Betting Boy

Chapter Six - Kian

I go out for lunch with Mo and Hannah, and we explore a little of the town centre. They ask me why I left so early last night, and I just tell them I'd had enough and I was tired.

What else do I tell them? That for a change, I felt like I wasn't the one in control? If Isabelle had asked me to jump last night in the club, I'm pretty sure I'd have jumped.

The word 'siren' came to mind.

"I saw you dancing with Isabelle," Hannah says, and it's easy to see the spark in her expression about potential gossip. Having come out of her shell the last few days, we've found out that Hannah is probably the world's biggest chatterbox and gossip. "You guys looked cute."

"Some jackass was dancing with her and wouldn't back off," I say. Because it's not like it isn't true.

"Still. Just saying. You two are cute."

Mo rolls his eyes, and gives me a look as if to say 'Do not engage. Warning, do not engage.'

When Hannah gets distracted by a window display, Mo says to me, "I feel like it's way safer to say nothing incriminating with her. There's no off-the-record."

"Ha. I know, right?"

"But seriously. Is there something going on with you and Is?"

"Definitely not," I tell him.

But... I kind of wish there was.

Thursday 15th September:

Dear readers,

All one-hundred and eighteen of you! (I've gotta say, for something that I started up for myself three days ago, that's a pretty impressive number. And I guess I'll reply to your comments when I get time, and after I finally call my mom back.)

So...

There's this girl.

That's how all the stories start, right? With a girl.

She lives in my flat and, not to sugar-coat anything or beat around the bush, there's chemistry. I know it. She knows it.

I don't buy into some of that Hollywood/Hallmark romance crap, but I buy into that. Chemistry. A spark. A mutual attraction.

And I thought it was gonna go somewhere last night. We're out with friends, and I start to dance with her. I swear, she looked at me like she was gonna drag me to a dark corner and jump me right there.

And what does she do?

She turns around.

She says she doesn't want me, but I'm going to prove her wrong.

(No, for you people reading this and taking it the wrong way, I'm not going to force myself on her. I just wanted to clarify that before I get any comments from like, social justice warriors or something. Jesus Christ. That's NOT how you act.)

My dear readers, I'm going to get this girl.

(Again, in the least creepy way possible. Did you guys not read my last post, about how sex is as much about the girl as it is for the guy? Seriously, guys. Come on.)

I'm going to get this girl. I'm going to seduce her. I'm going to have her begging me to kiss her.

You can bet on that.

Sincerely yours,

K.C.

When we get back to the flat, there's a bright yellow post-it note on my door.

It reads: "Is x" in loopy writing.

Cautious, I open my door.

I'm blinded for a second by the sheer luminosity of my room.

Isabelle has covered every surface in the same bright yellow post-it notes as she stuck on my door. They cover the bed, the walls (at least, as high as she could reach), the floor, the furniture. I check my bathroom – that, at least, is post-it note free. Except for one on the mirror:

"Your bathroom is gross. You're a gross boy. Despite the prank, I've left air freshener by the toilet. USE IT."

I look and see that there is, in fact, a can of Fabreeze on the back of the toilet.

And, okay, so maybe the bathroom is a little gross because I haven't cleaned it yet. But so what? It's my bathroom.

(And I probably should clean it.)

Even the coat I left hanging on the back of my door is covered in post-it notes. I open a drawer and dig out a pen.

"You want war?" I write on one of them. "It's on. – K."

I tack it to Isabelle's door, and proceed to tidy my room, de-post-it-note-ifying it. Which is followed by a quick clean of the bathroom. Which, I tell myself, has absolutely nothing to do with Isabelle or her note, and a lot more to do with the mud on the floor and the toothpaste on the mirror.

When Isabelle goes out for a meal with friends later that evening, she leaves her door unlocked. I don't know if it's on purpose or not, but I take my chance.

I cover everything – even the faucets and the shower head – in plastic wrap.

For good measure, I even tape some either side of the door before I close it, so that when she gets back she'll walk right into it.

I smirk when I'm done, but I'm not sure if Casanova or the Cheaters Club would approve.

Hey, Clublanders! Hope you enjoyed this extra chapter this month, dedicated to Clublander of the Month, acheairs! Don't forget to join us on social media (links on profile) - if you're Clublander of the Month, you get to pick the bonus story updates.

How are you guys enjoying Betting Boy so far? Drop a comment and let me know!

Until next week xo