For The Win
I bite into my sandwich, looking out into the school yard; bored. It's just the same thing every day when I go to school, talk to my friends, do my school work and go home. The school work is standard, the conversation the same; no offense on my friends' behalf, my attempts at being entertaining fail just as miserably. If these are the best years of my life I am going to kill myself.
Swallowing my mouthful of egg salad sandwich I spot something sitting beneath the bench – someone's left their book there accidentally. Looks pretty new, too. No pages sticking out, no scribbling over the front page and no staples loose in the binding; the purple exercise book is in pristine condition. Although what would I know? My books all look like a dog's got to them within the first week of my having them.
Plucking the book from underneath the bench I set it on top of my lap and look where the owner has neatly scrawled Clark Coverdale before letting out a gasp. Clark Coverdale? I look around as I think his name, as if he'll just reappear right in front of me and demand his book back. But he doesn't. I look back to the book; Clark Coverdale? It can't be true. I'll believe it when I see it.
I run my fingers over his name, as if that'll make it seem more real to me. But it doesn't work. If I wanted something interesting to happen before, this sure does it. I haven't seen the kid since the sixth grade, not by any lack of trying on my behalf. He just didn't want to see me – and for good reason, which begs the question; why is he now enrolled in my school?
Typically the way to avoid a girl is to stay as far away from her as possible, not enrol in her school, take her classes and sit on her benches, studying – philosophy? What the hell. He doesn't, or didn't, seem like the type to take that. Opening his book I browse through the pages, with every flick my curiosity increasing. Back in primary school he was always good at stuff like math and science; solid, factual stuff solved by logic and intellect.
Philosophy is all conceptual; it's the complete opposite of what he used to be into. Used to be being the three key words by the amount of writing in his book, all of it of which just can't be what the teacher's making him copy down. It's a little extreme, even for a year twelve class. He's made up some of his own theories, ranted on about his views on religion – I thought he was catholic? Jesus Christ, excuse the pun; it's like he's a completely different person.
"Kendall," says a deep, masculine voice from above, "are you right there?"
Maybe it is a different person, only with the same name. It can happen. It's a big world out there, a big world probably full of different Clark Coverdales. Ones that like philosophy and ones that don't. I'm betting this is a whole different person. It has to be a whole different person, I mean; the real Clark Coverdale wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole, he wouldn't enrol into my school if he could help it.
"Kendall," I look up and then up – my jaw drops as I take in the person before me in all his black headed, hazel eyed glory; the boy grew up, that's for sure, and not just in height. It almost takes my breath away how different he looks from primary school – awkward, short and with a ton of freckles all over his face. Not one single freckle remains, from what I can see at this distance anyway. Perhaps he needs a little closer inspection. "I know I'm gorgeous but you don't have to stare."
My eyes snap away from his admittedly bedazzling features and I raise an eyebrow at him, "Someone's confident."
Clark ignores my comment and points to the book on my lap, "That's mine."
"That it is; here you go." I close the book and hold it out to him; this is no fun.
I mean okay, okay I get it – if he's being cold with me it's like it's not deserved. Because it is. More than anything. I regret my past decisions every single day; I lost not just a best friend because of them, but my potential life partner. I'm not just saying that because he's gorgeous now either because at eleven years old, him twelve, and me being about a head or so taller than him? I was still as warm for his form as any eleven year old can get.
He takes the book from my hands and turns, starting to walk away; my hand is tingling from where his brushed mine, and I feel like if I don't get him to talk to me now that we'll never get a chance to talk – and I need to talk. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get over him if we don't sort out any leftover feelings, or at least my leftover feelings. I'm pretty sure – and this is what kills me – I crushed any romantic notions he had for me when I opened my big, stupid eleven year old mouth about them.
But I've had enough with pondering about them, thinking about what could've been – it makes me feel stupid, living in the past like that. I feel kind of stupid now for still having some feelings for him after all of this time; six years is a long time to get over something, and I'm pretty sure I haven't yet. So I'm going to have to suck it up and take what he dishes me out because that's what he had to do – and he had an audience.
"Hey Coverdale," I call out to him, and he stops in his tracks, "come back and sit with me; I want to know why and when you went all pansy ass with your classes."
It takes him a moment or so to decide, and when he comes and sits his long, lanky bod down next to mine he's scowling; he's not very happy about the turn of events. But he cannot resist the temptation to defend himself – a weakness of his, one of mine too. We were always competitive as kids and equally argumentative. So much so that none of us could bear letting the other have the last word, and so our fights normally ended with us kicking and screaming; our mothers dragging us home by the wrist.
I smile at the memory, and turn my eyes to Clark, "So?"
"So what?" He responds shortly, leaning his head back in his arms and closing his eyes. "What about you, still into tinkering around with your dad's car? Drilling holes into dining room tables?"
"Your mum still hasn't forgiven me about that huh?" I wince, laughing a little under my breath. Oh God this is so awkward. He's not laughing, he doesn't think it's chuckle worthy. It's all silent again. This is going to give me nightmares – if my friends see me like this they're going to give me so much shit about it; being scared of a boy? That's not me. What am I doing? What am I doing?
Swallowing and turning my eyes to him I am determined to keep up the conversation. But when I open my mouth nothing comes out and I feel my cheeks heating up a disturbing shade of red – now this is just humiliating. I'm Kendall freaking Stewart and I eat boys for breakfast. I'm one heck of a girl, I'm the bomb and no boy – not even Clark Coverdale – is going to stop me from achieving what I set out to achieve; which is just one non awkward conversation. I talk to boys all of the time. I kick their asses all of the time. I can do this.
"So, you like stuff, Coverdale? Or do you still prefer things? I recall you preferring things. But maybe not; a lot of stuff has changed, huh?" I blink as he stares into space; oh my God is he even listening to me? What a rude prick. That's not on. "But I guess the fact that you're a jerk hasn't changed any huh? Going to give me the silent treatment you big baby? Gonna run off and not talk to me because you can't take it? Do you wanna fight me?"
"You still talk a lot," he smirks, pushing my raised fists away and shaking his head, "talked before you knew what you were saying and screwed it all up for yourself."
"You know I'm sorry about that," I say, tentatively, not bothering to pretend I don't know what he's talking about when I know exactly what. I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to talk. But he doesn't. He just looks into space, silent. It's so frustrating – the kid never used to shut up, and now it's all he's doing. He can't just say something like that and then quit the conversation. "You know I'm sorry."
"Do I now?" He turns his eyes to me, smirking again. Hazel eyes laugh into my brown ones, as if he thinks it funny I'm trying to apologise; taunting me. I grit my teeth and he shrugs, looking away again, still with that stupid smirk. "I don't know why you're apologising to me, is it because I'm not short anymore?"
"What? You know I always –" he interrupts me, getting up off of the bench.
"Loved me? Bullshit." Clark laughs, and I cringe. "Great way of showing it – anyway, I'm out; seems like your friends are coming, and I don't want you bitching me out in public again."
I thought it before and I'm thinking it again; what a prick. My eyes narrow and my lips twist into a scowl. I don't know what's happened to make him so jaded, so immature – because that's how he's acting; immature. I mean I'm trying to apologise, not trying to pick a fight with him. He could just reject, or accept it, and get on his way. He doesn't have to be such a jerk about it.
Biting down on my lip I get up from my chair, swallowing insults on the tip of my tongue and following after him as he walks off – I'm not giving up, that's just what he's trying to make me do by agitating me like this. But that's not going to work, not this time, not ever. I don't give up that easy.
It's not too hard to catch up to him, because even though he's definitely shot up in the height department I've never exactly been short. I can see my friends eyeing me with bemusement as they make their way over to where I'd previously been sitting. I point to my watch, catching my friend Katie's eye and mouth back in a sec before setting my sights on Clark's black uniform tee and tapping him on the shoulder.
"Hey, I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," I grab him by the collar and pull him back, putting my lips to his ear and whispering, "perhaps you need reminding?"
His response is almost instantaneous, and he turns and grabs me by the shoulders, his face right in mine and his fingers digging into my shoulders. Don't get the wrong idea, there's nothing faintly sexy about what he's doing aside from the decent amount of muscle bulging in his forearms; he's not holding me in a lover's grip, more like a vice-grip. I bite down on my cheeks to stop the yelp that's threatening to come through my lips and into his ears – ears which I cannot bear hearing any sign of weakness coming from me.
"Perhaps I don't." He whispers right back, mockingly.
Feeling myself forgetting any further apologies I've dreamed up beforehand my cheeks start to burn, and not with embarrassment either; but with rage. No matter how much muscle mass he's acquired he can't beat me up physically. I've taken so many different martial arts classes it's not funny and if need be I can knock him out cold onto the floor – but I'll wait a little longer and see what he's got in him before I do anything extreme. Grabbing his arms and huffing I yank them off of my shoulders and go for the collar again.
"No, you do," I hiss right in his face, "because if you think you can overpower me with a stunt like that you're clearly mistaken; I've always been the tougher of the two of us Coverdale and despite what's changed about you…that hasn't and it never will."
Clark's face starts to go red, "Oh what, so you're training to look like the next Madonna? Going to work out after every single thing you eat like Victoria Beckham?"
"Oh what, reading your sister's gossip mags again?" I laugh; in my opinion the best defence is a good offence – it's what I stick to, and it's working. I can tell by the look on his face.
"No." He splutters, his face going redder partly by anger but I'm pretty sure by embarrassment as well.
I smirk at him triumphantly; I've finally broken through his façade and underneath that literature and philosophy loving, freckle-less exterior – he's still the same Clark, the one who I ranted and raved with about new video games coming out and who upon purchasing said game would play it to the death with me…even though I had a tendency to beat him every time at clocking levels, fighting evil and/or vs. against each other. But that's beside the point; old Clark, buried shallowly under his cold exterior, is still very much in there.
Seeing my smirk he pulls away from the hands that'd loosened at his collar due to amusement, and he looks the other way sulkily. "What do you want?"
I shrug, and say simply, "To start over."
Because that's what I do want, still; despite everything he's said and done so far to scare me away. I've been able to take it and by the looks of it I've won the first match – I can take the rest of the game with ease if this is all I've got to contend with; hurtful references from my past and indication to my mannishness is nothing when that's what I get from the boys at school every day. Sure, it's a little different hearing the words come out of his mouth but still – this is just water under the bridge.
Clark's eyes turn to mine, and he says, shaking his head, "Not that simple," before giving me a little wave and walking off for the second time today; this time I let him, but not without a parting warning.
"You're going to have to up your game if you want to win." I call after him, cupping my hands around my mouth.
He doesn't answer; but I feel a genuine smile form on my lips anyway – it's not over till the fat lady sings, and as far as I know Hogwarts isn't anywhere near my school.
If there is a God I'd like to know why he allowed the temporary lapse of sanity to occur in the mind of whoever created maths homework, or just homework in general really. Because our school makes it compulsory to do maths all through schooling, and there's no chance to ditch it unless you're really that horrible at it – which, to my misfortune, I am not considered within the category of 'horrible'; my teacher merely thinks me 'lazy'. Though this may be technically true it does not make my homework any easier.
Taking an irritated suck out of my mochaccino (coffee for concentration, chocolate because it's fantastic) I flip onto the next page of my homework to see if any of the answers on that page are any easier. But they're not; in fact so far I haven't been recognising any of this. This indicates I need to pay a little more attention in class time and hell, I probably should. Doesn't mean I'm going to though.
Heaving a sigh I take my eyes from my work to the very distracting sights and smells of the café around the corner from my street. It's supposed to be less distracting in here, less than my room with its oh so many temptations including video games, my computer and/or the new metallic black paint I'd bought as reward to paint my Porsche Boxter with (once I'd completed all of my homework).
Now I know what you're thinking; how can a high school girl afford a sweet ride like that? Well it's not easy I can tell you, I've been fixing up cars and computers; painting cars, fences and rooms; making furniture and selling it off on eBay and also working part time at the local supermarket, which I have to say is the worst job you can imagine. But it's all worth working day and night for the Porsche (which I got used and for approximately thirty grand).
Drool nearly bubbles out of my mouth at the thought of it but then my daydreams are brought to a grinding halt when someone snaps their fingers in my face, "Wake up."
Blinking, I look up to see my friend Charlotte grinning down at me, diet coke in hand. She looks kind of amused for some reason, and though I can see she's trying to hide it – the sides of her lips are quivering – it's not exactly working. Blinking again I raise my eyebrows at her in bemusement; what is so funny? She doesn't seem to be inclined to tell me without prompting. She's just standing there, grinning her face off like a cat coming across a big, fat fish. A big fat fish I want to know the species of.
"Charlotte?" I question tentatively and her grin broadens.
"Over there…" she leans in, whispering, before looking over her shoulder and beginning to giggle, "…by the espresso machine, looks like there's a new barista boy, one you know...one that's staring at you."
In alarm I look over her shoulder before my eyes land on one Clark Coverdale, who is indeed staring at me something shocking. Either that or he's zoned out, because it does take him a short while to realise he's been caught in the act and when he does his elbow slips and he bangs it right against the espresso machine.
Not being able to withhold the chuckle that burbles up my throat I watch as he clutches his elbow, cursing to himself and averting my eyes. But then his boss comes out of the kitchen with a fresh batch of pies and gives him the dirtiest look for his language, managing to quiet him down and make his cheeks flush red with embarrassment. I chuckle even more and turn my eyes back to Charlotte, who is eyeing me curiously.
"Um, girl," she gives me a poke to the shoulder, waggling her eyebrows, "he's got it, and bad, for you."
"Nah," I wave her words off as she settles herself down in a chair, "he's probably contemplating what poison he's going to slip into my drink while I'm not looking."
Charlotte snorts and I can tell she doesn't believe me in the slightest, but she doesn't comment; just changes the subject to her favourite topic – the boy she's crushing on – and sticks to it. Everything she says I've heard before though, and I can't help but to get distracted and search for him; only to find he's staring at me again…and this time when he notices my gaze he doesn't turn his away.
Clark mouths biaatch childishly before realising the cup he's filling is overflowing, dripping all onto the counter top and down the side. He curses for the second time that day and I point and hold a hand to my chest, mock laughing at him. Charlotte stares at me in confusion and looks over her shoulder again before facing me with a smirk. "Oh, you have it bad too."
"I have it bad for Jake Gyllenhaal." I correct her mildly; but she just snorts again, and goes back to sipping at her diet coke.
My heart skips as I watch him over her shoulder though, mopping up his mess; I wrinkle my nose – stupid, pathetic emotions.
"Hey gorgeous," my head bumps lightly with the fist of Pearce Manning's as he leans his elbows down next to the computer mouse, making it so every move I make my hand bumps against his skin. It's not a very nice feeling, either. I move my hand from the mouse and look up at him, eyebrows arched, "what you doing tonight?"
I look him up and down, slowly, from the blonde spiky hair springing from his forehead to his dazzling green eyes, down his front and sneaking a peak at his tan and not statistically unimpressive chest – all the way down to his sneakers and back again. His eyes flash at mine and I smile, ushering him closer which he doesn't delay; I lean forward until our lips are nearly touching and his eyes start to flutter closed, "Definitely not you."
Straightening, I return to designing my game, seeing his eyes blink back open from the corner of mine and smirking at his irritated expression. He slams his fists down on the desk, his eyes crackling with electricity, "Fine," he shrugs off his anger in a matter of seconds and instead looks cold, "your loss, not everyone has the charity and good nature to put up with a mannish girl like you – you'll never get any other offers."
His words and his tone say he doesn't care; but his eyes say he does. Pearce Manning wants me to want him, just like every other girl at school. So you see; it's not that I'm such a prize it's just all the other jewels in this treasure chest of a school aren't quite such a challenge in the game mister Manning likes to call lurve. A game that I don't like to play especially when the other player is an arrogant blonde who after tiring of the jewel chucks it right back in the chest.
"If I'm such a charity case how come you're waiting for my reaction? Shouldn't anything I have to say be beneath your concern?" I want to know, raising an eyebrow.
Manning splutters incoherently for a while, much to my amusement. He keeps opening his mouth and closing it, each time coming up with nothing more intelligent than the fish he seems to be imitating could have.
"It is." He says, crossing his arms and glaring at me. I raise my other eyebrow at him. "I was just being nice, now if you excuse me I have better people to be doing."
After snickering at his ever so witty parting comment he walks off on me, with the false pretence that he's won when in reality he's just ended up sounding like a douche. Which, I'm sure, isn't an unfamiliar situation for him. Shaking my head I turn back to designing my game, free from stupidity and judgement in a world of my own creation – until yet again I am interrupted.
"Who was he?" Clark wants to know, as he sits himself down next to where Pearce previously vacated. I look up from my computer again to analyse his expression, but he's masking his emotions yet again. Shrugging, I shut down my game program as I'm obviously not going to get anything finished with all these interruptions.
"Nobody, why do you care?" I ask, waggling my eyebrows at him which he frowns at.
"I don't," he tells me, flatly, and then we fall into silence; him sitting there, looking down at his feet and me staring at the log on screen of the computer.
Pressing my lips together I feel a sudden rush of frustration bubble up inside of me; I'm acting like a total wimp again, and I'm not a total wimp. I'm all action, all confrontation girl. If something is bugging me? I fix it, or I get rid of it. I can't just sit here allowing myself to get progressively nervous every second that ticks by – but my lips are refusing to open and my brain isn't coming up with anything intelligent.
It just keeps getting worse and worse and worse – the more time goes by the more pressured I feel to say something; the more likely I am to say something stupid.
Taking a deep breath I turn my head to see if he's having as much difficulty as I am coming up with something to say – only to have our eyes lock, causing me to fall speechless again. Clark is getting closer, and closer to me. Consequently, my face is heating up and I find myself not just speechless, but unable to move.
But as his face draws near and my eyes turn half-lidded my vocal abilities decide to kick back in and seem to make a decision all by themselves to blurt out, "What are you doing?"
Clark immediately snaps out of it, much to my disappointment, and gets up out of his chair; speed walking out of the library before I can stop him. I blink, eyeing the spot he'd previously occupied and furrowing my eyebrows in confusion – he was about to kiss me just before, wasn't he? I knew it. I know it.
Before I opened my big fat mouth again and ruined everything, that is.
I slap a hand to my forehead, repeatedly. Oh screw it, who do I think I'm kidding? It's not ruined and it's not over – not until I win, is it going to be over. Getting out of my chair I slam it back under the table, pulling up my shirt sleeves and on second thought, pulling up my school skirt to slutty proportions. It's not very nice to play dirty but then I've never played fair.
My pony tail bounces, swinging from side to side as I swagger with confidence out into the school yard. Clark on the other hand is wandering idly after making his stormy exit, completely unaware of my following footsteps. I smirk at his naivety; does he really think after all that near kissing he's going to get away with not kissing me?
"O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" I cup my hands around my mouth, calling to him.
Clark spins around at my words and blinks at me before glaring, "Yes."
It's not a far distance left between us by now and he slowly ambles towards me too, meeting me in the middle and looking down at me; eyes narrowed with suspicion, and lips pursed with irritation. Contrarily, I smirk at him, putting my thumbs through my skirt loops and waggling my eyebrows teasingly, "Well that's not what you're supposed to say, you're supposed to be all 'what satisfaction canst thou have to-night' and then I'm –"
He puts a finger to my lips, silencing me as I pull to a stop in front of him. I lower my eyes to the finger and feel tingles spread through my mouth to the rest of my face to the rest of my body; it's just tingles all around.
"Supposed to demand a love confession which leads to marriage which leads to a day's worth of wedded bliss – which leads to death." He finishes for me, dropping his finger; not impressed. "How romantic."
"Oh isn't it just?" I drawl, winking at him, tapping my bare knees which his eyes flick down to and then mysteriously look away from just as quick. It doesn't appear my naked flesh has affected him to any great extent, though; his composure is kept, and his cheeks free from red.
"What do you want?" He wants to know, sounding impatient.
What do I want? I want him. But I'm not going to show it until he shows me first; you can never let on to a guy that you want him before he admits to wanting you first. Making that colossal mistake gives him the right to mock you about it for…oh, the rest of your life; especially if he doesn't feel the same way.
I don't know about you, but – I am so not going to let that happen to me.
"What you want." I put it simply.
His eyebrows furrow at my words and he bites his lip, contemplating; wondering how to respond. I shrug, turning my gaze back to the school yard and trying to look blasé about it all. Only I'm not. I want to know what he wants; I want to know where and how and when and why. Not to mention, and most important of all – who.
Before I can stress the subject any longer he's moving closer and my skin burns in anticipation.
"I want you…" He says suddenly and cups my face with a hand, tilting it back up so my eyes are looking right into his once more; I involuntarily lean into his hand. Hazel eyes meet brown and I suck in my breath, feeling my heart quiver. Clark's eyes flash and burn into mine, his gaze then dropping to my lips. I close my eyes, waiting for the kiss to come. I can feel his breathe pluming into my face, his hair touching the top of my forehead and tickling it.
Quick as a wink he lets go and steps back, laughing.
I open my eyes, face flaring red, and glare at him. He's laughing. Laughing at me. Sticking my hands on my hips I arch my eyebrows at him, trying to cover up my embarrassment with anger, "Oh, shut your face – I was just humouring you because I felt bad about the last time I dumped your ass; but you know what? I don't regret it, asshole."
Clark stops laughing and glares right back at me, "It can't be dumped if we never went out – you never gave me the time of day save beating me at freaking video games and beating the absolute crap out of me when we wrestled."
I snort, crossing my arms over my chest, "You said not to hold back, and so I didn't hold back – I wasn't going to lose to you."
"It wasn't a competition, Ken; it was foreplay." Clark snickers sardonically, causing my cheeks to flare up an even brighter shade of red. "But you took everything we did so seriously – the video games, the wrestling, the racing, food fights and god, even games of pretend you had to be the hero. I admit it was a pretty juvenile form of foreplay but damn it, Kendall; I was only twelve at the time."
Holding a hand over my gaping mouth I look around the yard; everyone is staring at us, and he's only getting louder and louder every word he speaks. It's not like he sounds about to shut up any time soon, either – in fact it sounds as if he's just getting started. Hands land down on my shoulders and squeeze, causing my eyes to snap back to his; his which are looking down at mine, pools of bubbling, hissing hazel.
"I was so sick of people calling me the girl in our relationship; I didn't need you doing it as well. But that's what you did the moment I worked up the courage to tell you how I felt; you couldn't stand people thinking any less of you – couldn't stand losing." Clark lets go of my shoulders; eyes not expressionless but tired, hurt and full of disappointment. He shakes his head as his hands drop back to his sides. "I'm not the same guy as I was back then; I'm not going to play games with you anymore Kendall – but look at you, you're still trying to play them with me."
I want to look away from him but I can't; he's telling the truth – after all these years I'm still making the same mistakes. Trying to make a game out of our relationship, trying to win said game. Trying, but failing, to win him over with the same stupid tricks that hurt him so much last time. If I hadn't cared so much about winning and my reputation – we might already have six years worth of good memories, but we don't. We don't have any at all.
"Maybe," he says, and shrugs, "I should find a nice girl, one who doesn't think of me as a game."
I press my lips together at the thought of him being with someone else and look down at my feet, blinking furiously and starting to feel a little frustrated. It's not my place to make decisions for him; it's none of my business who he goes out with. I just want it to be.
Kicking a grey stone across the cement I shrug, "Maybe you should."
"Maybe that one over there," he points over to the library where my friend Katie is sitting, talking with Charlotte and Lana; I feel my heart congest. It'd be bad enough having someone else have him, but it'd be even worse having to see them all over him every day. "She's all small and cute, like a little bunny."
Unlike me; tall and flat, like road kill.
"She's a keeper." I assure him, turning my eyes to my feet and kicking the stone again, further away this time.
"Is that what you really think?" Clark wants to know, sounding pissed. "Because trust me, just say the word; I'll go find someone else."
I look him in the eyes, trying to keep my expression neutral. He looks so frustrated with me, fists clenched at his sides and eyebrows furrowed to the extreme. But I don't know what he wants me to say. All I know is I can see my cute best friend I'm still mad about, his uniform all pressed and neat, not a hair on his head out of place – and I want nothing more to mess it all up; to touch him, to kiss him, something.
Something that's not standing here, waiting for him to walk off and find something better; because that's not going to be very hard.
"I want you to find someone else." I lie and the muscles in his jaw set, eyes turning to slits; he looks about to blow up at me. I take a step back, and he grabs my hand and pulls me back forward; pulls my face right close to his, and though I struggle I can't get out of his grip. I grab the hand he's holding my wrist with and dig my nails into it, trying to pry it off. Gritting my teeth I growl, "Let go."
"I will when you tell me the truth –" he demands angrily, grabbing my other wrist and initiating a tug of war with me. I pull my arms, trying to rip my wrists from his grasp, and then he pulls them back. "Just give up you're not going to win this time –"
"I thought you said it wasn't a game –"
"Just admit it –"
"There's nothing to admit –"
"You want me –"
"I don't –"
"You DO – "
My eyes drop to his lips, and before I can stop myself – I'm stepping up on my tip toes and pressing my mouth to the scowl that's spreading across his face, pecking him hesitantly. I draw back after a second, waiting for his reaction; his eyes are on mine, wide with disbelief, and then narrowing with longing. He smirks and grabs me up in his arms, pressing his lips to mine and slowly, sensually starting to draw patterns into my back.
My hands go to his hair, to his shirt, pressing my fingertips into his chest after loosening a few buttons here and there; his skin is warm and beneath it muscular, and I can't keep my hands off of it. But I'm going to have to stop sooner or later because we're at school – a fact which both he and I started to forget.
That is until my friends start wolf whistling from their spot next to the library. I smile, beginning to do the buttons back up I've undone and then, pulling away, catch sight of his crazy hair. I stifle a snort and bring my hands to his hair, trying to smooth it out for him. Clark, perturbed at the disruption, eyes my lips.
"There'll be plenty of time for you to defile my orifice later." I tease him and he turns his eyes to mine; in each of them a questioning quality. Blinking, I tilt my head at him, "What?"
"This kissing; it means what I think it means right?" he wants to know.
"It means I like you, I'm sorry for being stubborn – and that I'm letting you win." I tell him nonchalantly, even though I feel anything but nonchalant about my decision.
"Good – because I was holding back before, you know, I can so beat your ass at wrestling now." Clark smirks at me, mock-punching me in the shoulder. Snorting I roll my eyes, pushing him in the chest and trying to make him stumble; but he doesn't move. His eyes meet mine, and they glint mischievously. The douche has been holding himself back.
"You're on," I say, and look towards the gym equipment shed which has been mysteriously unlocked, "let's have at it."
Clark wraps an arm around my waist, squeezes and kisses the top of my forehead, murmuring, "Let's."
I think this is somehow unfinished. But I can't be bothered thinking right now, lol. I have to do my english lit assignment and my dog wants me to walk him so - if you have any suggestions? :P Or perhaps you like it as it is. I don't know. It was driving me nuts. I'm gonna update Bam as soon as possible - blame school! And I'll try and get it all written because you know what next month is...NOVEMBER! Nanorimo.
LOVE YOUS ALLLLSSS ;D