❝I can't be the Barbara Palvin to your Francisco Lachowski.❞
You see it in every Wattpad book. The bad boy did this, the bad boy did that, all ending in the main character falling for the bad boy, right? Of course, this isn't reality.
You don't see...
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"Ah ha ha. What it do, babygirl?"
I hold back the urge to punch the guy standing next to me in the face. Unfortunately, he's not being ironic. This is just a wannabe bad boy, thinking all he has to do is say "ah ha ha" and "babygirl" to get a girl to drop her panties.
I glance at him and cringe when I see the repulsive lip-biting action he's got going on. He's looking at me, probably waiting for some kind of response. Bold of him to assume I'd respond to a line like that. Who even is this kid? He looks like a freshman.
"What's your name?" I ask, strictly keeping him around because I have nobody to talk to.
"The name is Ridge, babygirl. You'll know it very well after I've got you under me, screaming it," He looks me up and down and a wave of disgust flows over me.
Not dignifying that with a response, I scan the room for Harley. Gio's parties are usually packed with people, it's hard to make your way around the house. Lucky for me, I know his house like it's my own.
Slowly easing away from Ridge and into the living room area, I continue looking for Harley. She's so gullible, she probably got herself into some kind of trouble. Gio's living room is decorated with pictures of him and his family, but more specifically his older brother. His family isn't really around much, which is probably why he can get away with having a party on a Monday.
Seeing Grant everywhere I look is definitely the last thing I want to see right now. He's the favorite child and two years older than me and Gio. Thinking about him causes a shiver down my spine and all kinds of memories to resurface. Grant was the worst.
I sit on the couch, feeling sick to my stomach. Grant always has that affect on me. Sickening. I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, trying to clear my mind of thoughts of him.
"Yo, are you dead or something?"
I quickly open my eyes and lean up from the couch. Aaron Abello stares down at me, a smirk on his face. I swear he does nothing but smirk. He's dressed in a leather jacket (typical), a white T-shirt and jeans. He sits on the couch and stretches out his arms, causing me to tense up and shift away from him.
He notices my reaction and laughs, a sneer forming to replace the smirk. "You act like I've got some kind of disease or something."
"Funny you say that," I mutter to myself, staring down at my lap.
"You mutter a lot," Aaron mutters back at me, leaning forward. "I have a proposal for you, Dez Bueller."
