Ford
"MAYBE YOU SHOULD CARE FOR your girl better," Harris instructs casually, plucking a beer from the fridge.
Jax is already riled and wound up from the earlier commotion in college regarding Iesha's attempted suicide, having been taken aside by the chancellor afterwards for a discussion on discretion considering the chancellor is of course also Red Alert, and Harris is only exacerbating his agitation. We've all long since discovered not to talk to him apropos of anything pertinent to Iesha, and when his aggression progresses to pouring through his words in a mundane conversation, we refuse to converse with him at all.
Harris, the fucker, just never knows when to step back. While he always seems to rub the other guys up the wrong way too, he ceaselessly warrants a disproportionately large bulk of his ridicule to be saved for me. I suppose it can be explained through his desire to be the alpha male of the group, though I foster the natural leader abilities—Bullet would be non-existent without me—that he sorely lacks, and he is perpetually resentful of that.
"Stay out of my business," Jax replies, a low grumble to his words as he refuses to even glance at Harris' retreating form.
Iesha is upstairs in Jax's room, sedated. Considering the monumental damage she'd inflicted upon her head, it necessitates the sedation. That also means that she is unable to take any Bullet until she is conscious again, though by that point, it's anyone's game if she's to repeat the head bashing again. It seems a likely prospect given the aggression that Bullet saturates the body with, especially in Iesha's case. Not to mention that her head is utterly grotesque now, and she won't be able to tolerate looking in the mirror at her reflection.
Jax, Jeremiah and I have congregated in the lounge, each of us either idly scrolling on our phones or completing college work. I prefer not to remain in my room for long periods of time, despite having a reprieve from Harris during those times because I'm inundated with the reminder that I can spy the roof of Westville College from my bedroom window in the distance.
There's no beautiful girl parading around her bedroom from my window.
Fuck, she's truly addictive, and it's indescribable to me—why do I feel such an intense desire for her?
In my head I know I've constructed her to be pure—possibly purer than she is —and it's that what I'm fascinated by. Although I wish for someone pure to corrupt and play through that tantalising chase and observe how their behaviour amends because of my influence, someone pure is... a challenge. A fantasy.
A fantasy isn't a true depiction of reality.
It's all in my fucking head; my own manufacture.
I spend too long indulged in my fantasies involving Genevieve that I wonder how she tastes—her lips and her pussy. I dream of discovering how soft her skin is and how she'll whisper my name against my lips. How she'll claim to be mine, our limbs entangled, body writhing and unravelling through her undoing.
Just one taste. That's all I desire.
But then I fear that as soon as I've have one taste, I'll never want to give it up.
"Don't you have fucking training?" Jax hisses at me, unprovoked.
The amputation from my reverie of Genevieve is staggeringly jarring as Harris' obnoxious chuckle emanates from the kitchen as he pops the lid off a bottle of beer. Sadly for us, girls fawn over Harris because of his pretty boy looks, whereas I'm more rugged and the silent, brooding type. According to the other guys, anyway. And none of those girls know we're Red Alert. They just fear the myth that Red Alert plagues our town, though they all harbour their own suspicions about us, I'm sure.
