Despising you

Chapter 4

J e n n i e

Was I really here? Sitting on Lisa Manobal's motorbike?

When I demanded she drive us to my home, she was bewildered, until I reminded her that she was my godforsaken tutor. Soon after that, she agreed. I didn't expect her to give in so quickly and not put up a fight.

She's a fighter. That's what infuriates me.

She was so bothered by me coming to her little dumpling shop. I've been doing it for a few years now; It's my favourite place to visit, because I get to annoy her. Also, because over the years, I've become accustomed to the place. In fact, I love the food that Miss Choi makes.

Regardless, it doesn't matter because right now, all I can think about is how I am engulfed by the scent of cigarettes and cherries, accompanied by a slight hint of lavender.

It is so horribly unbearable to be around that scent; to be around her. It is even worse to be behind her, my hands around her tiny waist, clutching onto her leather jacket.

Her bike is shabby, it stinks of gasoline and the seat isn't very comfortable, so why do I feel so free sitting on it? Why am I dreading the moment we reach my house and I have to get off this bike?

I peer at the side mirror and see Lisa driving with such vigour, not that I can make out her face in that helmet. The Bitch didn't even offer me a helmet.

I can't help but ponder how many people have sat on this bike with her. Besides her friends, did she offer anyone a ride? Did they wrap their arms around her like I am? Or did she actually offer them a helm—It doesn't matter. I don't care. I could care less about who she has on this detestable bike.

I shake my head and decide to release this pent-up frustration in the best way I know how.

I lean forward and place my chin on her shoulder. Lisa instantly stiffens and nudges me off, I fight the urge to bend her over this bike and spank the shit out of her for—wait, no. Not spank. I mean punch, kick, or anything else, but definitely not spank.

"How many people have been on this bike?" I whisper teasingly in her ear, pretending like I'm not yearning for the answer.

"Fuck off!" she responds. It's muffled because her helmet is still on and it frustrates me.

She frustrates me.

I wish I could see her face; how bothersome her features must look right now. I love bothering her, I love it so much that sometimes I forget why I'm doing it.

"Did they touch you?" I purr the words out.

I often did this with her. But only because it felt so good to tease her, to revel in the fact that I bother her and she's affected by me.

"Yes. Many people have fucked me on this bike too."

One. Two. Three. I give her three whole seconds to change her statement or laugh it off, but she doesn't.

Does she have a death wish?

My hands are tightening and I don't know why; my body is stiff and I can't explain it. All that I know is that images of the people Lisa has possibly had sex with on this bike are invading my mind.

Oh God. A woman bending her over this bike while having sex with her? Or did she ride a burly man on here? How many times—

This annoyance that's coursing through my veins right now is purely because I'm straight and thinking about her having sex with women on this bike is bothering me because it's unnatural. That has to be it.