admitted, "I talk shit and I bitch. I also say things that don't exactly need to be said--"

"Like, how you are sober?" he offered, but I disregarded him.

"Start talking." I pinched my arms together over my chest, my mouth curdling into a wobbly frown as I waited for him to speak.

He shrugged as if there was absolutely nothing and I might've believed him until he said, "I know your name ain't Mia." At hearing those words, a flush of redness drove up the sides of my face. He noticed that my body caved into the protective shield provided by the clothing and he wondered, "Is that important?"

I drew out the 'o' as long as I could-- "Noooo...?" I looked up to see his perplexity. "No!?" I concluded with a few affirmative shakes of my head.

Let me introduce me, Azariah Kellman, a horrible, can't-tell-a-lie-for-shit liar. You'd think I'd learn to stop lying with how many times I prolong the truth with weird formulations of words, leaving my throat like a freaking opera singer. I was unskilled in the art of lying, truthfully.

"Give it up," he snapped, placing an arm strategically over the top of the chair, craning his back to study my presence.

He had eyes that he knew how to use and I suddenly grasped how easy he could get girls into bed just by looking at them. I tried to imagine what his eyes would appear like when he was trying to be seductive. He flexed his arm casually and even though I wished it was Liv there to save me, I wasn't too mad that I got to wake up to Victor without having the ordeal of major consequences to follow.

I sighed, collapsing onto his bed. "Promise you won't tell?" I stared up at his ceiling doing a starfish across the queen mattress and tidal wave of navy and white comforters, perpetually claiming his bed as my own for the time being.

He looked baffled. "What are we? Five years old?"

"Just! Promise!" I exasperated, receiving a keen eye roll before a curt nod in agreement.

I snapped upright, sitting 'criss cross applesauce'. My eyes had started studying the anxiety in my hands, my fiddling thumbs with the cuffs of his hoodie hanging over. "I have a crush on Liv."

He cocked his head and questioned, "Olivia Marshall?"

"No!" I scolded, "Sullivan."

"No one calls him that." Victor folded his arms over his chest and straightened his posture. A silence fell upon us while he studied the previous paper he tended to. "Well, this took a turn of events," he noted. "Kind of hoping that crush would be on me."

"I'm flattered, but you didn't have to drive me to your house, y'know? Although, I am thankful."  He rolled his eyes for the tenth time, subtly giving me a once over, gently clasping his bottom lip with his teeth in the process before shifting away.

Knowing that he once stared at me like that brought a sensation to swell my insides, and though it sounded painful, it felt... almost good.

He didn't respond, but he didn't need to. The words fell out of my mouth, curse following curse as I convulsed in his bed. "Holy cow balls!" I cried, patting down the covers and my mini skirt that laid beside me. He'd given the expression that Kayla swooned over and my mind went from Victor, to Kayla's crush, to Kayla, to my mom, back to Kayla, back to my mom--fuck.

"Phone is over there," he instructed, pointing to the far side of his room where it laid on the ivory carpeted flooring, plugged in and charging. I braced myself for the messages while I leapt off the bed, and of course, a series of texts displayed itself back to me.

A mixture of my mom and Kayla lined down my home-screen. I swiftly pressed the button and told Victor, "Be quiet. I'm calling Kay who is probably with my mom." He wasn't talking, but I instinctually said it prior to raising the phone to my ear once unplugging the device. It rang once and I greeted the frantic girl in a happy-go-lucky attitude, "Why, hello there!"

It wasn't Kayla who spoke next, it was Victor. "Oh, fuck! Don't stop! I forgot your name!" he dramatically moaned, "Oh!" he whimpered sounding like a low-budget porn star. "Oh, just like that! Keep doing that!" He continued.

The mortification masked over my eyes as I beckoned a hand for him to be quiet, but that instructed him to go to his bed and shake the headboard into the wall.

Kayla's eyes imaginably grew wider with her tone shredding confoundment. "Who is that?"

"Oh? That? No one!" I attempted in a high octave over his pretend moans. The headboard smacked against the wall repeatedly.

She pressed nervously, "You sure?"

"Oh," Victor wailed, "Fuck, don't stop!"

"What is happening?" Kayla reprimanded into the phone anxiously, but I surveyed his room, grabbed onto a combat boot and hurled it into his chest, though he only caught it and broke into a fit of hysterics. After tossing the shoe to the ground, he launched himself onto the mattress, perfectly propping his elbows behind his head and acting as if none of that had previously happened.

Finally greeting silence, I said, "Nothing, nothing." I paused, spotting his laptop on the dresser. "Just the... TV?" My heavy breathing stuttered. "Sorry I left last night--"

"I'm with your mom right now. We're not happy campers, we were terrified last night. Is everything okay?" she rambled, trying to get every word in one breath. "I texted you so many times last night and I--"

"I know, I know," I prattled with uncertainty. "I got a ride and I'm safe now, all is good, I promise," I assured, but Kayla muttered incoherently into the phone, something about the speaker and the next thing I knew, my mom's voice approched in sharp spikes.

"Are you ridiculous?" she berated, "You're lucky I let you go out in the first place! I don't care if you drink, but be fucking responsible about it! I can't be up all night worrying like this. If something was to happen to you--"

"I know, Mom," I sighed. "By any chance, can we talk about this when I get home? I just need a few minutes," I informed her, exchanging a few loose, hopeful pleas into the phone until her voice softened and she'd agreed.

Kayla quickly added, "We have so much to talk about."

I cheekily grinned, hanging up and pivoting to find Victor sprawled along his bed with elbows towards the ceiling, his eyes dropping lowly to me. At the sight, my smile immediately creased into a thin line.

"So," he began, "Tell me more about you and Corbett." He paused in thought. "Also, I would've screamed out your name, but truth is, I don't know it."

"Good," I muttered with a yawn. "Keep it that way, and there's nothing to tell." I was gathering my clothes when I noticed my, or Kayla's, shirt from last night smelled awfully like air freshener, but hadn't wanted to question my crazy night. Instead, I flitted up to see a new interest in his eyes. He was tilted upright and his eyebrow ever-so-slightly curved.

"I had to carry you down Corbett's driveway and you've seen how massive it is. The least you could do is tell me the story here," he reasoned, but I shook my head in denial, persistent on not explaining any more than I already did.

Besides, why would he want to know?

"That didn't deserve an explanation," I lectured, seating myself on the queen bed across from him. "Now, can you drive me home? I told my mom that I'd be back in a few minutes. I live on Nareet Avenue--"

"Hold up, hold up," he intervened. "I'm not allowing you the access to leave until you tell me more about you and Corbett. I'm adamant on that." He gave a tight grimace.

"This is... stupid," I validated, but nonetheless, continued to watch as he lowered his chin in expectancy. In the hunched position he caved into, I was habitually glancing down at the thin material of his black tank, exposing the grooves of muscle beneath it. I met his eyes cowardly. "He calls me Mia."

"I still don't know your name," he repeated tiredly.

"Azariah."

"Aza-whata?" he echoed, blinking a few times.

I said back slower, pronouncing the main syllables to my name. "Az-a-rye-ah." Then quicker, "Azariah."

"You got any nicknames or something?" he suggested with a bored look in his gaze. I couldn't help but chuckle at how serious and intense he seemed.

"Riyah," I answered.

He hummed. "I'll just call you Rhy. I'm Victor," he greeted in return. As if I hadn't already been aware when he moved to Reynard Ridge three years prior and became Kayla's newest topic of choice. Not to mention, he'd made quite the reputation since then with the frequent detentions and hook-up rumors.

"I know who you are," I responded, but amusement twinkled in his eyes and a prominent, uneven smile appeared seamlessly out of nowhere.

"Keepin' tabs on me, are we?"

"Don't flatter yourself," I remarked, not daring to admit that Kayla's attraction to him was like a moth to light, but that didn't stop me from elaborating my story he persisted on. "So, anyway. Sullivan calls me Mia and he flirts with my best friend who doesn't like him, well, I think they flirt, and I think she doesn't like him, but I don't know, he's just--well, have you seen him?!" I overemphasized, reimagining his athletic complex. I noticed and regretted what I said, because all I saw were both his eyebrows in a perfectly symmetrical arch on his forehead.

He voiced, "I don't swing that way." Before I could exchange another sentence, he obliviously implored, "Have you thought about talking to him?"

"Are you outta your Goddamn mind, Victor?" I refuted.

This kid was outta of his mind if he thought I'd talk to Sullivan.

He hesitated, then corrected, "God, don't call me Victor. I go by Vic."

My eyes softened, the pout forming on my lips, more of an expression someone would make when they see a puppy or baby. "Aww," I gushed, "I could call you Vicky instead!"

His lids narrowed and all I saw was how tense he'd become. A mixture between mortified and ready to knock me out if he could. "Absolutely not."

"But Vicky!" I exclaimed, feeling the name on my tongue. It was cute to say, guaranteed; he, himself, was not cute, he was fucking hot if I had to be honest. He had the bad-boy-look with a sharp jawline, great build, and the rumors alone practically made any girl melt. Not to mention, the black, fluffy hair helped. He's just an attractive guy; though my crush on Sullivan was way more powerful and I could actually see myself dating Sullivan, unlike Victor.

"No."

"But--"

"No, I will make you walk home," he ordered. The way his sternness consumed the air had this weird chill come across me, and warmth, and dammit, I was kind of turned on, but I restrained the pestering thought and sat still. Either way, I knew I was pushing my luck by wearing his clothes and sitting there on his bed, unwanted with no immediate intentions to leave.

"Fine..." I gave in like a toddler being told 'no' at the candy store. "Well, anyway, he barely notices me and I'm too nervous to actually say anything. I usually can't even speak--"

"This is idiotic," he brushed off with a shrug. "Go talk to the dude. Corbett's the definition of a teacher's pet and probably doesn't even have the balls to talk to someone half as pretty as you, let alone, his head is practically a brick walking--"

"And the only head you use is in your pants, wise-ass!" I snapped.

No one has the audacity to mess with 'my' man, Sullivan, without expecting repercussions. Damn, I feel empowered. Did he call me pretty?

His lips parted in shock and I couldn't tell if he was surprised, angry, or impressed with the way his eyes roamed over me. I felt accomplished. Not even aware that I had that in me.

He murmured breathlessly, "Touché, Rhy. Touché."

I blushed minimally at the nickname, dismissed it and said, "That's about it. I'm too shy to talk to him and too nervous to face the consequences of rejection--"

"Okay, are you done being sad for yourself?" he retorted, "Because first of all, you're fucking hot. I mean, if you wanted me to do something for you--" His palms raised to face me.

I grinned. "No thanks."

"Okay," he surrendered, "I had to ask, but you see, I asked! And I'm gonna ask again, you positive?" he coaxed, though I shook my head again with an increasing smile. Maybe I was wrong, he was kind of adorable.

"I'm positive," I said and he nodded acceptingly.

Victor raised his voice and lectured, "Guys have narrow minds--"

I swung my head profusely in denial and humor, driving a hand through the tangled knots of bed-head. "I see that," I grumbled, twisting towards the window for a second and noticing the rays of daylight pour through the sky-blue curtains. When I faced him again, he seemed more fixated.

"We do! We're concentrated, one track mind," he sang, gesturing with his finger in an imaginative loop. "We're quite simple. Sometimes a 'hello' is all it takes, or something memorable we can link a person to. I'll forever remember you as not-Mia."

I sighed with exhaustion. "Thank you for that," I sarcastically remarked.

"I'm just saying," he drew out, "All it takes is one little gesture and you win us over. You know? That or the six personalities."

"Six personalities?" I repeated with an edge. "What does that even mean?" My head tried to decipher the words in search of a definition, but he only gave a half-hearted shrug.

"One, damsel in distress. Some guys look for vulnerability. They like to feel depended on," he defined, "Second, bad girls, it turns us the fuck on when a girl is freaky or she knows what she wants, confidence is key. Third, shy but sweet, it's cute!" he boasted. "Like, whatever the fuck you're doing with the sleeves of my hoodie--"

I glanced down and saw I was instinctually keeping the fabric over my palms. I liked it, it kept my hands warm in the confined space.

"It's fucking adorable," he concluded. "Fourth, intelligence. Some guys dig that brainpower. When a girl knows shit and outsmarts men, it's over for us. Five, dumb, some guys like to be the more intelligent one in the relationship. Or dominant, basically they want to feel submissive to a woman's power. And six, companion. Into video games, athletics, or whatever they love to do. Common interest plays a huge role."

I glared at him subtly. "This all has to do with egos."

"Among other shit," he added. "Like personality traits, common interests, and attraction."

"How do you know all this and why are you helping me?" I tested, shifting my body to comfortably sit before him. The nice breeze coming through the screen of his window grazed along my neck, it woke me to the sudden realization. "You don't even date, well, I don't think you do--"

"You really know a lot about me, Rhy," he teased. "Tad alarming."

He wasn't wrong. Kayla gave me updates any chance she got. I didn't even bother wondering why he'd been out of school for a couple of days prior. It just felt so natural to get Kaya's ritualized play-by-plays of Victor's whereabouts. It scared me to know her reaction if I was to tell her that I was with him outside of school.

I shut the idea down with, "I just know the basics, don't feel too high-and-mighty."

He laughed along with me before informing, "I don't date. It's exhausting. I'd rather just get my needs met, satisfy someone else, and--" He gave a long suspenseful pause. Within that second, a flicker of his eyes changed to a solidified form of question and... regret. "No ties! No drama!" He stood from the bed, glancing over at me. "Am I driving you home now because this was about as exhausting as I imagine a relationship being?"

I gave a curt and wordless nod. He knew shit about guys. Besides Kayla and my mom, I never entirely talked about my crush to anyone in the context of 'how do I get him to date me?' It was always small talk to the extent of how he smiled and how I wished. It felt almost... possible when Victor spoke about it. Maybe, easier. However, I had to remind myself, he just met me and asked if I wanted to have sex with him... twice, which I most definitely was not considering... okay, maybe a little, but not actually...

He was the fuckboy and I was the girl trying to get her crush (Sullivan Corbett, if you've perhaps forgotten his name) to notice her--two different perspectives, yet, a wave of proposals and motivations approached the front of my brain, bravely. He could help get Sullivan to notice me.

When he was driving his grey metallic jeep down the familiar roads to my home, I asked the question he'd previously ignored, "Why did you help me today?"

"Why are you so curious?" he mocked in return, not even glancing my direction while single-handedly continuing to drive.

I dropped it after that, especially when he parked outside of my house and I was faced with the inevitable mother and best friend wrath awaiting me inside.

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