Bodyguard University: I Hate Loving You

Liquid Sin

Porsche's Point of View: 

Rap music boomed from the shaking house on the street full of laughing people dressed in dark and trendy clothes. Approaching the vibrating door, I stole a quick glance in the window to sweep my hair to the side. I sucked in a deep breath and grabbed the doorknob before I changed my mind and ran off the property. Swinging the door open, I was swallowed by the crowd of shouting students and booze.

I'd never been to a party that hadn't included wearing fancy suits and my father impressing every dignitary crossing our path. There wasn't a tie suffocating me as beads of sweat trickled underneath my collar. I chose the night's outfit based on social media photos surfaced, which recommended anything tight, black, and alluring. With the amount of effort it took to force myself into this pair of jeans, if someone didn't grab my ass at least once, I was going to be offended.

Squeezing through the hot crowd, I murmured, "Excuse me," and followed the moving line trailing to a large room decked with tables and red cups.

Many familiar faces surrounded me but none that I'd ever associated with. It was weird to see people looser than how they present themselves. Rather than turn-up noses and lifeless smiles, wide smiles and laxed mannerisms freed the confinement of the desperation to impress.

The only person I'd actually spoken to before was Techno, who was in the front center of the room running his hand down a tall, muscular guy's chest.

Crossing my arms, I found an abandoned table and plucked a red cup filled with a nameless, clear liquid. I smelled it, not knowing what the fuck to do. The scent was stronger than I thought it'd be, smacking my face and not enticing me to really sip it.

"First timer?" A girl asked, resting a hand on the table as she gulped her half empty cup. Long hair swished past her shoulders, framing a very low-cut dress.

Someone's looking for attention.

I glanced at her and experimentally sipped the beverage, cringing at the fire tingling my throat. My father's disappointment rang in the back of my head. "Losers run to alcohol. Winners run to the gym!"

Fuck you, dad.

I downed the rest and finished with a stinging cough, drinking whatever disapproval snuck into my head.

"Impressive," she complimented. She took a small sip, looking up at me with starry eyes.

"I've got quite the skillset," I said, wiping my chin. I grabbed another drink and smacked my lips together at the thought of tasting the sinful liquid.

"I know. I saw your matches. I couldn't take my eyes off you," she said. She twirled a strand of her hair and trailed her gaze from my head to toes.

"Why's that?" I asked. I peered past her shoulder, raising my eyebrows at the sight of a girl drinking from a guy's belly button. People are fucking weird.

She smiled coyly. "Well." She nudged my arm. "You look really good when you fight."

"It's all about posture. I've worked hard on my stance," I said, switching into my go-to fighting stance, legs shoulder width apart and hands perfectly positioned.

"Do you work hard on those arms, too?" She firmly gripped my bicep, feeling up my arm flexing muscle.

"Of course, I can't defeat an opponent with noodles." I shrugged her hand away, spilling some of my drink. I tipped another few awful swigs and cringed. "This tastes like ass."

She laughed. "Cheap booze isn't made for its flavor."

"What is it made for then?" Besides running away from your problems.