Bad Boy, Good Boy (boyxboy)

33.1 - good meets bad

A/N: the second part is coming too, I'm currently writing it, but since it's going take some time, I decided to post the first part. (this chapter ends in a random spot, sorry for that) (also, 47K reads - I can't believe it)

Let me know which team you're on. (And also, if you find mistakes, then let me know of them too.) Which side character do you find most interesting? (main characters are Luke, Nolan and Devon. you don't have to comment right away, you can wait until the second part and then tell me)

Happy reading x)

(And comments and votes, babes, pretty please)

Chapter 33 – good meets bad

Of course I end up in Sam's bed again, a bit drunk and sweaty and confused. But Sam doesn't end up in there with me. I'm ready to give her a lecture about how a young lady like her shouldn't be god knows where with god knows who, but when I walk downstairs after a very cold and refreshing shower and fresh breath, she's curled up on the couch, a fluffy blanket draped over her body.

So, no lecture today. A whole bottle of champagne plus shots is never a good idea.

But that doesn't mean that school is cancelled. It's still Thursday, so we all have to drag our asses to our desks and listen to something while drawing doodles in our notebooks. You better hope no one catches you, because teachers tend to not like doodles. Apparently it means you weren't listening. You really mean to tell me I didn't hear all those agonizing ten minutes about how some of us are not going to graduate and some of us are just losers and most of us are going to fail in life.

Thanks. I already knew that, but now that you told me again, I think the message really got to me. And I cover my mouth and cough out 'sarcasm'. This might get me out of class and it also means a free pass to Heather's office, which doesn't seem so bad. I could always blame my outrageous behaviour on the fact that I get no treatment. I need my group of sad friends to feel happier.

I take orange juice from the fridge and drink straight from the carton, some of it drips onto my shirt, which is now white with a twist of orange. It doesn't look cool and cool is what I aspire today. Things are already going downhill. Life's fighting me and I shouldn't fight back, because that's what good boys do.

Sam was supposed to make me into a gentleman, but I don't think it's going to work.

She shoots up from the couch and stares really sleepily ahead. "Morning," I mumble and drink again.

She gives a nod, then tries to run her fingers through her hair, but they get stuck in the tangle and she gives up. "How's my make up?" her voice is a bit raspy.

I tilt my head and lean against the kitchen counter. "Perfect from afar," I reply.

"Your phone woke me up in the middle of the night," she continues while rubbing her eyes. "Son of a bastard, that thing. It's somewhere." She makes a vague gesture and then tries to get up, but more like slides off the couch and onto the floor. "Care to carry the lady to the bathroom?"

"No, I don't particularly care," I say and return to the fridge. To make or not to make breakfast. The latter seems so much more appealing, but then I won't make it to lunch. And I like lunch, so I have to make it there, and it also means I have to make some breakfast.

While I could be a gentleman, I prefer Sam figures out her own breakfast.

But then the guilt trip begins and I add another egg and another two pieces of bacon and put another batch of bread into the toaster. (If that makes one a gentleman, then I've finally done it. No need for thanking anyone in my speech. I don't like giving speeches.)