Marcelle is attractive.
Marcelle is a football player.
Marcelle is cliché.
Marcelle is a wolf in sheep clothing.
Marcelle is a Christmas fanatic.
Marcelle is just downright annoying.
Matthew Griffin is a certified theatre geek/video game nerd. And...
❝Look, daddy. Teacher says every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings.❞
Zuzu Bailey
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Matthew never wakes up in his own bed when he had a night like last night. He usually wakes up somewhere far different—like a couch or maybe the floor. His party days are far behind him—he's too old for this shit. He used to party hard when he was younger, but he's been a social prick. He can't even stomach a glass of wine, never mind an entire bottle of vodka.
He sits up, smelling different types of breakfast spreads; greasy crispy bacon, freshly baked muffins, eggs of sorts. He never wakes up feeling this hungry. Usually he resents food in the morning, all he wants is a cup of coffee.
Today is different.
It's when he climbs out of bed and knocks his knees against a fleshy substance that he realizes the reasons why he could be so hungry. His eyes snap to the body, calmly resting like a carcass. His heart aches from the speed it beats in as his eyes scan the jumble of duvet and ivory skin.
"Shit," he whispers. The copper hair gives away the previous night's whereabouts. His eyes are glued shut and his body is wrapped up in a tornado of duvet and fleece blankets, as if it's winter in the middle of Colorado when it's in reality winter in Florida. He can't remember for the hell of him how they ended up in his room when they started at Dayton's.
He stands up, but his entire body hurts. His skin is so tight and when he moves, it stings. The waistband in his boxers scathe over his hips revoking a feeling that he's bleeding. A metal rod is stuck in his spine, he can't move freely. Even his legs are stiff.
What did he do last night?
He jumps on the bed, shaking Dayton until he grunts. "Wake up!" He whisper-yells. "You've gotta' leave."
Dayton grunts, rolling over and burying himself in the blankets. He shoves his head beneath the pillow. "Five more minutes."
"No, get up, go away. Leave. Split." Matthew grabs hold of the blanket and exposes Dayton's body clothed in one of Matthew's oversized band shirts. He hates it when Dayton wears his clothes—it's his damn clothes.
"C'mon, Matt, don't suck ass." He rolls himself back up in the blankets.
"Dayton, please," he begs. He scouts his bedroom floor for a sign of his sweatpants. There's a collection of Dayton's clothes on the floor, not even neatly piled up. Usually the clothes are neatly stacked on a desk or at the foot of the bed, but his entire bedroom is havoc. It looks like the aftermath of a hurricane.
Clothes and books litter the floor and he swears there's a funny smell—as if someone is growing fresh flowers. There's nothing but one communal pillow and a blanket on the bed, the rest of the bedding frames the bed. Luckily he finds a fresh pair of sweatpants in his closet, unlike the rest of his clothes all over the floor.
