Ave Michaels is an out-and-proud cynical romantic who never had her heart broken (considering she has to fall in love first.)
That is until, in order to get published, she has to prove she's a versatile writer by writing a romance novel.
Throw in a...
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"In Which Reality is Getting Stuck on Incongruous Nicknames"
(Pt. 3)
· · ·
(Still) The Arm Bar (gym), Behind The Garage
8:??PM (Don't ask me. Just don't)
Ciaran, in a surprisingly smart move (what? he stole my jacket, that still counts him as stupid), doesn't comment and takes his hand.
They high-five, which quickly transitioned into a man-hug. Deck, however, takes his sweet time in getting an extra feel out of Ciaran's huge biceps.
"Just kidding, I'm straight"— he gawks at the heavy band of muscle and stage-gasps — "most of the time," he chuckles under his breath.
I just felt my eyes roll past the pearly gates of heaven.
I should've known Deck would flake out. He exactly can't help but hit on any hot person — regardless of gender, age, wealth, and whether they're out of his league.
I still gotta hand it to Deck, though.
He was a man of multiple talents, none of which were limited to having the language fluency to sexualize every word in the dictionary, the emotional resilience of a cockroach, and a charm that would usually end him up with a 50-50 chance to get slapped or punched in the face. Of course, taking multiple hits is also one of his shining skills.
Even with his floppy medium-length 90s boyband hair, the permanent 5 o'clock shadow, arms covered with tatts, a rangy build covered in lumberjack street fashion, and sneakers perpetually caked in dirt and dried grease, don't underestimate this guy. Ever.
Deck was a genius with the propensity to use that intelligence for social evil.
He was one of the very few people in this town who landed a full scholarship to Brown* — Pre-Med. He was also the first person in town to have ever been kicked out in his first month.
So you can imagine the trouble he can unleash if he puts his mind to it.
RUFF! RUFF! The scraggly bundle of fur In his hand barks, struggling to breathe between the two of them.
"Cockblocker," Deck curses, stepping back to calm the tiny pup. His gaze lands on a stone-faced Pops.
"Po-o-o-ps"— he begins slowly with a sheepish grin — "What'd you do, raid a box of Red Bull? You look... And I don't wanna say it coz my gramps says that word a lot to me, hames?*"
Pops crosses his arms, causing his chest to make a rippling sound. "One of those furball friends of yours there decided to puke a dump on the yogurt machine."
