Ash is a fashion model, not by choice but the desire of his projecting mother. People think he's too cocky for his own good, judging him based on what he posts online. But Ash hates the brush he's been painted with, along with the stereotypes of the...
handjob: (noun) 1. an act of male masturbation, especially as performed on a man by someone else.
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Since Bodi drove me home on Monday, the week has been mostly tame. He seems in a better mood this week, we exchange a few words when needed and we get out on time. We might not be friends but it doesn't feel as awkward as it did before.
Slow progress is better than none.
We'll probably never get together again but that doesn't mean we can't try and be friends. We still have eighty or so hours left in this manor with each other, so if we're civil it will make this experience a lot easier.
At least in my mind I feel like it will be.
It rolls around to Friday again and my hand is slowly on the mend, Bodi's care and bandage helped it heal pretty quick. Now the cut is pretty much a scab but I'm trying my hardest not to split it open again.
So I've been tidying up the soft and light pieces whilst Bodi shifts the furniture and boxes full of crap. He's been outside for the last ten minutes on the phone, I watched as he cursed at the name on his screen and then accepted the call. Running outside to take it.
I sweep wallpaper into a black bag and take it to the front of the house, my ears pricking at the sound of Bodi's conversation. I know that I shouldn't stop and listen but I couldn't help it, the tone of his voice draws me in. He's angry, beyond angry.
"Why would you do that?!"
He begins to pace, I can hear his footsteps. I purse my lips and shake my head, I shouldn't be doing this. I should be minding my own business. My feet take one step backwards and I walk back into the living room but I could still hear his voice from outside.
"You really don't care about how I feel, do you?"
I frown instantly and look down at the dusty floor, grabbing the broom and beginning to sweep.
"I told you I wanted to sort it out by myself, tell them by myself but now you've gone and done it. For what?! To prove that you're a responsible father?"
My eyes glance at the wall once, hearing his strained voice through the gaps in the windows.
"Oh fuck this!" He yells louder than before. "You only care about yourself, this is my hobby, boxing is my fucking sport. You always get involved when I tell you not to!"
I place my hands on the top of the broom and stand still, huffing out a breath. "Whatever," he growls. "I'm done with this pathetic conversation. I have to go."
His footsteps are instant and they're loud, purposely stomping his feet. Trying to release his anger. He walks directly into the living room but he doesn't look at me, his eyebrows are pulled down into a tight frown.
