AT LAST, I COULD BREATHE | billy hargrove

pissed-off pretty boy.

chapter song: We Can't Stop - Miley Cyrus

pissed-off pretty boy.

"Forty!! Forty-one!! Forty-two!!" Everyone drunkenly chanted in sync—followed by cheers once Billy was lowered from the keg at 42 seconds. He spat out beer in a yell of victory, letting the fermented liquid dribble down his chin and down onto his open chest messily. Tommy and the rest of the team were yelling with him, while I stood over by the edge of the house watching them have their fun. Tommy passed him a smoke, and Billy gladly accepted and took a long, sweet drag.

"THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT, HAWKINS, WOOO!!!" The blonde boasted, getting bro-hugged from all around and lustful looks from the ladies—something I was sure he was used to, something that he clearly reveled in.

Once his friend group calmed down, the new King of the Keg started spinning around with a puzzled look on his face until he caught my eye and I raised my cup in salute. He smirked and broke away from his intoxicated clan surrounding him in glory as he stumbled his way over to me.

On his way over to me, more than one girl stopped him in his tracks—at different times, of course—and they each were very handsy, what with him only wearing a leather jacket and leather pants, nothing else. Billy only gave each of them half a glance, followed by a look back to me, then a silent removal of their hands from either his jacket or his bare chest. He would then sidestep them and continue toward me.

"You wanna try the keg?" He asked loudly, about ten feet away and closing. Obviously, the beer had an effect on him and made him far drunker than he was when I'd first arrived.

"It's alright, love, I'm gonna stick to my spiked punch for now." I waved my red solo cup in his face childishly. "Besides, I have a dress on and I don't think I'm ready to let the team know me like that if you catch my drift."

"Oh, come on," he persisted. "Don't be a buzzkill."

"If I go up on that keg, I will be your buzzkill because my personal record for a keg is forty four seconds," I argued back with a playful look on my face.

Billy took no caution in hiding his surprise. "No way, babe. Bullshit. Gonna need some proof to believe that one."

"And I'm gonna need Jesus if I do that keg stand in this dress—"

"You're gonna do it?!" He yelled boyishly.

"No!!" I whisper-yelled back. "I don't have anything on under this, Billy."

"Damn, no shorts?"

"No nothing," I replied, eyebrows up, taking a sip from the spiked punch I'd been babysitting for the last few minutes.

Billy's head fell back and his mouth was wide open and he let out a borderline-pornographic moan—a sound so hot, I actually choked on my punch for a moment—exaggerated to make me laugh, of course. His tanned, beer-stained skin gleamed in the light that emitted from the house behind us—giving him a slight glow. He just stood there for a moment, staring up at the sky, breathing a bit heavy—thinking about something or perhaps pondering what I said? I couldn't be sure. I did, however, take that moment to admire him—for the second time that night.

His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed in what seemed like slow motion, and my eyes traveled further down. They met his exposed chest which was so nice to witness, Jesus Christ. John was toned: he had a defined chest and abdomen. But this man in front of me was very...different. His chest had the real-deal muscle to it—the kind of chest that's incredibly soft when you sleep on it, much like a comfortably firm pillow, but when these muscles are flexed, they're hard as rocks.