Betting Boy

Chapter Four - Kian

It's a dead afternoon.

I'm still hungover.

Sasha persuaded me and Henry to go out last night, so we hopped around a couple of pubs and a bar before ending up in Bucky's – a two-floor club with a kick-ass DJ booth and three bars, and good deals on shots. Within an hour, some twiggy brunette was all over me, and I ended up bringing her back here, both of us so wasted we were giggling each other and shushing each other at three in the morning as I tried to open my door.

I am not a shy guy.

Sex is sex. It's not something to be ashamed of.

But the girl (I don't remember ever exchanging names with her) was sat on top of me, and peeled off her shirt, and because it was so quiet, I could hear the door across the hall open and shut as Isabelle got home.

And for some reason, in my fuzzy, drunken state, I changed my mind.

"I'm sorry," I told her. "I'm just not feeling it."

She looked so upset, I kind of regretted saying it.

"Honestly, it's – I just..." Shit, how could I make this better? As far as she knew, she'd taken off her shirt, and I'd decided I wasn't horny anymore. Bad timing on my part. I looked like a douchebag extraordinaire.

I didn't even have an explanation, but I felt so bad for her that I said, "I just got out of a really serious relationship. I'm sorry. I thought..."

I trailed off by that point, because she seemed to get it. She smiled, told me it was fine, and insisted that she was fine when I offered to walk her back to her halls.

I mean, I'm not a monster. The least I could do was offer to walk her home.

Now I'm sober(ish), feeling horrendously hungover, slumped in my bed. Even a shower, ten hours of sleep, and six slices of toast didn't cure me.

The episode of Friends I'm watching on my iPad finishes, and I get up to go make some coffee. I check my phone while I wait for the kettle to boil (another thing I can't get over – no coffee maker, just jars of coffee granules and a kettle. It's like the dark ages or something).

I have a missed call from my mom, and a text saying, 'Hope everything's okay. Just called to check in. XXX'.

I'll call her later, when I feel more human.

Henry comes into the kitchen just as the water finishes boiling, and slaps me on the back. I spill some hot water over the counter.

"Nice one last night mate," he says. "She was fit."

"Oh, uh, yeah."

"Bad hangover?"

"You could say that. You seem pretty chipper considering you drank more than me."

"Fry-up," he says. "The ultimate cure."

"I can't believe you cooked breakfast." I gesture at some milk I've just spilled, too, and grab some paper towels to mop the mess up. "I can't even make a fucking cup of coffee."

The kitchen door opens again, and it's Isabelle, looking flushed in gym clothes. "Oh, hey." She wipes a hand across her forehead, sets her backpack on the table and pulls out an empty water bottle to fill and take a new drink. When she's done, she says, "Zumba. Was a bitch."