Page 9 of Habits

“That was …” Max looks at me, intrigued. “Interesting.”

I shrug, pulling out my phone.

Jealous much?

It doesn’t matter to me either way. Willing pussy is a welcome pussy as long as it’s hot and makes herself scarce after the deed is done.

What can I say? I can be one charming fucker when I want to be.

Jeanette

Slamming the front door shut behind me, I stomp up the stairs to my room. The only thing that greets me is silence, and for the first time, I welcome it. Nobody deserves to see my temper tantrum. Not even my shitty excuse for parents.

Usually, I’d try to hold it in like everything else, all the other secrets I’m hiding. But today, I can’t seem to reign in my emotions. They’re overflowing all my senses. My mind and body alike, and if I don’t let just a part of it out, I think I’ll drown.

That stupid, motherfucking jackass.

I let my bag slide off my shoulder with a loud thud before I throw myself face down on the bed, fluffy pillows jumping in the air with the force of the impact.

The phone is still clenched in my hand. His message hidden behind the dark screen still taunting me silently.

Fucking Andrew Hill.

Asshole: Jealous much?

Asshole: It doesn’t matter to me either way. Willing pussy is a welcome pussy as long as it’s hot and makes herself scarce after the deed is done.

How much of a jerk can one guy be?

Presumptuous, self-centered bastard. That’s what he is.

I knew he’d be trouble from the moment I laid my eyes on him. I know his type well. Rich daddy’s boy with a house full of issues hanging off of his shoulders.

He thinks he’s a godsend to women. Phew, not even in his dreams is he that good.

Frustrated, I turn on my back and stifle my groan with the pillow over my head.

How does he manage to do that? How does he get in my head and mess with me even when he’s far away?

Giving up, I pick up my phone, which ended up tangled in the sheets during my fit, and look at the message once again.

I know I shouldn’t do it. I should ignore him and his arrogant, patronizing behavior and just let it go. Just like I knew I shouldn’t have sent that other message at the party. And just like then my fingers don’t want to stop. When it comes to Andrew Hill, my brain acts on its own and doesn’t listen to reason.

He makes me do crazy things.

Impulsive things.

Things I wouldn’t do otherwise.

Only in your dreams, douchebag.

I want to write more. Say more. Comment on his small, shrinking dick or something equally as awful, but at the same time, I don’t want him to think I care one way or another. So I stop myself, and once the message is sent, I bury the phone under all the blankets and pillows so I don’t look at it every few seconds waiting for the small light to start blinking, indicating a new message.

Then I sit at my desk and dig out my books, ready to start going through all the homework that’s waiting for me. But after I stare at the same math problem for thirty minutes without making progress because I’m too preoccupied with calming my restless feet and consciously keeping my gaze on my notebook, I give up.

I lean back in my chair, my eyes falling on the violin box that’s carefully leaning against the nightstand. For a moment, I contemplate taking the instrument out of the box and getting lost in the music, but I dismiss the idea almost instantly.

I’m still high on adrenaline and the anger rush from before and I know I won’t do shit if I don’t get rid of at least half of it, so I change into a pair of leggings and a sports bra with a tank top over it and go the basement.

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