Chapter 7 – Thomas
Chapter Seven
Thomas
Clover. Clover. Clover. My pen swirls on my page in the margins as I sketch a four leaf clover all over my notebook. Partying late doesn’t mean I get to sleep in, especially when I’ve got coursework. It’s boring but… it’s routine. Habit. Ritual. Without discipline, we lose ourselves.
But seriously, fuck coursework. It’s boring compared to dreaming of her and imagining all the places I could put my cock in her.
I need to stop thinking about her. I’ve never cared much for academics but dad insists that all of us bring home As and Bs if we expect a seat at the table.
Literally. My brother James got a C+ in art during secondary and dad made him sit in the living room for dinner until he mustered a B+.
Unfortunately, I still need to see dad. Mum won’t let me tell him to fuck himself with a broomstick.
But she won’t be able to stop me from telling him forever.
Kit’s still sleeping, giving zero fucks about coursework.
Unlike me, he spent the entire night drinking.
I got high on something else. Her scent. She’s so bloody captivating.
I answer my final question when my phone buzzes. A text from Sylvia? I suppose she’s talking to me now…
Sylvia: SOS
Thomas: We’re talking now?
Sylvia: I’m serious
Great. Now I look like a prick.
Thomas: What happened?
Sylvia: Gym lobby before dance practice. We’ll talk.
Thomas: Cheers.
I dunno what Sylvia needs help with, but considering she thinks I’m a huge twat (she’s wrong) I’d better help her so I don’t confirm her beliefs that I’m inherently and incurably wicked.
If this is about their stupid dance studio, hopefully she gets over it soon.
We need a place to practice before we get out on the water and trust me, no one is in a greater hurry to get into a boat than I am.
I miss the water.
Kit groans and shouts out loud. “Fuck, you have a great cunt.”
“Wake up, wanker,” I grumble, grabbing one of my size 17 shoes and flinging it at Kit’s head.
It’s time he wake up anyway instead of rambling sexual comments in his sleep.
His sleepy missives make answering history questions incredibly annoying.
He groans as the shoe hits his head and pulls the blankets up higher. Fucking hell, Kit.
“Wake up!”
I fling my other shoe at his head and Kit groans.
“Wanker!” he whines. “Why are you throwing bloody shoes at my head?”
His blond hair is a shaggy fucking mess. I swear he cuts it with kitchen scissors.
“‘Cause you’re a twat.”
“You’re a twat,” Kit grumbles, even if he’s been the one muttering in his sleep for the past hour and a half.
“Stop sleep talking.”
“I was asleep, Thomas. I can’t control it.”
Whiny fuck.
“Get up. Let’s go for a run.”
“A run? At this hour?” Kit groans. How is he so fit and so fucking lazy?
“Yes, you twat. You promised me last night.”
“How drunk was I?”
“Pissed.”
Kit rolls his legs out of bed, his blond hair a shaggy fucking mess. I’ve already showered and brushed my hair. I’m clean, together, caffeinated. Kit’s a bloody mess.
“You smell like raw arse.”
“I know. Hand me my flask.”
“You’re going to drink before we go for a run?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Kit groans. “I’m also going to smoke some spliff. There’s one in my pocket.”
“Can we start running before you indulge in drinking and drugs?”
Kit groans and rubs his eyes. They’re infuriatingly blue like most of the Barclay family’s.
“After I’ve had my pills.”
Fuck’s sake, there’s no reasoning with Kit. He slides a pink pill under his tongue and washes it down with the Barclay rum in his flask. He somehow got Crispin to pay him a case of rum a month to keep him at bay. Little fuck. Kit jumps out of bed.
“Are you fucking naked you wanker?”
“Yeah? What’s the problem? Don’t you have one too?”
He bends at the waist to stretch, giving me a full view of his arsehole.
“KIT! I’m going to kill you.”
Why the fuck does he do this?
“Sorry,” Kit yawns. “Searching for my shorts.”
By the time he dresses, I want to slaughter him, but he’s my best friend and he’s great to workout with. For a piece of shit who drinks and smokes constantly, he’s fast and he’s a tough runner, probably from working out and wrestling with Crispin.
We hit the trails behind our dorms, letting the crisp morning hair hit our cheeks. Kit has his spliff in one hand and he puffs every few breaths, but he’s keeping up with my fast pace.
“We swim at the boathouse?”
“You cock. It’s 45 degrees this morning.”
“Roasting,” Kit replies with a grin. “We’ll need to cool off.”
“I’m not letting you see me naked you hairy-arsed fuck.”
Kit laughs and pulls ahead of me… that fucker. I push harder to keep up with him and by the time we’re done with our two mile run, we’re both dripping in sweat and I’m dying to jump into the river near the boathouse.
It’s just far enough from school that security isn't likely to stumble upon us breaking the school rules by swimming.
Kit stops to catch his breath, but I keep running and leap off the dock, soaring through the air until my body hits the frigid water.
My heart stops for an aching second before beating in overdrive.
Fuck, it’s cold. I let the feeling numb me and nearly reach the bottom of the river before I push up towards the sun and shake my head like a lion once I breach.
Kit’s nowhere and then… his shaggy blond head pushes up beside me and he cackles like a maniac.
“Fuck, it’s cold!”
He swims toward the dock quickly, but I tread water in the frigid water for a while longer until my body warms before I swim back to the dock. Kit lies there in what passes for sun in England, gasping as he dries off.
“Why did you convince me to do that?” he groans. “Horrible idea.”
No point arguing with him. I lie on the dock next to him, but I can’t stand lying there for longer than a few moments. I’m bloody starving.
“I’m starving. Let’s go,” I mutter. Kit doesn’t protest. We jog back to the dorm together, Kit finally wide awake enough to give me an excruciatingly detailed account of his second ever encounter with a woman. At least he’s off Clover for the moment.
“Are you banging Amina’s sister?” Kit asks once we return to the dorm and he opens our bedroom door.
“What are you on about?”
“Sylvia.”
“Can’t a boy and a girl just be friends?”
“No.”
“Well, I disagree.”
“That’s why you’ve been here five days and haven’t shagged anyone.”
“Now you’re the expert?”
“Yes, didn’t I tell you what I did to her arse?”
I haven’t had nearly enough coffee to put up with Kit this morning.
Our school uniforms are rubbish, but if I roll my sleeves up, I don’t have to cover the tattoos on my forearm.
Unfortunately, I have to hear about this girl’s arse all the way to breakfast, but at least we have the rest of the crew team here.
I don’t see Clover, Sylvia or any of her other friends, but I quickly forget about socializing at all.
Breakfast. It’s not as good as mum’s chef’s…
but it’s everything. Three glasses of chocolate milk.
Four apples. Six scrambled eggs. Four slices of toast. Fifteen strips of bacon.
Two scones with clotted cream. A plate of fried potatoes. Orange juice. I can’t bloody wait.
Kit pulls the chair out for me next to him and then sits down. Jude has his headphones in, sitting with the team but ignoring the rest of us. It’s his fault he had to repeat a year and join a different sports team. Something about blowjobs. Hope it was worth it.
“Please describe any muff you had this weekend,” Kit demands through a mouthful of eggs. “I want to hear it.”
Fuck’s sake, this…
I tune out, because I honestly don’t care, and because there’s a distraction walking into the dining hall. A very welcome distraction.
* * *