Destined Fur More

Got A Bomb Dropped With My Pants Down

"Teague, I'm SO sorry!" I said for the millionth time, "I didn't mean to—"

His face said he was trying to hide pain to make me feel better, but it didn't work. "Fisher, it's—BITCH," Teague bellowed as Graham stuck the needle back into his baby toe, sowing the wound closed. "It could have been worse," He finished, wisely staying away from the word 'fine'.

My lips twisted into a grimace at his toe. It probably could have been much worse if I wasn't as weak as I was, as in taking off his entire toe, or worse—his foot. All that I'd done was give him a decent gash that would scar. Still, 'what if' was running through my head like Teague's gorgeous mocha eyes.

"Seriously though," I went on, "I'm sorry, I really was aiming for that log. You see, I just have this terrible aim—"

"FISHER." Graham nearly yelled, "WE UNDERSTAND. HE IS FINE. NOBODY IS GOING TO DIE."

I shrunk back, lips puckering in annoyance. "Who peed in your prune juice?"

I didn't even have to look; I heard his eyes roll. "Nobody yet, but I'd be watching your orange juice. You know how those things sometimes happen," He let his eyes slide to me for a second before snipping the string for Teague's stitches. "And prunes are actually very tasty." (A/N: OMG. I FREAKING LOVE PRUNES.)

My face crinkled in disgust, arms crossing. "If you like them so much why are you still full of shit?"

Teague bleated out a laugh, though it sounded more like someone was strangling an already-dying camel. Graham puffed up his chest, turning to let me see his eye twitch in annoyance. I arched an eyebrow, lips puckering into a sour smile and seeking challenge, but he gave me none. I grinned at my well-deserved victory.

Graham Cracker sneered, muttering something about hormonal teenagers and waddling off down the hall. Schneague was still chuckling when I heard the back bedroom door slam.

My eyebrow lifted, "Are you, like, purposely trying to be douche or are you just making fun of me?"

This halted his laughs, but not the bewildered grin on his gorgeous male face. "What are you talking about?"

I rolled my ugly eyes, "The whole obnoxious laughing thing. Please, don't even try to act like your innocent. I'm fucking sick of people like you,"

His brows descended in faux confusion, "I still have no clue what you're talking about, Fisher. I was just laughing because Graham is full of shit and he does eat a lot of prunes." He shrugged, much to my annoyance. "You're pretty damn funny, too."

I huffed in agitation, "Oh, whatever. Just stop messing with me, okay? I don't understand why you people all think that it's so hilarious to pick on the fat, ugly girl who's lost her faith in humanity, okay? Seriously, you guys are all fucking pricks."

Schneague gave me a nervous laugh, signaling guilt. "Fisher, I don't know why you think that I was making fun of you. I honestly think you're funny as fucking, like, Jeff Dunham or something." He thought about that for a second, and then added, "Without the puppets or time to prepare jokes and stuff. Which are some serious brownie points in my book,"

I snorted, "Jee, thanks for the comparison to a forty year-old man."

Schneague smiled, "See? Besides, he's like, thirty."

"Oh, yeah, because that's a whole lot better." My anger had dissolved, though. Who could stay angry at such a sexy face like that? It was like trying to stay pissed a t a kitten. Well, I guess that kitten would have to have a fucking six-pack, an impossible-to-get-tan, teeth that gleamed like pearls, gorgeous, chocolate eyes… SNAP OUT OF IT, FISHER! YOU'RE SO SHALLOW! I screamed internally, still picture his six—maybe it's eight— pack in my head without a speck of guilt. Mm… fucking sexy…