Toe Tag, You're It

four

Michael's still MIA, Bella pissed me off, I'm still sober, and now some chick's beer is doused all over me. Great.

I glanced down at my clothes, assessing the damage. It wasn't that bad, honestly. Only my shirt had been drenched. That didn't stop me from throwing her the best glare I could muster. Gotta keep up with that asshole rep, right?

I still hadn't gotten a full frontal of the perpetrator quite yet; after all, I'd only glared at her momentarily through my eyelashes. When I did fully acknowledge her, though, she looked mortified.

"I... oh my god... I'm so sorry," she stammered, a hand making its way up to cover her mouth. Her eyes seemed honest and apologetic, and it then dawned on me that she wasn't even drunk. I was the one who ran into her, so she shouldn't even be apologizing. But I'm an asshole, so that's not how I was gonna react.

"Whatever," I thought out loud, shrugging. "It's no big deal, babe." The pet name caused her to blush. I loved the affect I had on women. She dropped her head in what seemed to be embarrassment, or to shield the blush that adorned her cheeks. Her straight, dark brown hair curtained her face briefly, before she flipped it out of the way with a quick shake of her head. A hand came up to tuck the loose her hair behind her ear, and unlike the manicured nails of every other chick here, hers were painted black.

While I was in the middle of checking her out, something dawned on me: Michael.

"Fuck, I gotta go," I mumbled, shoving past her slightly. She opened her mouth, but I cut her off, again, before she could speak:
"Forget about the spilled beer. Shit happens, girl," I winked, placing a cigarette between my teeth.

I'm not gonna lie, that chick was hot. Not hot in the trampy, "I want to fuck you," way like the majority of the broads here were. She wasn't only half dressed like the rest of them, for starters. She wore black skinny jeans which were ripped in the knees, paired with a little All Time Low t-shirt that showed about half an inch of skin above the waistband of her jeans. My kinda girl.

I'd never seen this girl before. Seeing as I didn't attend any type of school, it wasn't quite a surprise. But still, I did attend these frat parties weekly, and I usually saw a couple dozen of the same people every month. But not her.

This was the least of my concerns at the moment, though. I had to continue my trek to find Sir Jackass himself: Michael Gordon Clifford.

***

"Ugh, fuck my life," Michael groaned next to me, his body sprawled across my couch. It was probably the billionth time he'd groaned today.

It was sometime around 2:00 p.m. on Friday. After about an hour of searching for him at the party the previous night, I'd found him tangled up with some chick I'd never seen before on a sofa. It took a lot of effort on my part to peel them apart. Oh Mikey, you little whore.

We wound up leaving earlier than usual, considering my clothes had been drenched in beer by the hot girl in the All Time Low shirt. I didn't wind up drinking more than one or two at that party, unlike somebody.

So now here we were: sprawled across my couch watching Breaking Bad reruns because Michael's head hurt too much for him to do anything productive. Who the fuck am I kidding? We'd be doing this whether Michael was hungover or not. That lazy piece of shit.

"My head is fucking killing me," he bitched again, rubbing circles on his temples. Mark the tally as a billion and one groans from Clifford.

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much that you forget your own name," I rolled my eyes. "Just a thought," I grinned cheekily, which earned me a fuck you, Calum in response. My hands went up in surrender.

"Hey, it's not my fault that you're a lightweight and I'm not." He replied with another groan. Make that a billion and two groans thus far.

After what seemed like an eternity of Michael rolling around and moaning and bitching about his hangover, he finally spoke some real words.

"So did you get laid last night?" he questioned, which I replied with a scoff. "Is that a yes? Did you fuck Bella again?" he snorted, which gained him an eye roll in response.

"Did you fuck that brunette who you were so into last night?" I threw back at him.

"Jesus! Don't get offended just cause I brought up your favourite booty call," he laughed almost nervously, followed by a shudder at how loud our voices had risen. This caused him to rub his temples again.

"I didn't get laid last night, actually," I grumbled, "I was too busy looking for you, asshole." Michael placed a hand over his heart and mocked flattery. This resulted in me kicking his ass off the couch.

"Fuck, dude, chill," he groaned, yet again, and rubbed the spot on his back that had contacted the floor after I shoved him off.

"Are you gonna moan and bitch about that, too?" I rolled my eyes.

"So that's why you're so pissy," he laughed, "because you're sex deprived!" Michael couldn't control his laughter at this point. I think he was losing it a little more each day.

"Why is it such s big deal that I didn't get laid last night?" I groaned, the back of my hand rubbing at my eyes, "I don't need to fuck someone every week."

"You're practically a pimp, Cal," he scoffed. "That's kinda part of the deal."

"Well I'm sick of Bella," I growled, flopping back on the couch Michael was laying on earlier. "She's too damn needy, I need to get rid of her somehow." Michael raised his eyebrows at this, a sinister smile pulling at his lips.

"Jesus Christ, Michael, no," I shouted, causing him to flinch from what I presumed was still his headache. "We're not gonna fucking murder her." His expression, along with his shoulders, dropped at this.

"You're no fun," he pouted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the bottom of the couch, next to my legs.

"We don't kill people unless we need to, you fucking jackass," I rolled my eyes. I tend to do that a lot when conversing with Michael.

"Boo," he pouted, "I just wanted an easy excuse to get rid of the bitch." I agreed with Michael, honestly. But we couldn't risk getting caught killing someone off just for the sake of killing someone off. We weren't that kind of gang.

All of a sudden the doorbell rang, cutting me and Michael off, and startling us at the same time. I got up to answer it, glancing out of the window quickly out of habit, to check who was at the door.

And speak of the devil... it was satan herself.