Wicked Summer Games. BxB (Complete)

2. Smarty-pants.

Recovering from my mini heartache, I open the door slowly, wondering and praying that Jamie won't pull off a stupid prank or try to scare me. He is famous for being stupid and everything else in that category.

Every time I visit, he tries to pull off another lame prank. Last time, he dumped a whole cake over my head, letting the foam and cream seep and get stuck in my hair. After cleaning up, I was told that it was my, "welcome home, Luke" cake, and he wasted it. Just like that.

Bastard, that he is.

Carefully, I walk into the house, and surprisingly, my eyes locate him. Jamie Collins, in the flesh and settled on the couch with a bowl of what I suspect is cereal.

For the first time he acts as though I caught him off guard, I don't want to believe this act. I think he has something planned out, but when he lifts his eyebrows in amazement, I realize he was not expecting me.

Did Aunt Nima not tell him I was coming by? And why did he not prank me this time? It feels odd, but either way, I am here now, and I wait patiently for his reaction.

"Smarty-pants?!" He exclaims with a smile ripening on his face, but he doesn't get up from the couch, and I'm thankful because who knows what he will do when he comes closer? Rather, he grabs a spoon and points it in my direction. "I thought your mom was the one coming."

"Oh, it's just-"

"This is smarty-pants," he cuts me off and goes on to introduce me, I suppose. I finally get the energy to look around the room. The usual; same old brown couches, a tiny TV, a brown carpet over the equally brown wooden floors, and nothing new.

"He is my cousin," Jamie continues and goes back to his bowl. The guy is famous for a massive appetite, too. Jamie is always eating something at any given second of the day, could be bubble gums or just anything to keep his mouth busy. I wonder if his jaw does not hurt from all the chewing he does.

When I come back to the present, Jamie has introduced me and is done. So, I am stuck staring at the stranger I was just acquainted with.

And guess what? He is looking back at me; his eyes move to my pants first, then my shirt before finally landing on my face.

Well, if we are going to have a stare-down, I might as well play the part.

I stare and try just as hard not to blink. My eyes are becoming watery with each second I don't blink, but I'm not concerned about that now.

The stranger has dark hair, cut exactly the way I expected, long on the front—covering the side of his forehead—and short at the back. God, I feel the urge to give him a hairbrush. Under that thick murky hair, I can make out dark eyes, now intently staring at me.

His lips are just as full as mine, and I can swear there's a pout on them.

I plop my eyes on his outfit, a crazy green shirt and dark ripped jeans together with black combat boots. Muddy boots.

How did Aunt Nima let him in with shoes on his feet? She is particular about the "no shoes in my house" rule. I even left mine at the door.

The nerve this guy has is sickening.

"Smarty-pants, alright." He scoffs and looks back at the TV.

I squint my eyes, whatever that lame comment is supposed to mean, I don't care.

Though quiet, I have the golden "I don't give a shit" attitude and that is why no one messes with me. Most kids with Asthma and lame like me get bullied every day at school, but I am fucking exceptional.

No one messes with Luke fucking Collins.

Of course, they'd beat my ass in a fight, but they know better.

"Jamie, your mother said to show me to my room," I speak when I conclude that no one will say anything.

"Upstairs, the regular," Jamie says, swooping in another filthy huge spoon of cereal. The infamous Cheerios.

"Okay, I can't. What are you wearing?" The stranger butts in and for a second, I think he is speaking to me. But I refuse to believe he would actually dare, so I don't turn to face him.
"Hey!"

His voice echoes in the room, calling out once more, and even though I meditated twice just now, I look back at him. And there's a grin spread out on his lips, that stupid type.

"Excuse me?" I mumble, hoping for his sake he did not call me.

"What are you wearing?" He repeats, and I am quite dazed that he doesn't flinch under my glares.

On the other hand, this guy is another pain in my ass, and he won't just bow his head because I am glaring at him, so I force my brain to work out a thousand positive, more polite ways to answer him.

But I settled for one, "Clothes." I shrug and his jaw tightens while a smirk creeps its way to my lips.

Yep, we are so not going to be best friends.

And look who doesn't give a damn.

##