Just You

Fourteen

Fourteen

#Jake

I woke up feeling like I barely slept a wink. Well, that wasn't too far from the truth. I looked at the girl beside me. Wow. She really is smoking hot. No matter how many times I look at her, her beauty and charm still somehow catches me off guard. No wonder all the guys were so jealous when this girl bid for me. I smiled at myself. Lucky me, I guess.

Right after I texted Dylan, Farrah from the auction date called me to see if she could come over. It wasn't the first time she's asked and it wouldn't be the first time I agreed either. Spineless as I am, I couldn't say no.

My mother was too drunk to realize there was someone else in the house so I had my way with Farrah last night.

I untangled myself from her, covered her up, and went in search of clothes. After a long shower, I made breakfast. Despite everything, my mother raised me to be courteous to guests. Unfortunately, I wasn't taught how to cook, so Farrah would have to settle with pop tarts. 

Fudge. I'm starting to be one of those jock stereotypes. Getting wasted. Partying hard. Sleeping around. I don't want that. Sure, I've been sleeping with Farrah. A lot. But aside from that other girl at the party, I've pretty much been a good boy. So does that mean I would have to make Farrah my girlfriend?

I had a feeling it was not going to be that difficult. 

"Good morning," she greeted me brightly with her mussed up her and perfect teeth.

"I tried to make you some breakfast but I'm not a very good cook. Pop Tarts?" 

She sat up in bed clutching the sheets to her chest. I handed her one of my shirts as I set the tray of food on her lap.

"Mmm," she beamed, "Strawberry. My favorite."

I smiled as she began eating daintily on top of my bed in my T-shirt. After about three bites and a few sips of her orange juice, she claimed she was full and I finished the rest of her food. If it were Dylan, she'd have inhaled the whole plate and probably made some more. She did have a sweet tooth. Why am I thinking of Dylan again?

"Thank you for breakfast," Farrah said huskily, pulling me back into the bed with her perfectly manicured nails.

"Anything for my girl," I replied smiling.

...

"Jake, honey!" 

"Yes, mother?" I called from the kitchen, trying my best not to burn the house down.

"I'm hungry," she cried from the living room. She had already emptied a bottle of red wine and it wasn't even lunch time yet. On the day before Christmas.

"Coming!" I called to her.

"Shit!" I said to myself.

The stupid pan had gone up in flames, flames that threatened to engulf our house. Ugh! Who ever said cooking was easy? I grabbed the fire extinguisher and deposited everything in the sink, the charred pan and my unsalvagable spaghetti noodeles which now looked like clumps of jet black hair. I sighed in frustration about to take my anger out on the oven. 

"Jake?"

"Everything's fine, Mom!"

I dialed an emergency number on impulse.

Speed dial number one.

Dylan's number.

After hanging up, I immediately regretted calling Dylan. She didn't know exactly where my house was, only the address, and she hasn't met my mother yet. What would she think of me then?