Wattpad (A Novel: Parody)

(6) Bad boy flatters good girl with his poetry

CHAPTER SIX - BAD BOY FLATTERS GOOD GIRL WITH HIS POETRY.

"Holes," rasps Wheeze Carter to a silent, awed crowd. "I liked big holes, and I could not lie. Until a Seagull made me fly. Through the wind and the rain and the sky. And her meatbox. Holes."

A beat. And then the audience goes wild, stamping their feet as they cheer. A really butch guy is crying.

"Man," Labron mutters, "We're into the deciding heat of the slam poetry round, and I've never been so nervous in my life. So far, Ryder has touched my heart with his musings on the Russian economy, the blue sweater his mum bought him just before she died in a mysterious stable fire, and British things he misses from home (Eastenders. And scones). But Wheeze Carter just blew him right out of the water with that beautiful ode to his very average wife, and Ryder's really got to pull this one out of the bag.

He waits for the crowd to fall quiet again, and then takes the center of the cage. In the dark basement, the milky spotlight casts him in a silver shadow. He clears his throat and takes a delicate sip of water from a bottle. Even when he's unsure and vulnerable, he's still handsome. Maybe even more handsome. I find myself feeling grateful that he's a guy and I'm a girl; if a guy says he likes vulnerable women, it makes him sound creepy and unhinged.

"This is a new one," Ryder says. "I'm just kinda making it up as I go. So you may have to bear with me on a few points."

"that was deep."

All around, people offer understanding nods. A few pull out cigarette lighters and begin to wave them in the air.

"It's called Gosling." Ryder zeroes in on me with his grinning green eyes, and my heart flutters. Poetry sounds super authentic in an English accent. "Forty billion, sixteen million, two hundred and twenty five thousand pounds. And fifty pence. That's how much money I have in the bank. Not approximately, but accurately, to when I got Labron to check. Check on my cheques." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "I have another account, and if I take time to count, it will take no time at all because there's only one fox in that box. When I need a wank, I go to the spank bank, and I'm not c0ckblocked by a flock because I just want to rock with one gosling." He finishes with a smooth little bow.

The crowd goes insane, lighters still aloft. Fat Boy strides into the cage between Hunter and Wheeze.

"All right, all right already!" he calls. "I think the winner here is obvious."

Thick silence descends. I'd say that you could hear a pin drop, but we all know that it makes no fucking sense.

Then Fat Boy yanks Ryder's muscled arm into the air, and Labron and I jump from our barstools to cheer and whoop with the audience. I want to throw myself around while shouting, I'm Gosling! It's meeeee! but I'm too afraid of falling out of my top.
Back in the limo, Labron and I await Ryder, bopping around to a Beyonce CD to while away the minutes.

"What's he doing in there?" I complain, playing with Wattpad on the tablet.

"Collecting his winnings, chatting to fans. Brushing off skank. That kind of thing."

"Oh. Right." I concentrate on deleting posts on the Story promoting group forums. I don't know why I'm doing this, killing off these major threads that people have spent so long following; maybe it's just because I can. "He's going to shower, right?" I love a sweaty, blood-stained guy as much as the next randy virgin, but at the same time I don't. Yeah, I'm very conflicting that way.

Five minutes later, Ryder yanks open the limo door and slides in next to me. He's still shirtless, still shimmering with sweat, and a purple bruise blossoms along his collarbone which somewhat detracts from the shredded entrails in his hair.