"She broke him down."
He ran a hand through his curls, eyes closed. Nervousness radiated in strong waves around him surrounding his very soul. He needed to man up. He needed to stop being pussy. Stop being a scared. Stop being terrified to his bones. But he couldn't, and he was sick of that. He needed to learn how to face his demons.
A tap on his shoulders broke his inner monologue. He turned around already dreading it.
Hair tied into a messy bun, decked in a black dress, she smirked at him, "Like what you see, babe?"
He just stared at her, his poker mask securely attached, shrugging.
"Didn't think you'd answer," the smirk never left her lips, "Do you think about that night? It was good, huh? Or do you have no memories of it?" laughed at her own joke.
He jerked away as if she had burnt him. He didn't want to talk about that night. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to run away far, far away.
The poker mask slipped, her eyes shined in triumph.
"Are we doing it or not?" he spat, the words venom to him. Perhaps if he would consent it, that feeling would disappear.
"All you had to do was ask, HotShot." She winked flirtatiously, stretching on to her toes, landing a kiss on his lips.
He responded.
"Good boy. Now let's go to your car?" She whispered huskily, enjoying the the shudder that rippled over his back with a simple phrase.
He nodded beforewalking towards his car, her hand attached to his.
YOU ARE READING
The Jock
Short StoryWhen the jock hooked up with the star dancer, he hated, the look of a classic cliché took a mask. Nobody could read between the lines. Nobody knew that not everything was the black and white as they had all so rigidly prejudiced.
