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IF SCARLETT CALLS ONE MORE fucking time, Dorian swears he's going to throw his phone out of the fucking fence! Like literally and no, he doesn't care of he has to work extra extra shifts to make up for another beat-up secondhand Samsung.
Okay, they hooked up. Girls may be overthinking and oversensitive beings but that's not enough excuse to have so much post-nut clarity and awareness, even than the boy in the equation. As sexist as it sounds, Scarlett should take a fucking chill pill and just--
"Master Dorian?"
"Wah?" Dorian turns to face the rusty sound box attached to the creepy barbed iron fence. "Eh-ehm. I mean, yes, that's me."
Scowling at the interruption caused by what seems like a cliché out-of-a-shakespearean-novel butler, the huge iron gates give way to allow a passage small enough for him to squeeze through.
Inside this fence is a bigger--a much bigger landscape that Dorian wonders how much mortgage or land tax the Prices are paying: IF they even pay at all. It's metaphorically illegal to have houses like this in a modern suburb like their town. At the other far end of the scene is Hotel Transylvania but Gio actually lives there.
At the end of the day, it's a sort of millionaire country club mansion for rich white people in white overalls and, salty monopoly and diet lemonade.
Dorian feels so out of place here because now, he'll have to trek it all the way down to the mansion ahead.
Moments later, he realizes he doesn't have to. A white golf cart appears from a distance, advancing towards him. Out of instinct, Dorian brushes his jacket down and composes himself. There's something about standing on a literal white man's land that gets him the wrong way.
"Shall we?" says the balding butler Dorian recognizes from the limo some weeks ago. His name was Pedro or Finnegan something.
"Oh um yes." Dorian hops in the back seat.
He has never been in a golf cart before. And surprise surprise, it smells like iced tea and lemonade. He also gets a good look of the scenery along the way. The way he can get lost in this large, mowed expanse without a map.
Giovanni has been waiting by the massive wooden double doors. He's standing on his toes, his hands behind his back and a self-interrogating smirk on his face.
Dorian scours the blonde from head to toe; his head covered in a bonnet and toes snuggled in fluffy Balenciaga slides.
"What? Cat's got your tongue?" Gio's voice wakes him from his reverie.
He can't believe he has just imagined Gio naked in 36738293 positions on top of him in just four seconds.
"I can't believe you manipulated your way into making me your project partner."
Gio just laughs. "And I won, didn't I?"
Dorian gives him a dirty look, shakes his head and walks right through the doors. Anywhere from Gio.
"Do you even know where you're going?" Gio scoffs, jogging after the other boy. "Oh." He turns. "Frederick, please fetch my friend some wine. Maybe honey waffles too? Dory, what would you--"
"Not wine." Dorian is this close to adding "so you can drug me like you did to Khalid" but he bites his tongue from unnecessary violence. "Just water will be okay."
Gio eyes him. "Are you sure? You can have literally anything you want, everything is here."
"Apparently." Dorian rolls his eyes and folds his arms.
YOU ARE READING
TORPEDO ✓
Teen FictionGirls have always been enough for Dorian Ayuba; until they weren't. Now, he is a hurricane in a box, all the while piggybacking scholarships, bills and his broken mother. Then there's rich, sickly Giovanni Price whose life expectancy is just as shor...
