Ford
"WHAT'S IT TAKE FOR A girl like you to give up her number?"
Gabriella pinks from my words, head bowing slightly as the smirk coils at my lips, considering the reaction I evoke from her. Fuck, this is easier than I anticipated. For someone akin to a recluse, this is borderline piss easy.
Early this morning I strutted up to her, as confident as fucking can be. She was alone again, attention dipped solely on her phone, and I sauntered right up to her. She was astonished—that she was unable to masquerade—but flattered, nonetheless. And I've been accurate with my assumption that she's been unable to shake the furtive eye contact from her mind yesterday. She's already mentioned it.
We've been talking for half an hour. The fact that Gabriella seems intent upon wasting so much fucking time in the middle of a random corridor almost daily is absolutely bizarre, but I decide not to comment on it, even if it is the first thing that flashed in my mind when she announced that she didn't have another lecture for a few hours. Why doesn't she just leave campus and chill at home? That's a good fucking question.
"What's a guy like you want with a girl like me?" she remarks, raising a single eyebrow and batting her lashes as if she's thought of the best response ever.
Don't girls realize that guys don't always like the fucking lashes fluttering? How much experience does Gabriella have, anyway? I'm not into virgins. I prefer my girls with enough experience that they know what a guy typically likes. Truthfully, I don't harbour the proportionate amount of patience for virgins and their inherent innocence.
That's more William's field... for all the wrong fucking reasons.
"Guys like me can be full of surprises too."
Gag. Pass me the fucking bucket.
Cheesy and cliché pickup lines also aren't my style, but apparently the majority of girls in Westville fall hook, line, and sinker for every single fucking one of them. It's a little pathetic, but I'm not one to judge when it acts as a gateway for them. Sometimes all you have to think about is yourself and no one else.
Gabriella is quiet initially as she ponders my response. I maintain our eye contact, licensing her to see everything in my eyes, hopefully masking my lies with what I can pass off as sincerity. Harris has set the challenge to get Gabriella as my new girl and I am undoubtedly not one to back down from such bait. He knows that about me and he exploited it.
And he played with me—the bastard—when suggesting Genevieve to be my next girl, considering she's his fucking girlfriend. The rage still consumes me. Last night after spending too fucking long at the gym, my body was utterly exhausted, and yet I only managed three hours sleep. I haven't seen Harris again since what he said to me just before I left for the gym.
I can't shake the damn flippant words from my head. She's a good fuck.
He doesn't fucking deserve her. No one fucking does.
Not even me.
"Okay," Gabriella relents. "You can pick me up at six and if all goes well, I'll give you my number at the end of it."
I figure she'll play hard ball if I were to add her on Facebook or something and try to message her there, so I play along to her rules. For her sake, too. I have a feeling that because she's lacking in the friends department, it will be a hell of a lot easier to isolate her, therefore escalating the game straight to starting to drug her with Bullet. I have to at least fuck her before I start fucking her while high on Bullet. Gotta get her consent first.
