t h i r t y - n i n e

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Hey guys! Trying to keep a frequent update schedule here, and so far it's looking good! I'm back in my element xD 

Question: would you want a spinoff from this book with Randall and Carter's story? Lemme know!

* * *

Real feelings don't just go away.

* * *


"Come get me ... please."

As much as Randall hated to admit it, he lurched off his bed faster than a bat out of hell. His irritation quickly replaced itself with anxiety, and Randall forgot all his plans from earlier, despite how adamant he was on following through.

They used to be best friends, afterall.

And furthermore, Carter didn't sound fine.

He sounded weird and drunk, two things that didn't meld well into who Carter was.

"Where are you? Are you still at the party?"


"Where the hell are you, Carter?!"

And of course, Randall had to repeat that one question for the sake of getting the drunkard to comprehend and stop singing Sylvester and Tweet Mysteries' opening theme song.

"Outside ... on a fücking wall ... without my car." again, he groaned, and Randall desperately wished he'd stop. "Oh ... by the way, some hot bastard left me out here to die, so come get me before I fück you up."

For the good of both of them, Randall needed to remain calm. Carter's level of annoying rose to an insurmountable feat when drunk, apparently. "Describe your surroundings so I can find you faster." when he didn't receive an instant answer, panic rose in Randall's chest. "Carter?"

"There's a tall-ass lamp thing ... and a crossroad on the sidewalk."

Thankfully, Randall was successful enough to piece together as to where Carter was. It was a little away from the party.

Although it didn't sound like Carter was in trouble, Randall didn't like the millions of possibilities that flew through his head at everything that could happen to Carter in his delusional state. Robbery, assault, car accident, kidnapping; you name it.

And if anything happened, Randall would never forgive himself for it.

"Don't move, okay? I'm on my way."


Knowing that he didn't have the time to put his contacts in again, he instead fetched his trusty pair of glasses (one he hadn't seen in years) before he flew down the stairs and rushed to his car outside, unlocking it and hopping inside. Stabbing the key in the ignition, Randall backed out of the driveway and sped down the dark street. After approximately ten minutes of driving, Randall arrived at the crossroad. Sitting up straighter in his seat, he scrutinized the darkness of the sidewalk a little down and thankfully, without his contacts, he was able to see the person in questioning, though he'd been half expecting to see two.

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