Though he desperately refuses the conformities of modern novel tropes, George acknowledges he's just the same as every book character. A side character that is. Studying his way into writing a hit novel George has to master the ups and downs of his...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Don't worry I'll play pretend." Pretend Juliana Madrid
George
Honestly, someone should stereotype me. I hate parties like this. The ones that smell of acrid and herbal smoke mixed with cheap drinks and uncomfortable bodies. Not to mention the unease that was already pushed into my shoulder blades the second Dream forced me to sit in the passenger seat of his gecko-green Jeep. Taller than me, I was forced to climb my way up to the leather and seal my fate with the tight seatbelt click.
"You look good tonight," Dream says opening my passenger door for me. A tender hand takes mine. If he wasn't a gentleman I don't think I'd be friends with him at all. History or not. "I like this color on you."
An index finger snags into the fabric of Karl's fancy t-shirt hanging off my body. My roommate had practically jumped me when I told him about this party. He'd be here at some point of the night, a hot date to attend to apparently, but my wardrobe was his favorite thing to manipulate to his liking when I allowed him. Chiffon throws that I always tell him off for, silk, today it's a multi-colored brown button-up. Satin or something extremely far out of my college budget, paired with extremely tight black jeans. I often feel like some kind of Barbie he gets to poke and prod at every so often.
"Wow, you're already hitting on me and you haven't even had a sip of alcohol." The door to Dream's Jeep shuts. "Did you pregame and not tell me?"
I don't usually bring up our arrangement but I'm so damn uncomfortable I might be starting to panic. A bubbling uncertainty leveling in my stomach. Dream doesn't usually ask me to go with him to parties without his beloved Courtney. And he never compliments me without being asshat drunk, so what the actual fuck?
"Paranoia isn't healthy, George." His hand ghosts over my back and I lose all sane thoughts to the torture of a forbidden caress.
Ushered in, the crowd immediately parts and accepts Dream as whatever king of hierarchy he reigns. I detour out of his hold and find the kitchen. It's filled to the brim with booze from whiskey to wine coolers. My fingers turn red rustling around through big bins of ice to find a sealed water bottle and, surprisingly, a pack of bomb pop ice poles. I'll be damned if I miss the opportunity for one of those. With the cherry flavoring near my tongue, a voice startles me out of my skin.
"Stealing out of my personal stash are we?"
And by the greek gods, I fall so deeply into mighty depths because Evander Kenneth is speaking. To me to be exact. His lips slant up into a smirk when I gaze with open jaws, like a slack-jaw idiot, it moves his lip ring as he smiles. He has a lip ring, my breath stutters.
See, there were two types of hockey players. The "golden boys" like Dream and Sam the ones that smile pretty and are seemingly giant teddy bears. Then there are the inherent "bad boys" like Punz and Evander Kenneth. Boys that wear mostly black and have a reputation surrounding them at all times. Not good in most sense. Evander goes to the neighboring college that I rejected in favor of a full ride at Harvard. Yale University.
