No Time Like Now (Lesbian)

Chapter Sixteen

Aspen didn't have the time to stay longer after that. Her appointment (with that client she was complaining about) was taking place in like an hour when she had to leave. I thanked her for the pills, to which she responded, "Text me tonight; I want to know how you're feeling then."

"It's PMS; it's gonna get worse," I warned.

She nodded. "True. When it does, then I'll have to do more than give you pills to take."

"Thanks for being my drug dealer."

Now, three days later, I'm in the library, where I'm working on a project for English and repeating the event in my head. Does this girl know how smooth she can be? I'm a little jealous. And turned on a little.

Sharp pain appears on my upper arm. When I put a hand over the spot, another snap appears on the hand. I glance up at Jeremiah, who's using his fingers as rubber band guns, and loading up the third rubber band.

"Would you knock that off?" I scold. "I didn't come over here to be a target."

"Relax," Jeremiah says lazily. "You'll be fine; the bands don't hurt that much anyway."

"Fine." I stand up just as he lets go of the rubber band, effectively hitting my thigh. Staring him down, I reach over and confiscate the bag of rubber bands. "You can have this in about a week."

"Why do I have to wait a week?" he whines as I zip the bag in the backpack. "It's so unfair!"

"Buddy, I'm fucking bleeding, and I don't have the patience to deal with your bullshit right now. Nothing's fair."

His eyes widen in surprise. "Oh." All of the sudden he has nothing to say, and his paper is apparently interesting.

Assuming this would be the end of any conversations for the day, I quietly resume to writing my pros and cons for my chosen college. I still have maybe three colleges I plan to apply. But to make it easier for me and Shadler, Silver Leaf University gets the spot for the paper.

It's nice to be completely focused on the work and not think about anything outside of it. And the campus is so fucking pretty in all the pictures on the website. Whoever took them needs an International Photography Award.

Jeremiah and I eventually get to our progress checkpoint in our assignments, and we pick our stuff up. I leave the library with two new books that catch my eye just as we were to head out, much to Jeremiah's annoyance.

"You couldn't have done it before we even cleaned up?" Jeremiah asks, climbing into the driver's seat. His dad was generous in letting him borrow the car for study night.

"Sorry, couldn't help it." I flip through the pages of one of them before stuffing them in my backpack. "I read the rest of my books and these sound interesting."

"I mean, as long as it makes you happy," he comments.

Shifting into a more comfortable position in the passenger seat, I watch as Jeremiah takes an odd turn out of the parking lot. There's a way to get home from the direction he took, but the opposite direction is a lot faster. Unless he was taken over by someone else, I'm gonna assume he's up to something.

I tap my fingers on the door rest. "So, where are you taking us?" I ask.

He tries to be casual, which I'll give him credit for. "You know, there's this really awesome pool table section at a  bar..." he says, baiting me.

I simply stare at him. "It's okay to say you want us to get drunk and make bets on the game," I reassure him.

He smiles at me. "Really?"

"Yeah. You can buy me the first shot, too."

The smile fades into a snort. "Fine, fuck you, too," he says. There's no heat to his statement.

__________

Jeremiah did a good job setting up pool, I'll admit.

Chalking the tip of my cue stick, I set up and patiently calculate my aim over the cue ball.

Jeremiah sets down two shots between us. He waits until I hit the ball before warning me to not spill the drink.

Thanking him, I clear my throat. My eyes squeeze with a little fear as I dunk it. The less time I'm tasting it, the better.

"Why isn't Ikra here?" I ask. "As much as I like spending time with you, sometimes," he sends me a mock glare, "the bars are more her thing than the both of us together."

He skewers the cue ball out of its dangerous spot near a hole. "She told me she finally saved up for the tattoos, so she's spending the night putting her ideas on paper."

Ikra's been close to her goal for a good while; to say I'm proud of her would be a little understated. "Wait, she can't draw to save her life."

"I know. I've seen her entries to the art contest back in middle school." He shakes his head, his eyes closed in disappointment. "Anyway, she's looking for some artists on DeviantArt. She found several she claims would be great for whatever tattoo idea she wants."

Jeremiah holds his breath, and then sighs in relief when I narrowly miss the eight ball while striking a purple striped one into the hole nearby.

"How's she gonna find them?" I question. "Knowing her, she'll pick the more advanced. And they don't do work for free."

"She's really smart with her planning shit," he explains. "Ikra's been saving those eCoins on the site for three years so she can give them a pretty good commission."

"Yeah, good for her."

Jeremiah goes back to the bar for more shots. He brings back two more rounds for us this time.

Slamming another down, I force myself to not cough. "You think she's gonna use her fake ID to get the tattoos?" I suggest.

"I don't see why not," he answers. "She can pass at a bar; why not a tattoo parlor?"

"Oh no I get that. Last time I checked, fresh ink has to be uncovered for the first few days. She's gonna risk a lot trying to keep them from her parents."

"Ikra's smart," Jeremiah repeats. "She probably has that planned out since day one."

I proclaim some creative swears as I, out of all the odds, push one of his balls into the hole. He cackles at me. I consider smacking him with my stick and start a bar fight. Sadly, it wouldn't help my case.

I take his shot, though. Me flipping him off just makes him laugh; stealing his booze would annoy him.

"If our girl gets through this and survives in one piece, then I'm commissioning her to help me plan out the best ways to grapple out more free time at home," I say, bolder than how I would have said it. Must be the alcohol kicking in.

"I commission her to help me first if I win," Jeremiah challenges.

Before I flat out refuse the bet, he hits his last ball into a corner hole. He throws his arms up in the air in victory.

"You suck," I shout over his whoops.

"And well, I'm told," my friend responds.

There's silence between us as he finishes his celebration.

"I stole that line from George Takei, I swear."

"Uh-huh."