Coming to terms with his sexuality, Theodore Moore is a seventeen year old who is just about getting by. He makes minimum wage and has aspiring, out-of-reach dreams to become a lawyer.
Violent and aggressive, Antony Barbosa is everything wrong with...
“Nanda!” I yell, banging my fist against the door. There’s no answer. I lean my forehead on the wood, suddenly overtaken by a bout of tiredness. “Nanda.” I murmur under my breath, and my ears pick up on footsteps from inside the house. My eyes flutter to a close as my fists drop to my side and I’m practically using the door as support to hold me up.
“What the fuck-” Is the only thing I hear before the front door is thrown open and I’m falling forward. “Whoa- Moore? The fuck are you doing here?” I hear, but I don’t fall onto the hard floor. All I feel is muscly arms holding me up, and I try to open my eyes. I catch a glimpse of Antony’s dark hair, and a weird sensation runs through the pit of my belly. Fear? I wonder if he could smell it.
“Is Nanda home?” I mumble, and Antony grunts before he drags me forward. My legs refused to work and I could barely walk straight and I was so tired, all I wanted to do was sleep. I rest my head against something hard, Antony’s chest, I think.
“No, she’s at some dude’s house- what the fuck is up with you?” He questions, and I hear a door open as I’m led into a room. “Are you high?” He questions, a hint of something in his tone that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then, it’s almost like everything came rushing back to me like a tidal wave. Antony Barbosa. Chocolate bar. Bruised up nose. Gun. Gun…
“Gun.” I murmur, just as I’m thrown onto a bed. My eyes slowly open and I carefully look around, taking in my surroundings. It’s a room that I don’t recognise. A plain room with a bed and a bedside table and clothes scattered on the floor, but not much else. Oh. Oh, God. I’m in Antony’s room. Laying on his bed, completely out of it.
“What? What are you fucking saying?”
I blink multiple times, slowly sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “The gun.” I mumble, feeling the hollowness in my stomach from how empty it is. My head felt like it was splitting in half and my legs felt too shaky to stand on.
“The gun?”
I look over at Antony. He stood near the wall, watching me warily. His hair had fallen onto his forehead and he was breathing slightly heavily. He wore nothing but shorts that hung on his hips, so I know he was probably in bed before I interrupted.
Have I mentioned how attractive he is? Fernanda’s brother. Good genes must run in the family, because, phew, The Barbosa’s are a bunch of good looking people. Antony, in my opinion, is the best looking. His shrivelled and dark features, his impressive build, his full lips… the only thing that could use some work is his shitty personality.
“The gun you took from me.” I sighed, deciding to finally answer him. “I need it back before I lose my job.” I murmur, running my fingers through my hair for the hundredth time. All I hear is Antony scoffing, and I see him shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“The fuck would I care if you get fired, or not?” He shrugged his shoulders. I gulp and slowly get to my feet. “Sit the fuck back down.” Antony warns, standing straighter. Instead of listening, I stalk towards him, reaching out. Before I knew it, he grabbed me and pinned me to the wall, his forearm against my neck. I wince and lean my head back, trying to stop the throbbing in my temples.
A quiet laugh leaves my throat, and Antony’s eyes flicker to my nose and a little further down before he glares at me. “You need to calm the fuck down, little man. Sober the fuck up.”
“Give me the gun, Antony.” I spit, and it must be the weed that’s giving me all this confidence to say shit when Antony could just break my neck at any given moment. His grip on me loosens, just a little. “I need it.”
He stares at me, his jaw clenches and his cheeks ablaze and I hold my breath, trying to stop myself from doing something stupid. To stop myself from speaking. A cough leaves my throat, and Antony steps back slowly, dropping his arms to his side. “You’re not getting the fucking gun back.” He says, turning around slightly.
I take a step forward, but I trip over my own feet and collapse onto the bed once again. My eyes flutter to a close, and that’s the last thing I remember before I feel careful hands on my back.
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