𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐲'𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞

13 | 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑂𝑢𝑡

"What am I doing?" I questioned, fiddling with my thumbs, my eyes flickering from my hands to Victor.

He was wearing gray sweats, the band loose and exposing his contoured chest, and of course, he wasn't wearing a shirt, just a single chain resting on his collarbone. His black hair was untidy and a joint remained lodged between his lips.

He wasn't looking at me when he spoke, he continuously searched his room with a pinched expression. "You'll find out sooner or later."

He popped the joint out of his mouth, a cloud of smoke infusing into the air contained in his bedroom. His eyes narrowed on his disorganized desk while his other hand scraped the papers away. "Where the fuck is it?" he retorted to no one.

He paced to the opposing side of his bed, glancing over his dresser, opening the drawer and rummaging through the clothes, pushing some aside. "Fuck me!" he groaned, forging the joint back between his pursed lips.

"Need help?" I asked meekly.

"No, I don't need fucking help!" he shot back, beginning to slow his body. He looked like he wanted to add something, but he didn't. He continuously searched and then sighed with relief when his eyes landed on a minuscule silver key. 

He leisurely removed the joint, smirking smugly at the key in the palm of his hand before crouching down to the third drawer below his desk. He rammed the key into the hole and twisted it until it clicked. With his lips pursed around the joint, he stood up with a shoebox in his grasp.

Victor then kicked the drawer close gently with the tip of his shoe and walked back to his bed where I was seated. He placed the shoebox next to my thigh.

My eyes trailed the length of his exposed chest, feeling a warmth tingle my fingers and lips.

"Open it," he deadpanned. "And you tell anyone, I swear to God, I will hurt you," he threatened lowly.

I rolled my eyes. "Wow, that's totally the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me," I mused sarcastically, shooting him a glare.

He chewed on his lip, holding the joint a few inches from his mouth. "Just..." He held in his breath. "Open it. I've never told anyone this--"

"Why are you telling me again?" I inquired, returning my eyes to his piercing brown ones. They squinted incredibly on me, then on the brown shoebox. "You don't have to."

"I need someone's help," he declared confidently, a falter in his voice causing the words to crack a bit. "My dad won't help me and I have no one else. Remember, I'm not asking for help," he reminded, "you owe me."

"I'm still gonna get my--"

"Advice for Corbett, got it," he summed up. "I did great last night and you still haven't thanked me," he argued, a lopsided grin on his lips while the words emptied so freely. My heart throbbed, painfully sitting in my chest, unmoving.

"What are you talking about?" I implored unhurriedly.

He arched a brow, rifling a laugh through his system. "You didn't seriously think I wanted to dance with you and do all that shit, right?" he questioned dumbly. "I made Sullivan jealous and it worked. He catered to your needs for the rest of the night," he explained.

I didn't have time to feel the hurt in my body when he suddenly beckoned a hand to the box. "Open it," he repeated.

I nodded curtly, shifting my criss-cross position on his comforters to stare before the closed lid. I slid open the top, my eyebrows furrowing at what I was looking at. It was papers stacked, pictures placed sporadically, and a few rocks and dead plants. "What is all this?" I inquired.