2
LANDON
Despite what anyone thinks, I’m not an unemotional twat. I feel a lot of things.
For example, I honest to God feel like smothering Saint in his sleep. By no means am I thinking of committing murder. I’m above that.
Except for right now. I’m analysing how much time I’d have to do in prison for slitting his throat. I wouldn’t kill him, but I’d do enough harm that he’d never speak again.
“Landon, I knew you were a kinky motherfucker, but as flattering as this is, I’m not a big fan of dicks,” he quips, eyeing my crotch.
The sound of his voice evokes a curtain of pale red.
“You intolerant piece of shit.” I curl my fingers to stop myself from wrapping them around his throat.
Saint gasps, placing his palm on his chest like the dramatic little shit he is. “How dare you talk to me like that? I thought we were best friends.”
Blowing a steady breath to rein in my patience, I add some distance between us and fist my hands at my sides.
“Uh, everything all right?” An awkward smile stretches across Malik’s dark brown face. He stands at the entry of the kitchen, gaze flitting between Saint and me.
Malik Miller is a junior transfer from Baylor University, and begrudgingly, our new roommate.
Before him, TJ Kingston was our roommate and teammate and had been for three years until he got drafted into the NBA this past June. Now, Malik is our new roommate because Coach Warren thought it’d be a good idea for him to live with us.
Personally, I would’ve preferred to stick with just having three other roommates, but Coach was insistent that being around us would help him feel more comfortable. And because he’s going to be a starter, it’d help to get to know one another.
Fuck that.
Saint cheekily grins, giving him an okay sign. “It’s all good.”
“It’s not all good. What were you thinking?” I glare at him, wishing I could slap the grin off his face.
Though I’m positive he’d only smile harder.
Saint Arlo has this thing where he smiles and talks a lot, and it bugs the hell out of me. It’s already enough my best friend, Gabby, is the personification of rainbows, butterflies, and shit. Now I have to put up with a roommate who treats the world like a meet and greet.
“What did you do now, freshman?” Jagger, my best friend, roommate, and teammate strolls into the kitchen, adjusting the tiny silver hoop on the lobe of his right ear.
“I’m a sophomore now. Stop calling me that,” Saint argues.
“Taylor, you got Instagram?” Jayden, our other roommate, strides into the kitchen with his phone close to his face.
Jagger’s head whips in my direction, staring at me, bewildered and betrayed. “You got Instagram and didn’t tell me? What the fuck? I thought you said you’d never get it.”
I blow out a ragged breath. “I didn’t get anything. That little shit”—I point at the smiling idiot next to me—“made it.”
Saint dramatically scoffs. “Little shit? I thought we were past the nicknames. But if you want to give me one, you can call me”—he stares off into the distance until his crystal blue eyes glitter—“The Black Dagger. Now that’s cool as fuck. To think of it, we should all have nicknames.”
“Fuck yeah.” Jayden nods enthusiastically. “I can be Nighthawk.”
“Oooo, I can be The Bolt,” Malik chimes in, curling his bicep to show off the tattoo of a lightning bolt.
“I’ll be Arrow.” With a shit-eating smirk, Jag pretends to hold a bow and arrow, pulls an imaginary string back, and releases the imaginary arrow in the air.
Saint points at me. “And yours can be Deadly Rage.”
Jay nods, as do the others. “That’s a good one, because he’s silent but dead?—”
“You’re all getting off track. What were you thinking?” I shoot him a glare. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t make one because I didn’t want one?”
I’m not invested in the lives of the people I interact with in real life. So I definitely don’t give two shits about the lives of those on social media.
“I was thinking that the storage on my phone is getting full because I have to screenshot and screen record every meme to send it to you.” He takes his phone out from his pocket, glides his finger on the screen, and shows me just a few pictures and videos he has sent me.
“You’re telling me, you made me an Instagram account so you could send me memes?” I grind my teeth. “Fucking memes, Arlo?”
He chuckles, half shrugging. “They’re funny memes and my storage was getting full.”
My gaze darts to the very real Rolex strapped around his wrist. “Getting full? You have more than enough money to get more bloody storage.”
“But it’s better to directly DM you.”
“What’s his username?” Jagger holds his phone close to his face, pressing his lips together, probably to stop himself from smiling, laughing, or both.
“I followed you all…” Saint trails off, not meeting my gaze, nor does anyone else. They’re all glued to their phones, grinning and suppressing their cackles.
“Nice thirst trap. Considered me trapped.” Jagger winks at me.
“Damn, Taylor,” Jay whistles, flashing me a wicked grin. “You look good and the comments seem to agree. You got the girls going feral.”
“Fuck you,” I clip.
Remembering some girl left a comment saying she’d drink my bath water and another would lick the sweat off of me.
I’m all for licking, but drinking bath water is where I draw the line.
“No, you really look good.” Malik empathetically smiles at me. “It looks like you didn’t know you were looking at the camera. You look natural.”
“That’s because I didn’t know he was taking my photo.” My jaw aches from how hard I’m grinding my teeth. “I swear to God, Saint, you and your childish bullshit. I’m sick and tired of it.”
Out of the thousands of pictures he could have used, he posted one of me after a game. I’m sitting on the swivel chair in front of my locker, shirtless, drinking water, and extremely sweaty.
“But you love me and my childish bullshit.” He whines playfully. “It’s what makes us such great friends. I bring life to your life.”
“When did you make the account?” Jag questions, his eyes still on his screen.
“About thirty minutes ago,” he supplies.
“Thirty minutes ago?” Malik gapes, shock laced in his voice. “Bro, you already have four thousand followers and you’re still getting more.”
“I don’t care. Delete the account.”
“Oh, come on. You don’t have to follow anyone back. I only followed about fifteen people,” Saint pleads, holding his phone, showing me the account he made for me.
Something’s off, but I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is. There’s a strain in Saint’s eyes and his shoulders are taut with tension. Even his smile is a little too…forced.
He wouldn’t have gone out of his way to create this account if he didn’t have a reason. It’s cynical, but I don’t believe anyone ever does anything out of the goodness of their heart.
I find it hard to believe Saint only did it to send me memes. Something changed but what?
Wait a minute…of course it all makes sense.
I huff a dry laugh. “Mate, desperate much?”
“What are you talking about?” Jayden asks, confused.
“ Stai zitto ,” Saint warns, tucking his phone in his pocket, and goes to walk away, but I grab the back of his neck and hold a firm grip on it. He winces, but doesn’t pull away.
“Daisy really cut you off, huh?” I quietly ask so that only he can hear me.
The smile on his face slips, and for the first time, he’s not quick to plaster it.
He shakes his head, brows furrowing. “This isn’t about her. It’s about sending you funny memes.”
It’s pointless, because I know I’m right, but I test my theory anyway. “Then I guess you won’t mind if I unfollow her?”
She’s one of the fifteen Saint followed.
“Why?” he answers all too rapidly. “I mean, do what you want, but I thought she was your friend?”
“ Dimmi la verità e lo terrò .”
I could be an arsehole and expose him in front of everyone, but I don’t.
He sighs in resignation. “ Mi ha bloccato. ”
“Can you guys stop doing that? I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Jay grunts.
“I tried to teach you, but you gave up. It’s not my problem.” I shrug, dropping my palm from his neck. “Learn it or mind your business.”
I don’t bother to hear his response and motion for Saint to follow me. I trust Jagger and somewhat trust Jay, but I don’t trust Malik. He came from Baylor, but that’s not the problem.
My issue with that university is the piece of shit who goes there. Ashton Taylor, and I mean this with all disdain, my stepbrother.
I’ve known Malik for a few weeks now, but I don’t know him well enough to know where he stands. He mentioned once he didn’t like Ashton, and it seemed genuine, but still, I’m keeping my guard up.
Saint follows me up the stairs and toward his bedroom.
Mine is strictly off-limits to anyone, even Jagger.
It’s the only thing that isn’t tainted by the outside world. The only place I can think when I feel like my thoughts are drowning me. The only place I can breathe and be peacefully alone.
I’ve only ever had two people in my room and not by choice. TJ thinks I don’t know, but I found Phoenix’s—his son—tiny scribbles on my wall. And then there was Hollywood.
Stepping into his bedroom, I lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Talk,” I say as he shuts the door.
He takes the seat next to his desk and picks up the dagger lying on his desk, weaving the handle between his fingers.
“There’s not much to say. She blocked me everywhere.” He smiles despite the vacant look in his eyes, but blinks as if he caught himself zoning out and his face brightens. “I know you’re probably wondering?—”
“I’m not, but I know you’re a creep who stalks her.”
He did a lot last year. He was pining after Daisy, but then stopped. I’m not sure what happened, but I don’t care enough to know.
He sets the dagger down and picks up a book, I’ve seen him read quite a few times. “I wouldn’t say a creep . I’m just…looking out for her.”
People and their need to lie. I see right through his bullshit, but don’t entertain it.
I could ask him why he didn’t just make a fake account and stalk her from that one, but there’s something in his gaze that stops me.
“Don’t pretend to be me.” As soon as those words leave my mouth, he perks up and his posture relaxes. “You can like the photos, but don’t comment or message her, because she’ll know it’s not me.”
Daisy and I got acquainted through our friends. She’s best friends with Lola, who has a son with and is dating TJ, my friend.
I almost considered getting to know Daisy, after I helped her with an assignment last year. I like that she speaks her mind and means it, and she’s confident in everything she does. If it wasn’t because we’re the complete opposite and Saint is obsessed with her, I might have tried to be more than an acquaintance.
What can I say? I like a confident girl with wit and she’s hot.
“I knew behind that hard exterior you were a softie.” He beams.
I deadpan, pushing away from the wall, and amble to the door. “Do something like that again and I’ll smother you in your sleep.”
“Super kinky, I’m into it,” he jokes, then raises his hands in surrender. “I won’t do something again without your permission. But I really wasn’t kidding about the memes. Stop being a stronzo, and get on it from time to time.”
Rolling my eyes, I slip out of his room and step into mine. Heading straight to my bed and lying on my back.
Saint is childish and stupid at times, but he’s kind of grown on me. Which is why I didn’t punch the shit out of him.
I debate whether I should delete the app or not from my phone. I couldn’t believe he created the account when he texted me the password and username until I downloaded the app and got in.
Pulling my phone out my pocket, I get on the app and instantly get bombarded with notifications. I don’t bother with them and click on my profile in the bottom right corner. I cringe at the stupid picture Saint uploaded, but I don’t ruminate on it because I delete it.
Then I click on the following to see who he followed again. Like he said, there’s only fifteen. They’re either people I’m close to or acquainted with.
Exiting out of that, I finally tap on the notifications. They don’t stop coming in, and I don’t pause to check who’s followed me. I just scroll for a few more seconds before I get bored and stop. But as I’m about to exit out of the app altogether, I hesitate when I see a name pop up.
@julianna.sparks, who you might know, is on Instagram.
I don’t know what I’m doing or why I do it, but I click on her profile. Everything looks exactly how I pictured it’d look like. Generic blonde hair, smile, and aesthetic. Nothing worth looking through.
Shutting off my phone, I lay it next to me and stare up at my ceiling.
I don’t like people in general, but my hatred is reserved for a few. My father, his family, and the Sparks girl.
There would’ve never been an issue, but freshman year, she hit my car. When I stepped out to make sure she was okay, she was only concerned about her Range Rover. Then had the audacity to pin the blame on me as if her shitty driving skills were my fault. The cherry on top was how she regarded my car with a belittling look.
I wish I could say that was the only time I had an encounter with her, but it wasn’t. Now, I’ll unfortunately be seeing her more because she’s living with Polly and Gabby.
It sucks that she has a shitty attitude. I wouldn’t shoot my shot even if she didn’t have one, but she has nice tits. It’s hard to ignore them when they’re there, and they’re hard to forget.
Not that I’d be able to forget anything. I have hyperthymesia. Many people say it’s a blessing, but truly, it’s a fucking curse.