How to Destroy a Rich Boy

Chapter Four

He didn't even flinch at my insult; it seeming to barely bother him in the slightest. Letting out a breath of a chuckle, his lips quirked up at the corners. 

"Wow, you even know my name. I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, but it appears to me you have quite literally thrown yourself at me," he quipped; musical laughter to his tone.

 Not having a smart response for that, I helplessly pressed my lips together tightly as more irritation bubbled up inside me. 

Nathan seemed to take my silence as an indicator to carry on sprouting more bullshit, and that annoying little smile of his grew as he leaned forward just that little bit more. "

And I think you and I both know that I don't struggle with getting laid. I can get any girl who's into guys. Even you," he whispered. 

Then with the tilt of his head, his eyes loosely worked themselves from my face down to my torso as though he was doing a quick analysis of me. It made me feel a little self-conscious, considering I was dressed in my inappropriate uniform. Before I could dwell on it for too long, his eyes quickly returned to mine with a smirk. 

"Not that I'm interested in blondes, of course," he added quickly, his eyes narrowing tauntingly.

 Despite my insistence that I didn't care what he thought, his comment hit me like a sharp stab. I held my face steady like his comment hadn't bothered me at all. Briefly, letting my eyes brush judgementally over his face, I let out a lazy snort. 

"Oh, is this the game where we confuse dreams for reality? Didn't realize we were playing?" I snickered.

Still loosely smiling for some reason, he slowly shook his head, almost pityingly. 

"Those are awfully big words for a girl who's still happily sat in my lap, aren't they?" he questioned, his eyes sparkling wickedly. 

His words immediately raised my alarm, and I sprung my head downwards, horrified to find his words were indeed true. I was still sat rather comfortably on his thighs, with my legs tucked on either side of his torso. Or, in other words, I was literally straddling him by the side of the club floor. 

I could feel his eyes on my face, likely taking satisfaction from my humiliation.

Riled up with shame, I ripped myself off of his lap and scrambled to my feet before shifting my angry gaze downwards to where he still sat. I practically had to siphon energy from the gods of self-control themselves to not jab a sharp kick to his ribs while he was still down.

At a leisurely pace, he followed me up to a standing position. As he did, he glanced down at his clothes in disdain before starting to rapidly beat away imaginary dust. 

He shot me a brief disgusted glance. "Now, look what you've done. You've gotten my Louis Vuitton jacket all dusty," he accused as he continued to angrily pat the non-existent dirt from his jacket. 

I couldn't resist a laugh, which I poorly covered up with a cough. "Sorry? Your Louis Vui-fucking what now? You're literally wearing a normal bomber jacket," I snickered as I eyed him and his jacket up and down in confusion.

 I didn't understand rich people at all; they paid millions of dollars to parade around in designer clothes that look exactly the same as the ones at a dollar store.

He rolled his eyes skyward. "Of course, you don't understand fashion. You are dressed like a cheap hooker, after all," he jeered as he made a flippant hand gesture from my chest to my thighs.

Something in me snapped, and I stepped forward and shoved him roughly back by his shoulders. He stumbled back a few steps but once he regained his balance, he laughed.