Mess You Made

12.

Miguel.

I did as Malibu Adams asked me to do that night in my car. Remember the girl that I'd left there in that bedroom, that night, because I went to Malibu instead — sounds really bad when I put it like that. I suppose it was bad, though.

I don't really have much justification for it, to be honest. I think it might be a little worse that if you were to ask me in all honesty if I would retrace my steps, I'd do it again.

She had cried. The girl whose name is Ellie Arison. One of her friends chewed my ear off about it. That's the thing about that side of the city, everyone knows everyone, all girls seem to know each other and know me. I upset one of them and it felt like a whole barrage of them were on my ass. It didn't matter if I apologised, so I did what was asked me because I felt bad. Took her out on a date. I didn't know that she was actually born to a dynasty but I found out quite quick, though.

I took Ellie Arison to this brunch place of her choice, made all and any attempts to be as polite as shit, which is never usually a difficult effort. Pretty girls that are nice to look at? Fuck, yeah, I'll sit across from them, talk to them, that's half the fun before fucking, anyways. Flirting.

I've always liked talking to girls. Not in a shallow sense, either but their minds are fun and I think it's nice, when they feel seen and not ignored and women, overall, are too beautiful to be ignored.

I tried to ignore the restlessness that seemed to be constantly stirring at the bottom of my gut the whole time. She was talking to me about her father buying new estates in Algarve in Portugal, and how she hates the modern art there but the beach coves make up for it. She asked me if I'd ever travelled, I said I've been to Italy, and then Paris — she asked how it was in France. I smiled a bit, shook my head, said, "Shit."

She laughed. I smiled, and I listened and tried to ignore how it felt like I was having to plaster it on.

And Ellie Arison, she's sweet. Genuinely sweet, too. You might not expect her to be, given that she's definitely spoilt but she tipped all the waiters, treated them nice, smiles softly. Raised right, even with all the money. A bit shy too, especially when I look her right in the eye because she fiddles with the hem of her white minidress from Saint Laurent when I do it.

So I wished that I was focusing on her more than I was. I couldn't place why my head was being the way it was until she asked, her cheeks pink, if I'd ever let her sit in my car. We'd walked down to the brunch place together — and in response to her, I said my car was actually getting work done right now.

It isn't. Don't know why the fuck I said it, I think I even made a confused face, at myself, after that.

It's been two weeks, about fourteen days, since Malibu Adams took residence in the passenger seat, and that mindfuck of a night with her, and her family.

Two weeks.

I've not seen a glimpse of that girl since. Nowhere.

And whether I liked it or not, I was actively looking. I would find myself doing a routine sweep of the class to see if she was there within it but she hasn't been, for two weeks. I haven't seen her around anywhere — not that it's of extreme significance, but, you know, I was just wondering. I spent the night at her house, which was strange in itself and she definitely wasn't happy about it but I was expecting to see her again, maybe?

Was definitely planning on taunting her about it at school, follow up on that saint comment Sierra Lane made and rub it in her face because fuck, that was a lovely power rush. Especially when she was stood in front of me. Stood tall above me when I was sat on her couch, with her long, slender legs all on show shamelessly. Plain black underwear clinging to the curve of her hips — could've been the ugliest set of underwear on the planet and it wouldn't have mattered for shit on that girl.