Playing with the Player

Chapter Seven: You're in debt with me now

"Chapter Seven: You're in debt with me now"

MY JOB SUCKED balls. Cleaning dishes wasn't my favourite way to spend my precious time. And it didn't even pay that well to be completely honest.

I heard someone come in and I looked up. It was Dave. One of the profits of living in a small town was that literally every adolescent went to the same two snack bars to eat their junk. For me, it meant that I got to see a lot of familiar faces walk in and out every single day.

Dave was talking to a tall brunette with a undoubtedly fake Louis Vuitton purse swinging at her small hips. She was smiling and giggeling and seemed to be very much enjoying his attention. She practically hung around his neck for God's sake. I rolled my eyes at the scene. Sometimes I forgot what a player he actually was. At soccer practice, he wasn't being his playery self, because everyone was just too engulfed with the game, so I seemed to forget about his real nature. Outside of practice, his ego overshadowed his morals. He didn't care. He enjoyed the attention, but never cared enough for anything to go further than platonic sex. At least, that's what everyone said at school. I believed it completely, too. Not only because it was just very plausible, with Dave being, you know, Dave, but also the increasing amount of crying girls in the hallways had me roling my eyes and kicking the ball more forcefully when it was directed at Dave. Even though whiny girls annoyed me more than anything in the world- he was a douche for using them and than completely ignoring them.

He met my gaze as the girl was whispering something in his ear. When she retreated her head, he excused himself and headed towards me. The girl nodded. I think she just agreed with everything he said. It's like she looked star struck, even when he left the expression didn't leave her face.

"You still suck at your job." He held up a plate from my 'clean stack' with a giant splotch of mustard covering it.

I ignored him and grasped the plate from his hand.

"Just saying." He shrugged.

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"I wanted to check up on my friend," he answered.

"Well, your friend is getting impatient." I pointed at the fake-Louis-Vuitton-bag girl who was watching our interaction. Her fake nails were tapping impatiently against her bare leg. When she saw me looking, she sniffed and crossed her arms.

"No, I meant you. I met her outside- I don't even know her name," He said, taking a sip out of his drink.

His drink?

My drink!

"Hey!" I ripped my cup from his grasp. "Stop drinking my coke!"

"I was thirsty," he defended himself.

"Yeah, thirsty for attention," I grumbled.

"I heard that."

"I don't care." I dumped a dish into the water before my boss could get mad at me for talking to the costumers instead of doing what I was supposed to do. The water splashed on Dave and his face got wet with dirty water. Oops.

"Jesus! Watch what you're doing!" He dried his face off with his shirt, lifting it up ever so slightly so it exposed the lower part of his abdomen. The brunette, still practically sulking at the loss of attention, opened her eyes widely and fixed her gaze solely on Dave's muscled abdomen peeking out.

"I'm teaching you how to clean those properly," Dave said as he moved to stand beside me, fixing his shirt. The brunette looked disappointed with the bar covering his lower body succesfully. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but his wet shirt was perfectly showing his six pack after he used it as a towel. I've seen too many male upperbodies at soccer practices to start drooling over one now. I blamed it on my period. Stupid hormones. I shook my head, clearing it from my thoughts.