𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 | 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦

18

grayson

two weeks later, i still haven't talked to quinn yet. and that wasn't even remotely fine, considering what my own dad put her through- but it wasn't like i ever got a chance anyways.

ever since i'd went after quinn jessie had all but stuck herself to me at all times, at any hour and certainly all of them. she'd been possessive from the start, but there was no getting away from her now.

but still, i desired to speak to her. it was like an ever-present itch at my side, a need that i could not satiate, a want i couldn't ignore. and all this wasn't already including anything physical or romantically jeopardizing. 

and i couldn't do anything anyways, what with jessie and the likelihood of her flipping the story if i was ever caught with quinn- and her being gone forever.

wouldn't that be much worse.

i sighed, tossing my calculus homework aside and burying my face in my hands. my heavy breathing warmed my face what with a lack of purchase in fresh air, instantly cooling when i moved both hands upwards, running them through a head of unstyled hair.

worry led to fatigue in the past few days, what with midterms nearing, and that stupid headmaster ignoring all my pleas to skip this year and graduate already, even though i was a year older than everyone and knew how to run the goddamn hawthorne foundation, and still being tortured by advanced english literature and refined analysis of fine arts.

i hadn't slept in the past thirty-six hours, and it was beginning to show. shadows swooped from under my eyes, and i could barely do one of the fifty problems without yawning. throwing my pen across the room, it landed on the wall with a satisfying crack, and fell towards the ground just as my feet hit the floor.

of course, drinking is not healthy. the exile and respite people of adult so seek usually came in forms of pills, of drink and of smoke. the aftereffects are dreadful- but most are so desperate only the present matters.

now i am one of them- which explains the reason of my walking to the bar in nothing but gray sweatpants- literally. jessie was out shopping, no doubt spending another big chunk of her allowance, and this was the first time in nearly a month i'd gotten any alone time.

so who would bother with clothes?

the bartender was there, but i ignored him and took one of the various bottles of macallan from the bar cart, uncorked it, and drank from the opening itself. it seared at my mouth, burning a solid line of fire down my throat, but at the same time it dampened the itch, softened the lines of my vision, and sent a warm shudder along my spine.

i sat there for a good 15 minutes with the silence ringing in my ears before something broke it.

'smirnoff vodka, five shots. thanks.'

quinn

at first i thought he was jameson.

i was spending more and more time at the bar now that jameson was at some sort of abroad casino convention and midterms were catching up with me. besides studying i didn't really do anything, except when i was drinking.

there was only three days until midterms- i knew i should've been studying, but i tried to reassure myself that i was prepared. all of the subjects regarding english, literature, analysis and basically anything that required writing was an easy ace- science would turn out to be decent at least, and all the arts would be fine. only math was a very uncertain pass- but after spending about 12 hours straight doing calc, i was burnt out.

since jameson was almost always shirtless i originally thought it was him sitting at the bar, drinking macallan. plus, he almost always wore sweatpants, usually black, but other neutrals were not uncommon.