Tarnished

Chapter 8

"Yo D!" Someone shouts barging into the room. "I've been looking for you every—."

We're not quick enough to pull away and the guy halts at the sight of us. A wide grin slowly spreads across his face. "Oh shit. I'm sorry. I'll- I'll be in the attic with your...so yeah..." He winks at... D I think he had called the dude and begins to walk out of the room, but D stops him.

"You got my shit?" He asks.

I glance between them, trying to figure out what "my shit" could mean.

"Yeah man, I gotcha," he says and retreats for the exit once more.

I whip my head away from the intruder and to the stranger lying beside me. It's now I realise I have no idea who this guy is. What his name is — other than D and that sounded more like a nickname. How old he is. Where he is from. Simple exchanges somehow having gotten lost in our squabbling. 

The intruder must figuratively do something before he leaves because the stranger here, laughs, shaking his head. I know, despite having the back of my head to the trespasser, it was a vulgar gesture toward mine and his friend's obscenely close position and what he must presume is going to follow suit.

"Let me just say this right here and right now in case I have accidentally sent across any signals. I'm not going to fuck you." Not that I would blame him if he thought so. With whatever the fuck I was doing before we were interrupted, and judging by that guy's reaction to whatever the fuck he walked in on, anyone would assume so.

Right? Or is the high part of my brain talking?

He makes a puzzled face and nods slowly, amused. "I didn't say anything."

I shake my head. "I know you didn't but I just had to get it out there in case you thought."

The words "I'm lying on the bed beside you" hang in the air between us... and that little recklessly stupid moment before his friend interrupted us that won't stop plaguing my head.

"Don't worry, I didn't. And I don't want to fuck you either."

"Ouch," the word leaves my lips the second it enters my mind. But like seriously though, ouch.

His eyes widen in amusement. "What?" He scoffs out the word on a disbelieving chuckle.

"That was mean," I pout, genuinely butt hurt.

He blinks, confusion mingling with the amusement. "You said—"

I cut him off. "I know what I said, but you dismissed me so fast. You could have paused, added a sad frown. Shed a tear. Something other than that quick, blunt response, like it wasn't even something you could consider. Way to make a girl feel like shit."

I don't want nor do I need the validation of men. It started and ended with my father. Yet here I am, unable to help the sentiment. Being high sucks sometimes.

"I know being a hypocrite is your specialty, but did you pause—" he emphasizes pause "— to consider how it would hurt my feelings when you so harshly blurted you wouldn't fuck me?"

I instantly drop the hand that was rising with the bud. "Oh please," I scoff. "You know you're good looking. And don't be overdramatic, I did not blurt it harshly."

I know I'm talking stupid but I can't seem to find the rational proportion of my mind to stop, the weed induced proportion greater than expected. All I know is I can not let him win this argument.

I wonder if the real me is this stubborn when my brain isn't tarnished by marijuana. It would conclude
my earlier dilemma.

"I don't know, I've always been super self-conscious of my ear lobes." He frowns and even a child could tell it's fake.