He was the boy on campus everyone strayed from. His looks, his demeanor, his everything was always so dark and formidable. Is there a possibility anyone can change him, or is that who he will be for the rest of his life? Stuck with nameless women, e...
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Steele's point of view
⇋ Happy move-in day, bro. The image of the gray colored text message kept replaying in my brain once every fucking minute of the day like clockwork. No amount of physical exercise up and down the four flights of stairs could get me to stop thinking about it all fucking morning. Atticus is going to ruin this for me soon. I'd be lucky to last another weekend with Fleur not completely detesting me.
As I drove in the direction of Fleur's old apartment, I pulled my phone out of my front pocket to go to Atticus' unsaved contact. It's been over seven hours since he sent his stupid congratulations, but I don't care. I need to settle this.
Where are you? We need to talk. I quickly typed and sent with my left hand. I hesitantly put my phone back down to my seat and I felt my jaw clench as I tried my hardest to focus on the road in front of me. I just don't have the fucking energy for it.
I'm exhausted. I haven't slept once since Monday night and doing all of this heavy lifting isn't helping shit. I had to go back to the hotel last night because I thought maybe I'd be able to get a few hours of sleep there away from Fleur, but I couldn't. Maybe it was the giant ass espresso I drank the day before, but I honestly doubt it. I have a feeling it's my conscious keeping me up. I couldn't sleep when I was at her apartment and I couldn't sleep when I was alone at the hotel. And I doubt I'll be able to sleep tonight either. Going on day three without being able to shut my eyes longer than thirty minutes at a time and things are not looking good.
I feel stuck between a fucking rock and a hard place. I'm damned if I do, and I'm fucking damned if I don't with this bet shit.
My phone buzzed in my hand and I rushed to pick it up to find a message from a string of numbers saying, At my place. I'll save a hit for you.
I inhaled deeply and whipped my car around at the nearest light to head in the opposite direction of town toward his run down crack house. It took a few long, silent, crippling minutes in my car, but I finally made it to his unintentionally yellow tinted house with dirtied, curtain covered windows. I pulled my El Camino into his gravely drive way next to a familiar black Thunderbird that was parked behind his run down car.
For the most notorious drug dealer selling to the University of Washington, you'd think he'd own better things. I know for a fact that he has more than enough money for it. He's just fucking pretentious and probably thinks he looks cooler with all this decrepit shit of his.
A long, annoyed sigh escaped me as I pulled my keys from the ignition to start my short walk to his front door. I knocked once against the chipped white paint only to be greeted by a faint, "come in," and a cough from inside. My left hand twisted the doorknob and I walked into his dim, loud ass house. It's obvious as shit that he's been smoking. It fucking reeks of weed.
"Steele!" Atticus happily greeted from his couch. My eyes found his through the foggy air as I tried to instantly glare him down, but for some reason couldn't. I swear it's because of how drained I am. "I'm surprised you even texted me back. I see now all I have to do is start being nicer," he joked as someone turned the corner of the hallway into the living room with us. "Send a little congrats text every once in awhile. Positive feedback must be your thing now."
