Cheeky

№ 22. Mr. Panty-Dropper

Fat drops of rain thudded against the window pane, lacing the atmosphere of the room with a dull hum. The TV was set to a low volume and the daylight was starting to dwindle, dimming the apartment significantly. Golden rays poured lazily over the walls and floor as the sun started to set, and all the while,  George and I watched.

My legs were tangled with his and we lay squished, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads just barely touching. Chelsea was sitting on the rug, feigning interest in whatever trashy reality show was on. I hadn't spoken to her for over three days now, and I was getting the feeling that she was trying to avoid me.

We all went out the other night for a movie, and she left halfway through. I went to see where she went but she disappeared. Chelsea came home and never said why she had ran out on us. I felt though that I had to keep some sort of distance. The primary difference between Chelsea and I was that I avoided confrontation at all costs. She was ready at any time for a fight.

"What are you thinking about?"

I tore my gaze from the setting sun outside and shifted closer to George. He hung an arm lazily over my shoulder and nuzzled my hair, doing anything to get more contact. 

"That I am not adventurous enough," I sighed.

"I think you are."

I rested my free hand against his chest, "You're just saying that to be nice."

George moved to my ear, "Are you calling me a liar, Barbie?"

His breath tickled my cold skin and I squirmed with a giggle, "Maybe."

"Well, I just won't stand for that," He whispered again, this time using his hands for punishment.

His fingers crept excitedly across my abdomen and sides and I became hysterical with laughter, tossing this way and that to try and get away. George had risen and was reclined on his knees, bent over my squealing figure with a grin. I was laughing so hard that I forgot to breathe and pretty soon the sight of me suffocating wouldn't be so attractive.

"I-I'm sorry! A-air!"

"You know what you have to say," George's grin spread even further.

He gave me a moment to catch my breath, and I gave him a stern look.

"Never," I hissed.

He rose his hands menacingly over my head and my eyes grew large.

"Say it," he threatened. 

I shook my head, sealing my lips as I refused to surrender. George had now climbed over my lap, locking me into a tickle trap of doom. Oh lord,  I may not come out alive. I knew what he wanted me to admit, but like hell I would say it. George is not Mr. Panty-Dropper, no matter how many times he argues it.

"Any last words?" George snickered as his hands began to descend.

"Send my Back Street Boy collection to Emma," I exhaled.  

At that moment both George and Chelsea stared at me with so much judgment that I wanted to go and die in a hole. A hole filled with the Back Street Boys.

"It was a dark time for me, " I argued defensively.

"And with that, I'm gone," Chelsea stated.

She stood and dusted herself off, winding around the living room where she shrugged on her jacket and a pair of sneakers.

"Where are you headed?" I asked as nonchalantly as possible.

"I don't know," she replied bluntly and walked out the door,  locking it aggressively after herself.