Page 10 of Smut
It’s a great way to pass the time in an otherwise boring class, even if I do feel like I’ve resorted to being an obnoxious teenager at times. But poking fun at how uptight she is and how she takes class—and I’m guessing everything in life—way too seriously is completely different than having to work with her. It’s not that I have a lot of vested interested in this class or my final grade, but I do want to pass—no I need to pass—and get my bloody degree over with. Something that once seemed easy looks to be a whole lot harder.
As soon as class was over, I saw her make a beeline for our teacher. I knew she was trying to get out of it, but I’m pretty sure the professor has it in for me. More than that, she’s stubborn and won’t budge. So I let this be Amanda’s battle while I resigned to having her as a thorn in my side for the rest of the semester.
In fact, knowing how seriously Amanda takes the class, and herself, I know she’s going to be a total control freak over the project. That’s fine. More control for her, less work for me. I guess the only good thing is that whatever we end up writing, I don’t think it will be romance. What I’ve noticed from Amanda’s writing in class is that she veers toward darkness, raw reality, and a lot of fantasy that’s just one step away from playing World of Warcraft in her parents’ basement and attending Comic Cons so that she can stalk her favorite wizard from a long ago cancelled TV show.
Of course I’m just guessing. I don’t know much about her, but I’m also in no hurry to find out. The only appealing aspect of this girl is her hair and her arse. Her hair is the color of cayenne pepper and cinnamon, and her arse, well I wouldn’t mind coloring it that way with my palm. It might take a few smacks, but they would be worth it. She’ll pretend to be too virginal and stuck up to try it but I’ll wear her down with the promise of my big dick. Not that I’ve ever fantasized about this scenario.
I’m about to text my friend Heath and ask if he wants to grab a drink at Spinnakers, my favorite pub (and thankfully not the same pub the Nair-wielding wench works at), when I get a call from my father asking me if I can pick up my stepbrother Kevin from school and drop him off at the shop.
I say yes, even though every time I step foot in my father’s store, I end up running the cash and closing. I know my dad is prepping me for when I take over the business, and even though I’m pretty much getting my business degree just to keep him happy, I still have mixed feelings about the whole thing. It’s like I haven’t quite come to terms with the way my life is going, and I don’t dare even think about it.
Kevin’s elementary school is near the university, so I get in my Challenger (black, 1972, nickname: Mr. Mean), turn up Jack White’s “Missing Pieces,” and pull up to the usual spot. I smile broadly at the moms walking past, and even wider for the MILFs who ooze desperation and pent-up sexual frustration. They all know I’m Kevin’s stepbrother by now and not some pedo, though I’m disappointed that I haven’t been propositioned by any of them yet. Though there was that one time…
It’s not long before I spot Kevin, and unfortunately I get to see his face fall the moment he sees me. It’s not that Kevin doesn’t like me, but we’ve only really gotten to know each other this last year. Despite our age and differences, I think we get on like Donkey Kong.
But I’ve been picking him up more and more these days, either from school or his friends’ houses. My dad is always busy with the store, and because he’s on the verge of bankruptcy, he can’t hire any help. Angelica, my stepmother—Kevin’s mum—seems to always be working late nowadays. She’s a corporate lawyer who just made partner eight months ago, and even though her pay raise means my dad’s store can stay afloat for now, it also means more hours.
I’m not sure if the situation is helping them much, but I try and stay out of their relationship. My dad and mum divorced when I was young. I was born here in Victoria and when I was six my mum whisked me back to her hometown of Yorkshire, England. I’ve been here a few times, and Angelica and Kevin have made it to the UK once, but until recently I wasn’t exactly close with any of them, my father included.
“Hey, Blake,” Kevin says to me as he opens the door, sounding like a despondent twenty-something stoner instead of a nine-year-old kid. Though with Kevin’s long dark hair and his penchant for wearing a cape to school sometimes, he could pass the part.
“Hey, loser,” I tell him, reaching over to muss up the top of his head. He wrenches away from me with a look of disgust. “You know, you think you could sound happier about being picked up from school in the world’s coolest car.”
He glares at me, so sullen. “It’s not the world’s coolest car. It’s the world’s oldest car.”
I bristle. “Well it’s better than your friends and their lame minivans.”
Good one, Crawford.
“No,” he counters with a haughty scowl. “Jill Carroll’s mom drives a Porsche Cayenne. That’s a Porsche. That’s expensive and way better than this piece of shit.”
“Hey,” I snap at him. “No car is better than Mr. Mean. I bet Jill Carroll’s daddy bought the car as a present, saying he’s sorry for shagging the maid.” I pause, Kevin’s eyes widening as he takes this new information in. “Also, don’t say shit. It’s bad and I don’t want another lecture from your mother about how your language is going downhill over the last year.”
He flops dramatically against the seat, his head lolling on the headrest. “Whatever. She doesn’t care enough about me to even notice.”
Ah, fuck. The little bastard has a way of cutting deep.
“She cares, Kevin. A lot.”
“Then why isn’t she here?” he mumbles.
“You know she’s working.”
“She’s always working.”
“Well, maybe she’s trying to buy a Porsche Cayenne of her own so you don’t have to ride in this ancient piece of shit with me.” I grin at him, hoping he’ll return the favor.
“Maybe,” is all he says, staying just as sullen as before. I start the car and we drive off, and I don’t even have to look to know that Mr. Mean’s engine is turning the heads of all the MILFs in the parking lot. Take that, Jill Carroll’s mum.
“How is Fluffy?” he suddenly asks me.
My grip tightens briefly on the wheel and I exhale. “Fluffy is fine.”
“Not giving you any trouble?”
“No,” I say, then mutter under my breath, “thank god.”
“Have you given him lots of cuddles?”