Deflower

Chapitre Onze

Kyle doomed Allistair and Tommy. No, to be more specific— he doomed their mothers. Upon other of those unoccupied Sunday's he at least had them to share his everlasting morose and boredom with, but today, per their mothers were good friends and had chosen that very Sunday to have brunch with their families, Kyle was left by himself. On the other hand, however, it bid him another opportunity—one his two friends would not—to get with Lo, on a golden platter.

Instead, now, Kyle spent the hour he sat next to his sister cluttering up the images of Lourdes' scantily clad figure; a vivid conception that, perhaps, wasn't something particularly appropriate to fill up your mind with— but, Kyle was a boy who reveled in risk and danger and he was all the more enraptured by the fact that the priest was rambling about playing with fate when he was thinking of playing with something else, entirely.

Kyle Garçia had no clue of his current whereabouts with Lo— at the moment, she was cold as ice, and he'd tried so desperately to make her melt, but it seemed to be to no avail. Her eyes were always narrowed and she appeared as if she found everything around her to be rather uneventful; even him, and Allistair, whom had, as aforementioned always been the towns most desired heartthrob. Kyle Garçia had a headache full of unanswered questions and he was going to have them answered, one way or another. Kyle had never lived obliviously. He wasn't blinded to what others were: to be fair, he was not the most normal, either. He was unsure of how, or what, or why, but Lourdes Guerrero was something else, entirely. She looked like she was the most precious diamond in the possession of the wealthy, but he knew that there had to be more to her— because every time he tried to reach out to her, it sent a rocket of shivers to run down his spine.

Kyle, at times, placed himself in her shoes, but never, never, for too long. It was not like it would get to him— for that, he was far too apathetic. That, though, was not his fault. Despite Beatrix and Marco being wonderful parents to him, the two hardly knew how to love each other— and how could they be capable of raising a child with the needed affection? At a certain point, love to them, was buying him costly gifts, but Kyle was very well aware that love was something that could not be purchased— and he knew he wouldn't ever know it, himself, too. He would not know what to do if he'd ever feel that thing in his chest beating— more particularly, beating for someone.

Kyle occasionally thought of Lourdes and what she would do if she would come to be informed of his nefarious plan— he thought of how she would react, but even more, of how her father would. He would retort to thinking that they were the predators and she their willful little prey; she should have known that nothing good could possibly come from three boys with reputations like theirs approaching her— anything to flee from the blame. Kyle had not always been like this, you see.

Lo turned her head and it was that that brought Kyle down from the trance he was in— paying attention to, quite frankly, anything, but the inspirational words that the priest uttered so eagerly before him. They stared at each other for a while, Kyle was unsure of how long, but he was content; he knew that he was okay, and that that stare was reserved for him. In-fact, Kyle had never seen Lo stare like that—not at a male peer of hers, anyway. Most of the time, she paid them no mind. Solely dogs were able of orchestrating the pretty girl to turn her head.

Outside, Kyle stood amidst of a few chattering adults— Lourdes' father being praised by the major in the most formal words there were to be thought of, and the amount of sincerity invested in them was not too grand. Kyle knew (from a friend of a friend: he had his ways and his sources, one could say) that the major was the one who seldom was not seen in the local brothel— and it wasn't the wedding band around his finger or the whore's age that withheld him from sleeping with her, but rather the damage that his image could risk for his silly, purely masculine escapades. Kyle hated the way the people, the inhabitants of the town he hesitated to call his own, wore hypocrisy like a crown upon their conceited heads.