Chapter 8 bang bang BANG! ... BANG BANG INTO THE ROOOOM!! Ahaha.. Sorry, I just sorta had too.
Enjoy!
{•••••}
I run down the halls through a sea of endless high-schoolers, my breath heavy with fear. I wrestle my way through nerds, gossip girls and the occasional jock, stamping my foot on someone else's in the process. I turn my head as I run.
"Sorry!" I shout.
"Asshole!" whats-his-face calls back.
As I turn my head, I crash into another person, catching a mop of lemon coloured hair as I fall. My back slams onto the ground, my glasses fly off and books spill everywhere.
"Really Roberts? You could at least--" I look up at the face hovering over mine. Anthony doesn't have glasses.
"You're not Roberts..." I mutter, embarrassed.
The boy above me laughs. "Apparently not." He offers a hand, which I grab, and hoists me up. He picks up all the books and hands them to me.
"Thank you..." I say, shyly.
"No problem. Name's Owen." he gives me a lopsided smirk.
"Courtney Clarke." I return a smile.
"Ah. You're Anthony's..."
"Um... I guess."
"And you do know that he will-"
"Yeah... "
"Well, if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you can call me here." he takes a pen from his pocket and writes his number on my forearm.
"Aha. Thanks. I better be heading to-- Oh gosh! My glasses!" I completely forgot about those.
"Here, let me help." Both his hands reach towards the top of my head and he gently takes my glasses, which were entangled in my hair. He brushes a piece of my hair behind my ear before placing the glasses on for me.
"Thanks," I blush.
"No problem. I'll see you around, 'kay?"
"Yep." I give a shy wave before dashing off again.
{•••}
Bling!
Why are you talking to him?!
Bling!
Courtneyyyyyyyyyyyyy
I finally click my phone on to answer Anthony after exactly 57 text notifications.
What? I say.
Why are you talking to him?
To who?
Owen fucking Winston that's who!!
So its illegal to talk to other guys?
It should be!!
I mentally facepalm.
Is little Anthony Roberts jealous?
I am NOT jelus!!
You spelt jeallos wrong.
So did you.
Frick. I should turn off autocorrect.
I BLAME AUTOCORRECT!
Lol, sure...
I swear!
Yeah okay, WHY IS OWENS NUMBER ON YOUR FOREARM??
Jeez! Anthony he's just a friend!
I wait one minute... two... three... Nothing. He did not. He did not just freaking give me the freaking silent treatment. Oh my God, he did not.
I throw my phone across the bed in frustration and smash my face into the pillow, groaning very loudly.
Wait.
Why should I even care? It's not like were even dating or anything!
Bling!
I immediately stumble across the bed and snatch my phone, unfortunately falling to the ground as I do. I carefully stand up and sit myself back on the bed, checking the text he sent:
Courtney Clarke, would you care to join me for a date?
My fingers fly through the keyboard before I have any chance to think. I hit send before realizing what I'm doing.
Yes.
YOU ARE READING
How I Played the Playboy
Teen Fiction"You're a player," I say, sternly. "Well, then. Let's make this game more interesting. We pretend to be in a relationship meaning we can hold hands, hug, kiss or whatever. The first one to fall in love, loses." He gives me a sly smile, then offe...
