High and Hopeless (Worthless Boys #2)

Prologue

Teddy

My fingers move of their own accord, breaking apart the sticky green buds.

I look closely at the tiny little leaves crumbling onto the tray.

So beautiful. The earthy smell, that only weed has, fills my nostrils.

My favorite. I reach up to push my curls from my forehead, before remembering there’s still trichomes on my fingertips—the little crystals that get you higher than high.

“You done yet? What’s taking so long?” Asher says from his bed. His voice sounds whiny, and it grates on my good mood.

“Nearly. Just taking a moment to appreciate the buds,” I say.

“What’s there to appreciate? I remember my first-time smoking weed,” he jokes, mockingly. That’s Asher’s problem. He’s fucking hot as hell, but he’s such a dick.

“You should always take pleasure in the small things, Ash. All weed could disappear from the planet tomorrow, then you’d wish you didn’t take it for granted,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.

I don’t want to start an unnecessary argument with him.

We’ve only been dating a couple months and it seems the honeymoon phase is already over. It ended a long time ago apparently.

We’re on two totally different wavelengths, but I stick around anyway.

He keeps my mind off him . I shake my head self-deprecatingly and pinch the broken-up weed into a joint paper—taking extra care in making it even.

Once I’m satisfied, I fold the paper over and start compacting it by rolling the paper under my thumbs.

I tuck the paper behind the weed and lick the gummy adhesive, sealing the joint in one fluid motion.

Lifting it up, I take a moment to admire my handiwork.

He always lets me roll for him— even though he rolls just as well, he lets me because he knows it’s my favorite part.

Quit fucking thinking about him. You’re sitting in front of your boyfriend for fuck’s sake.

“Finally,” he groans, as if it’s been hours.

In reality, it’s probably been no longer than five minutes.

I let out an annoyed sigh. I reach into my pocket and grab my lucky lighter.

It’s pink and has my zodiac sign on it—Pisces.

I still remember what he said when he gave it to me on my birthday.

“ You like that colorful shit.” The small gift brings a smile to my face every time I see it.

I do like colorful shit. My briefs are neon yellow with ice-cream cones on them, and I’m wearing a turquoise tie-dye tank top.

I bring the joint to my mouth and light the tip, then take one long drag.

Then another. And walk it over to Asher.

Puff, puff, pass. I smoke a lot of weed, probably more than any of my friends.

My paycheck from the shitty little corner store I work at mainly goes toward buying it.

I can’t really think of anything else I’d rather spend the money on; I don’t care much for material things.

I buy new clothes when I spot something that stands out and that’s about it.

It dawns on me that I should be saving money for the day my mom inevitably kicks me out.

She’s a loose cannon. A fucking psycho, if you will.

I avoid going home as much as humanly possible, rotating between crashing at Asher’s place, sometimes Ant’s, and rarely Ben and Damon’s.

They’re so in love it makes me fucking sick sometimes.

Not because they shouldn’t be together. No—they’re perfect.

But because they have everything I’ve always longed for. Something I’ll never have.

Ash grabs my chin, turning my face to his. His touch feels foreign and cold. He hits the joint for probably the fifth time, because he has no respect, and brings his lips to mine. I part them slightly and inhale the smoke he blows into my mouth.

He deepens the kiss, and I let him take the lead. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth clumsily, our teeth clanking together, and the only thought in my head is— Is he just letting the joint burn? What a waste.

He trails his hand down my spine, his fingers diving straight into my jeans. They brush against my hole, and I stiffen, jolting up-right.

“Not yet, Ash,” I groan.

“You’ve been saying that since we got together. What the fuck’s your problem?” he responds, his brows drawn in a hard line.

“I’m just not ready yet. I told you it may take some time,” I try to pacify, keeping my voice soft. He seems more annoyed by it than usual, though.

“You’ll never be ready, you’re just a prude. You’re still a virgin at nineteen.”

My face heats in embarrassment. I turn so he can’t see the red flush spreading across my skin. He’s not even lying, that’s the worst part. “Will you just quit already? I don’t want to do it, end of story. I’ll give you a blowjob.”

“You do have the softest lips I’ve ever fucking felt.

Bring ‘em here, baby.” The endearment sends a chill through my spine.

I fucking hate when he calls me that. But I shouldn’t.

I should love it; I should want it. He’s my boyfriend, after all.

I convince myself again that I’ll fall for him eventually.

To give our relationship some time. There has to be someone who can make me get over him .

I meet his crystal blue eyes and press a kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry. Soon, I promise,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, my bad for getting frustrated. It’s just been so long since I fucked. And it makes me feel like you don’t want me.”

“I do.” I don’t.

I pull his sweatpants down and find him commando. The sight of his long hard dick doesn’t do much for me. It doesn’t overwhelm me with lust. I may not have had sex, but I know how it feels to fucking need it. I don’t feel that way with him, and it infuriates me.

I bring my lips to the head of his cock and give it my all—sucking him in slowly and pumping my fist at the base. I lick up and down his shaft and do all the things I’m supposed to do.

But the entire time, it’s not his face that I see in my head. It’s not his voice that I hear groaning my name.

In my head, I see him. My very straight best friend. The one I will never have. Liam.