𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐲'𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞

02 | 𝐻𝑜𝑙𝑦 𝐶𝑜𝑤 𝐵𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠

"Ow. Ow. Ow." In the same monotonous tone-- "Ow."

"Will you shut-it?" A raspy voice asked seamlessly out of nowhere. 

I popped my head up towards the figure, unfurling my eyes to the glaring rays of morning sunlight. I assumed this strange entity was in my bedroom, but until my vision adjusted, I noticed this room was most definitely not mine. My bedroom is a combination of pink and light gray, it's been that way since I was six and my mom and I never really got around to changing it. This room, however, is the color of what I'd imagine the Titanic to look like if it was a bedroom theme. There's hospital white framework and navy blue pools of color between. Though right smack in the middle was him. 

I felt like I was suffocating on confusion and delirium. This had to be a dream.

The warmth and heaviness of the covers compiled on my stomach felt more burdensome as I raised my body to see none other than Victor Vislocky. He walked to his desk and collapsed onto the office chair, scribbling relentlessly on a piece of paper.

Shit.

He beckoned with minimal interest towards the hickory nightstand to my right-hand-side. "Advil and a glass of water," he advised, returning to the desk and allowing his black hair to fall into his eyes in one fluid motion. It looked effortlessly natural but a painful reminder that something just wasn't right.

Let me introduce Victor Vislocky... notoriously known for starting and finishing fights, hooking up with any girl availably wanting him (which was usually everyone) and in that moment, particular, I hadn't spoken to him prior nor did I really understand his smirk. Also known as Kayla's ultimate crush. She swooned over his black, messy, bed-ridden hair and lean muscular torso, typically clad in a black tank. 

As I stare, unconventionally thinking of his nonchalant flexing biceps curved onto the table as he intensely wrote, looking like he was sculpted and cut by Greek Goddesses themselves, I remember that he isn't all my type after all. I'm more for the dreamy, "just walked out of Heaven" rather than the "I own hell" but could still appreciate a good looking guy when I see one.

"Holy shit," I gasped, my eyes enlarged. I'd hoped that if I rubbed at the bleariness any harder it would fade into some weird, lucid dream. How I would wake up again, only to realize I'd been in the comfort of my bedroom all along, but I was greatly mistaken.

"Yep... let it sink in," he teased.

From the angle at which I was seated at on his bed, I noticed an uprising grin on his mouth before fading. His Italian, sun-kissed muscles were tauntly gifting my eyes in his all-but-concealing black tank as he rolled his office chair closer to the desk. My undying love was prioritized on Sullivan Corbett, but Victor was attractive; I had to give him that.

Things started coming back to me. He was the guy mounted onto the balcony while I trekked through Sullivan's hallway, but the memory vanished into his understanding, habitually leaving my brain, leaving me with the fragments to decipher what should've been a drunk-free night. My mind was still attempting to plug in the huge gap of information. I went from the golden boy's balcony to the bad boy's bed.

How the fuck did that happen?

I knew I shouldn't have been an idiot to ask such a thing, but the truth was, with my terrible remembrance of last night combined with his reputation and my lack of action, I questioned the most cliche thing of all, and felt ashamed for even saying it. "Did we...? Did I...? You know?"

"Fuck, Girl," he moaned, tossing his head back. "You were freaky last night, I didn't even think I could keep up." The horror intensified in my vision before he gave me the reprimanding look that told me I was oblivious. "You are... in better words, stupid."