Make It Count | ✓

prologue

—prologue—

OKAY, LET ME get this straight; I am one classy motherfucker. No, never gonna apologize for the obscenity, I am not trying to get cute with you. But my point is, people had an exaggerated conception of me. I mean, I'm probably still being stereotyped up to this moment. And don't get me wrong, I was immature.

Yes, I admit, I am your typical bastard. Or you can call me names, whatever creams your twinkie − I already have my fair share of judgmental people around and one additional comment hardly faze me anymore.

You see, I'm only telling you this because someone gave me a purpose. I didn't know how or why, but one day, I just woke up and realized some things. Like, 'hey, can't I make mistakes? I'm only fucking human'.

Let me get a piece of pizza before continuing the − oh, Lewis stole mine.  Asshole. Anyway, I'm just going to sacrifice my undying love for pizza to turn my attention to my audience of, probably, one, rub my hands and roll it in − three, two, one.

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IT WAS EASY. To weave the web of lies so I could get what I wanted. Smooth skills were an advantage like I was born with it. I didn't even feel bad about lying to get in someone's pants. I mean, it was a two-way agreement but under my own terms.

But if there was one thing they completely learned about me? It would be about my vocalized unholy purposes. One flawless sentence and the girls fell for it without so much as batting an eyelid. I was a fucking magician. No pun intended.

I was all but a predator, but I wasn't born last night. I knew the girls loved to play the prey part, and the idea of me leaving the major role wasn't something I could just drop like a newly spewed volcanic rock. They did all know my game, and the risks were theirs. It was just casual sex.

On my bed for the night, strangers the next morning. No more, no less.

Tonight, for instance, as I pumped and thrust myself inside her, she perfectly knew where this was going to wind up. Right from the start, my intentions were set in stone, but as she flickered her lashes up at me and I nonchalantly stared at the girl's messy hair − I didn't miss the hopeful glint in her eyes.

Her, however, wasn't just a stranger. Heather wasn't a complete stranger to me because, as funny as it sound, she was none other than the well-renowned girlfriend of my arch-nemesis and the quarterback of Stockton High's football team. The weakling competitor of my own.

It was far remarkable that I was doing her girlfriend so hard right now. Everything looked like a piss-take, and for sure, a jumbo punch in the gut to Jordan Cross had he of known what his chick had been actually doing while the idiot was just pissing around. I could kiss a trophy right now; high like the motherfucking Burj Khalifa.

The devil in me was just slacking off, but as soon as she smelt my hellfire, the vixen instantly wanted a little piece of sin then and there. So, in my defense, Heather actually had stormed in my house and stripped off her clothes right in front of my very pleased eyes. Did I even have the right to complain when, in fact, she was undoubtedly hot?

She looked close to fainting as I knocked harder that my eyes stung from the sweat that dripped down from my eyebrows, my jaw almost breaking from gritting my teeth. Our breaths were ragged and she moaned like a cow, scraping her nails down my back as we were running towards the highest peak.