Babysitter Cougar [COMPLETE]

Chapter 11 page 1 - Third Cub

**Explicit drug related content in this part.

2010

Arman's text at 11.00 pm on Saturday, asking me out is something unanticipated. Ever since my reconciliation with him, he yearns to uncover the real me within my impenetrable layers.

We have known each other since 2005 way back in University iTM South Campus when he was the campus prodigy. He and Dan were in the same cohort together. He entered university at the age of 16 when I was 19 and in my third semester. And he was one of the guys whom I had beef with due to his hatred towards girls who don't wear hijab (headscarves).

We always at each other's throats. He calls me promiscuous while I labelled him as extremist had raised the tension between us in the campus. But he tasted bad karma when he suffered culture shock of campus life that his grades flunked and had resorted into drugs and alcohol. I honoured his failure by boosting my grades and graduated with a Distinction, which subsequently redeemed myself to Dad.

And after years' apart, he found me on Facebook and decided for a truce. This is not our first date, we've met a couple of times before and usually we met during the day, never night time.

I assume that this is one of those nights when he needs a booty call and I'm in his call girl list. My ego reprimands me not to text back because he only needs me when he's bored and lonely or in despair. But my desperate-for-a-man conscience screamed, 'What the heck? Text him back!'

So I jump in and replying to his text while completely disregarding my former advice.

'Wanna hang out for suhoor (pre-dawn meal)?' his text query. 'I'll pick you up @ 12.00.'

'I'm on curfew,' I text back. 'I don't think my parents will allow it.'

'Even for suhoor?' he replies. 'Come on, let's make amends for old time sake.'

I don't like it when he uses the excuse of rectifying the past to get away with what he wants because I'd fall for this kind of shit.

He waits in his red Mazda 3 by the corner of the street to my neighbourhood while I stealthily unlock the house gate to escape. The attempt to sneak out from the house becomes effortless when my parents had dozed off earlier since the 20 rakaat of tarawikh (Ramadhan night prayer) had got them returning home deflated.

It's Ramadhan, the month of fasting. It's common for the city to become vibrant at this hour until close to 4.00 am with restaurants and eateries being flooded with patrons seeking a late night supper. We had our suhoor at one of the neighbour's bistro as starters to catch up on our current affairs.

As the night begins to drizzle, we immediately paid our drinks and rush towards his Mazda. That's when the main course of the event about to occur.

"Wanna chill at my place?" he asks.

My heart skips a beat as I become uncomfortable by this question.

"What if I say no?" I ask back.

"It's too late to back out now. You already signed up for it when you entered into this car," he grins slyly while twirling my hair around his fingers.

I gulp hard. His words make the hair at the back of my neck stand up. I tell myself that whatever happens, don't be indulged by him.

His flat, the dragon's den is not something I'd study in awe. It's a typical young man's flat with its basic necessities and no decoration except for his Taylor acoustic guitar that captures my attention.

I practise my G, C, D7 chords to play Tom Jones' 'Green, Green Grass of Home' with the guitar in off tune. The original song is beautiful but my plucking makes the song so awry that I bet Tom Jones might disapprove of my cover. But Arman looks at me with his dreamy eyes like nothing else matters.

"I'm getting something. You wait there and stay pretty," he ambles across the living room and into the kitchen.

As I'm on my second verse of the song, Arman returns with a clear glass bong and a small container filled with crushed cannabis in his hand. I watch the device in utter amazement.

"You never seen one before?" He looked astonished with my reaction and I shake my head. "These babies are inevitable back in campus."

"If we both didn't create walls between each other, I could've asked some from you," I tell him.

He laughs at my immaturity. "I guess you aren't what I thought you were."

"It takes an idiot to judge someone without getting to know her first," I smug.

I watch him pressing the crushed dried grass into its chamber which is a funnel-shaped piece that sits on the spout of the glass. Then, he places his mouth into the mouthpiece before lighting up the chamber and sucking the air in. After he exhales, smoke flows out through his mouth and his nose, billowing the room and its scent reminds me of my late grandfather's cigarettes.

He offers me the bong which initially I refuse. However, I finally accepted his third offer not because I'm intimidated by the possibility that he might force me into it but more to address my curiosity.

The first few inhalations aren't my favourite, in fact I don't think I have any favourites throughout my entire experience smoking it. It hurts my throat that I cough vehemently and the air that I suck in is so putrid that I'm unable to gauge any pleasure out of it. I'm utterly disappointed that I can't relate to the kids that enjoy this kind of pastime. I already suck at the first stage of the procedure. I don't know if I can go high and reach nirvana like the rest of them.

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