15. Maxwell
Maxwell
My head hits the bathroom wall, a groan slipping from my lips as the brunette on her knees in front of me takes me whole cock. She takes it slow, her tongue licking up underneath, following the vein and it makes chills run through my body.
It’s not enough though. Too sensual and laid back.
“Faster or I’ll fuck your face,” I growl.
She moves her head fast, hollowing out her cheeks. I grab the side of her head, controlling her pace more. She chokes on my cock, taking it as deep as I can go, and my balls tighten.
“Swallow,” I groan as I spill into her mouth. I feel her swallow around me, causing my cock to twitch in her mouth. She pulls back, a string of saliva still connected from the top to her mouth. Pushing her back, I step away and tuck myself back into my jeans.
“Thanks, Harriet,” I mutter.
“My name is Harper,” she corrects.
“Whatever,” I say before leaving the room back to the party I stepped out of. Mav and Dax are standing by the door, waiting with a closed beer can for me.
“You done using girls yet?” Dax ponders.
“No.”
I pull a pocket-knife from my pants, shoving it into the bottom of the can before shot-gunning the beer. The liquid slides down my throat quickly.
It’s been a week since I betrayed Clayton.
The first few days were filled with me blowing up Clayton’s phone, all for the messages and calls to be ignored.
I’m surprised he hasn’t blocked my number.
The rest of the days consisted of calling out of work, skipping Anatomy, and drinking so much that I'm surprised my liver isn't screaming.
A matter of time before someone calls me to the new dean’s office and gives me shit for it. The only downfall this time is I don’t have a cushion to fall on. Randall Levine isn’t here to save my ass. I don’t really care.
Mav and Dax have been putting up with my shit.
Despite it only being a week, it feels like it’s been an entire lifetime.
Mom calls and texts to check up on me, but I can’t be bothered to answer the phone.
The only reason I even socialize with Mav and Dax right now is because I’m too lazy to go out and buy my own weed.
Speaking of, I pull out my cigarette pack from my pocket.
The box is crushed and dinged to shit. Opening it, I slide the pre-rolled joint out and spark it up right here in the dining hall.
The lights in the room are cascading shadows of blues, pinks, and reds from the usual colored-disco ball hanging from the ceiling.
I hear my friends talking behind me, saying that they should do something about this, but what could they do? The only thing that might stop me from sending myself to an early grave is to give me a time machine.
God, how I wish I had one.
All that goes through my head is what Clayton said to me at the amusement park.
You wanted to hurt me, Maxwell? Well, good fucking job! I hope you're happy!
I’m not happy. Not in the slightest.
“I need air.” I tell my friends before walking across the room to the door. On the way, girls try to grab my arm, pulling me to dance, but I yank away and keep going outside.
The school yard is empty. The sun long passed under the horizon. I haven’t gone outside during a sunset in days because all I see is Clayton sitting before a setting star. He’s everywhere and nowhere.
I plop my ass on the ground, puffing on the joint. With my free hand, I maneuver the pack back out of my pocket and grab a cigarette. A joint in one hand, a cancer-stick in the other.
There’s a door that shuts off in the distance and a few minutes go by before someone is walking in this direction. I’d recognize that figure from anywhere though. The light hair, even in the dark of the night. The tall and broadness of the man walking over.
Clayton.
When he gets closer, he turns and sees me. I don’t speak, afraid that if I do it might send him running.
“What are you doing?” His voice is calm. No emotion. No sadness, no anger, no happiness. Blank.
Just like I feel.
“Smoking.”
“A cigarette and a joint? At the same time?”
“Yup,” I say, popping the P.
“You’re gonna kill your lungs if you keep that up.”
“Like you care.”
“Don’t do that,” he says. He comes in front of me, crouching down. Elbows propped on his knees, hands hanging between his legs.
He looks fine.
Better than fine.
“You look like shit,” he observes. I laugh, but it’s humorless.
The dining hall door opens. “Hi, Maverick,” Clayton says. Looking up at Maverick, I watch as he motions his head to the side, silently telling Clayton to come here. Ignoring whatever they’re gonna say, I take a drag of my joint and cigarette at the same time.
“That’s not my responsibility,” I hear Clayton say.
Maverick is better than that to not be heard. It’s a mostly one sided conversation I’m listening to.
“I didn’t do this. He did this to himself.”
“I don’t trust him. That’s not my fault.”
They go back and forth for several more minutes, but after hearing enough, I blocked them out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Clayton walk away without sparing a second glance my way.
Mav comes over to me, sitting on the ground beside me and pulls the cigarette from my fingers before putting it out on the ground and shoving the butt into his pocket.
“Hey! I was smoking that.”
“You need to pull your head out of your ass,” he says, voice stern.
“I’m good. Nice and cozy up here.”
“God, for your sake, I hope you never get your heartbroken again. You’re life isn’t fucking over, Max. Get off your ass and win him back if that’s what you want. He came over here, so, he clearly cares about you.”
“He doesn’t want to talk.”
“You did everything right to make him fall for you. Do it again.”
“Do it again,” I mock in a sarcastic tone.
“Oh, fuck you. You have had nothing but an attitude for the last week. Skipping class, skipping work. Enough, alright? Someone is gonna catch you breaking all these rules and get you into some serious trouble. Daddy Levine isn’t here to help you, so fucking get up,” he says, standing and staring down at me.
I don’t move.
“Up.”
“No.”
“Get the fuck up, you toddler.”
To piss him off further, I lay down in the grass.
“No,” he growls, bending down and gripping onto my shirt and heaving me up off the ground. I try to fight his hands off of me, but he doesn’t let up. I'm too high and drunk to put up any of a fight, he knows that. He knows that I know that he knows.
“If you don’t stop fighting, I’m going to really fight you. Maybe it’ll knock some sense back into ya,” he grinds out.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
He pushes me.
I do nothing.
He pushes again.
I push back, finally. The intoxication clearing quickly.
We go back and forth shoving one another until I’ve had enough and he’s thoroughly pissed me the fuck off.
I punch my best friend in the face.
“Good!” He yells. “Hit me. Let it all out, babyboy. Come on,” he taunts me, cupping his hands in a come here motion.
I shove at him, my fist flying at his face again. He lets me, not hitting me back once. It’s therapeutic and reviving.
Shoving him hard, he trips and stumbles to the ground. Straddling him, I hit his face repeatedly until I felt someone at my back pulling me off of him.
“Enough!” Dax’s voice booms. I wrestle against his hold, but if there is one thing, it’s that Dax is bigger than both Mav and I.
He’s stronger, bulkier. He’s a damn tree trunk.
I settle, no longer pushing against his hold.
Looking down at my hands, bleeding and cracking open.
A mix of my own blood and Mav’s. Mav rises to his feet, stumbling, with thick crimson pouring from his mouth and nose. A smirk forms along his face.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him.
“I’m not. That alone makes you look ten pounds lighter.”
“I do feel better,” I admit.
“Good.” He looks at Dax over my shoulder.
“What the fuck?” Dax mutters.
“He’s had this pent up rage and emotion. He needed to get it out. I let him.”
“He did start it. He taunted me,” I explained.
“He’s right,” Mav says. The two of us ping-ponging back and forth to explain the situation at hand.
Dax shakes his head at us like a disappointed dad. I know that look far too well.
“Win him back, Max," is all that Mav says.