𝐎𝐡, 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐡è

Chapter Eight: Hands Of Stone

"School's going to be the death of me," Ryder whines as he leans against my baby pink chair. Only thirty minutes into our study session and he's already whining about school. I'm practically this close to stuffing paper in his pretty mouth. "I don't know why you practically adore the colour pink. Look at this, your walls are baby pink and literally everything I look at," he says as his eyes scan my room, clearly annoyed. My colour's pink and his is black, what's the big deal?

"Hey, don't make fun of me. Pink's such a pretty colour. Plus, I don't look at it like a girly colour, but mostly a bad-ass one. People underestimate girls who like pink as weak and innocent but I look at it as a strong and independent type of woman," I explain. It's true, I rather pink over any other colour. You're probably like, 'She's practically a typical blonde b*tch who's so girly', but so what?

"You're so weird," he grumbles and runs his hand through his black, thick curls. "You're basically proving the stereotypes that everyone already thinks of you," he continues and I laugh loudly.

"And that's a bad thing, how? People can think whatever they want of me. I only care about what I think of myself," I state and glance up from my laptop to meet his eyes.

"You're different, Brit," he says, eyebrows furrowing and he laces his hands behind his head. I cock an eyebrow in question.

"Oh, so now I'm different?" I chuckle.

"Can't you take that as compliment?" He asks.

"So now that's a compliment?" I reply.

"You're impossible," he groans.

"So now that's a- oh, thank you," I mumble as I look down onto my laptop. I tap my manicured fingers onto the keys and continue to write my part of the report. Abruptly, Ryder's phone begins to ring and I look up. He stands up and walks to the corner of my room.

"Hello?" He asks. Luckily, he's not that secretive to be quiet so I can hear him. "Okay, I'll be there-" he says. "Yeah, I heard you, Coach," he continues and I raise an eyebrow. I wonder what kind of sport he does that he has to require some type of Coach.

"Who was that?" I ask.

"It's called non of your business," he snaps.

"Who was that?" I repeat as I bat my lashes. I knew this was going to tick him off but at this stage I'm bored and tired and hungry so I'll pick on my easiest target right now. "Ryder,"

"Go away, Brittany. Stop sticking your nose in some place it doesn't belong," he grumbles and sits back onto my baby pink seat. I close my laptop and stand up from my bed.

"But I'm bored. Please give me some type of excitement rather than this stupid report," I whine. I never cared what people thought of me so I would be however I wanted. Even if that pissed people off, who was I to care?

"No," he flatly states.

"Ryder, please?" I plead.

"No," he says as he rolls his eyes.

"Ryder,"

"No,"

"Fine, don't tell me. Who am I to know?" I say as I shrug it off. I know he'll budge soon.

"What- oh for f*ck sakes, fine, I'll tell you," he groans, running his hand over his face and I smirk. I knew he would budge. Don't underestimate Brittany's power, you idiots. "It's my Coach. I have a tournament this Saturday and I need to train with him tonight," he explains and I raise an eyebrow.

"Tournament as in...?" I trail off.

"Boxing," he replies and my eyes widen. Oh, that's why he was good at nearly murdering Alex in front of my eyes. He does it for a living.