Ford
MY FANTASIES ARE COMING TRUE.
In my bedroom, I stand completely still. There's been various sets of footsteps pacing the landing outside my bedroom, though no one has entered while I've been getting ready.
It's almost midnight, and considering my friends don't share my insane insomnia, I'm puzzled as to why they're so active now. Usually they stay in their bedrooms when the night bleeds over Westville, especially if any of them have girls, though none of them do currently as Jeremiah has just sold his girl at the recent Red Alert Gala, and Jax lost Iesha to whatever murderer is currently running rampage.
The footsteps reappear and the floorboards outside my room creak with the person's hesitation as their weight shifts unevenly. My eyes remain fixed to the door as if willing them to enter, but they don't. The footsteps recede and I emit a deep exhale, diverting my concentration to the mirror in the corner of my room.
It had been a risky move to not supply Genevieve with her next dose when we ventured to the training gym. She was due one then, but it was too risky to give her another drink then. That's why I proposed tonight so I could ensure she gets one. If a girl ever misses a dose of Bullet, it fucks with their heads more than usual, and repeated irregular doses elicits slight withdrawal/hungover symptoms of a headache, slight dizziness and rolling bouts of nausea.
Beelining to my mirror, I clench my jaw, swallowing down the ire that threatens to escape me. I have to remind myself that I'm doing all this for Genevieve's sake; not mine. I'm not doing it to retaliate against Harris for his fucked-up games with her as a simple pawn, and nor am I doing it because she's destined to be mine.
In another world, she would be mine.
In another world devoid of Red Alert, I would have chased her years ago, and I'd have never let her go. She's mine because she's different that the rest.
My reflection mirrors the confidence I've barricaded myself behind. My hair is styled as per, except the long strands are wavier—natural without any product I sometimes choose to use. The sides and back are still cropped close to my head, but the chaos of my long tendrils doesn't do anything to distract from the striking lightness of my eyes. Just as I know Genevieve likes it, because I've seen her wandering gaze, and I witnessed the effect I had on her when I winked while riding my motorcycle.
It had been somewhat of an impulse purchase. I've been riding motorcycles since I was seventeen because I've owned an array of them. The longest I've ever kept one is about a year, otherwise I sell them. After a boxing match, if I'm ever tender with bruises and possible other injuries, the last thing I want to do is ride a motorcycle, which is why I never hold on to one for long. But now I have a Harley-Davidson, and there's no way I can return this motherfucker.
And if Genevieve likes it? That's just an added bonus.
I glance down at my attire. My skinny sky-blue jeans are ripped to high hell, and my graphic T-shirt I'm donning clings to my biceps and chest. The hem just covers the waistband of my jeans, and I know if I'm to stretch, the waistband of my Calvin Klein boxers is exhibited. Not that I care. I'm encouraging Genevieve's gaze to wander.
As I turn away from my mirror, I sling on a dark green jacket, retrieve a baggie of crushed Bullet to stuff in my pocket, my phone, wallet and motorcycle keys just as the footsteps materialise along the landing and then halt outside my room. I glance down at my motorcycle keys as if to judge whether the motorcycle is the right choice tonight—I believe it is—before chucking it to my left hand, catching it effortlessly. That's when my bedroom door opens, and I snap my head up to meet the gaze of Harris.
