A Guy Like Her

The Strongest Bladder Determines The Pit Stops

Chapter Twenty-Six
-The Strongest Bladder Determines The Pit Stops-

I looked down at my phone frowning.

'Hate to bail but something has come up and I can't see you this afternoon. Sorry.'

It was from Jake. He'd broken off the afternoon date he'd been so insistent on last night. My stomach clenched uncomfortably as I stared at the screen. I needed to know what was going on. He was pissed at Taylor and now apparently me but not Lockie. He was screwing with my head, he had to be. I couldn't wait till I could just tell him everything and get on with it all.

'No problems, meet up tomorrow?'

I sent the message, but I couldn't bring myself to be very hopeful.

'Maybe.'

...and that's why I wasn't hoping much. He was blowing me off completely and we both knew it.

The afternoon passed way too slow for my liking with Jake and his weird ass man PMS mood swirling through my head.

After three beers that had each botched their own attempt at studying I turned up to Taylor's place early ready for the night ahead of us. I knocked on the door and he greeted me with his customary rudeness.

I stepped into the room after he opened the door and then walked away from me when he realized I wasn't important enough to warrant words.

"I want facial hair..." I mused and he spun on his heel to look at me with an amused look on his face.

"Rule twelve chicky babe. There is so much a moustache says about a man." He told me with a grin and I looked at him confused.

"How can that be a rule?" I demanded, "Rules should dictate my actions, not be a fancy fun tidbit." He rolled his eyes, looking annoyed.

"Want a 'rule' rule? Fine!" He exclaimed, "No ponytail, unless you're Willy Nelson," he finished looking at me smug, his arm crossed over his chest.

"Thank-you," I returned the look.

"You're welcome, that was twenty four. Want a beer?" He asked and I shook my head.

"I'm three deep already. Explain the moustache thing to me. I need to choose my manly man style," I told him falling onto his bed gracefully.

"What style were you thinking?" He asked, I could hear the amusement in his voice without looking at him.

"Thinking something really studly. Like a soul patch!" I exclaimed, running my fingers over the patch of skin under my bottom lip. I would be such a hottie.

"What? Are you stuck in a nineties boy band?" He laughed, "Next!"

"Mutton chops?"

"Okay, biker Sam!" He snorted.

"The whole Shabang! Moustache, full beard, all of it!" I was giggling like a school girl thinking about the absurdity of the thought of a full blown beard on my face. It was ridiculous and apparently Taylor thought so too.

"Gunna go hunt me a 'gator and gut her fo' cookin' too?" He asked putting on a terrible country accent making me laugh even more. "What you really want, you eager beaver, is something like a bit of scruff. Total babe magnet. Too much beard you look like Santa Claus, or the homeless bum in the Santa suit on the street corner if left untamed. Not enough and you look like Justin Bieber. Anything embellished brings out a girls natural 'bat-shit-crazy' alarm so no Jack Sparrow beading or fairy lights weaved through out it," he finished as I rolled over and pouted at him.