the bet → brad simpson | ✓

9

My legs felt weak the next day, and I was surprised I made it downstairs without falling. I got myself something to help with the sore head and I walk into the lounge, noticing Brad watching TV.

"Good morning," he says and his voice is low and husky, sitting up properly and turning the volume down on the TV. "How are you feeling?"

"Not that you actually care, but absolute crap," I huff and he chuckles at me. Was my suffering that humorous to him?

"That's what happens when you find yourself drinking all night."

"How come you didn't go?" I say and he raises an eyebrow. "To the party, obviously. I mean, you're meant to be this big bad boy supposedly: getting into all these fights. Aren't you meant to go partying all the time, too?"

"I guess," he shrugs, sinking into the sofa slightly. "I just wasn't feeling particularly. . . party-ish."

I small oh was all I managed to say before I turned to the TV, not really interested in what was on.

"Do you go to parties often?" His voice pulls my attention away and I turn to him once more, shaking my head. "I guess your hangover's bad then."

"Yeah, usually I don't drink at parties anyway," I say and he nods, acting disinterested in the conversation with me anymore.

Show after show passed in silence and I feel myself getting more and more tired, and my headache growing even worse. Eventually Brad leaves and disappears upstairs, and I lay myself on the couch and sigh, hoping to sleep my headache away.

I drift off to sleep and stay in the slumber for about an hour before I'm shaken awake by Brad and I rub my eyes, sitting up.

"I'm making breakfast—what do you want?" He asks and I shrug. "Helpful. I'll make you some bacon and shit."

"I don't want any shit–" I begin and then I realise what he means. "Never mind: tell me when it's done."

I sit up as he walks away—he's changed from his pyjama bottoms to some black Adidas bottoms and a tight, white shirt, showing off his prominent muscles. I watched as he walked into the kitchen, deciding to get up to make myself some tea.

"Do you want any?" I ask as I boil the kettle and I get a grunt in return. Assuming that was a yes, I pull two mugs out of the cupboard and put the teabag in cup.

Brad was making some bacon and beans and toast for breakfast—one for me and one for him.

"When does your sister come back?" I ask, trying to engage a conversation.

"Dunno." He shrugs and keeps his back to me and I sigh. How blunt.

When the water is boiled, I pour it into the cups and add some milk before stirring.

"Do you take sugars?" I ask and he holds up two fingers and I put some sugars in.

I hand him his tea and sit at the breakfast bar, watching him make breakfast. I noticed the way he kept his hand at the edge of the equipment so none of the bacon fat would spit onto him.

When he's done, he slides the food onto the plate, sliding one carefully across to me before passing me a knife and fork. I begin eating, enjoying every bite of the appetising meal.

"Let's do something fun today."

I look up from my plate of food and almost drop my knife and fork. He wanted to do something with me. . . willingly?

"Like what?" I ask, trying to act calm and not pinch myself to make sure this wasn't just me dreaming.

"I don't know. It's raining so we'll have to improvise with something inside," he shrugs and sits down next to me as I finish my breakfast and put my knife and fork down. "Do you bake?"

"Not well, but I do," I nod at him and he purses his lips, obviously thinking. Last time I baked anything was a couple of years ago, but my mom banned me from cooking since—now I can only make microwave meals since their pretty simple to use.

"How terrible are you?" He asks and I raise an eyebrow—I love how he assumes I'm really terrible (not that he's wrong). "You said you don't bake well, and I don't wanna bake with someone who could potentially burn down my oh-so humble abode."

"I'm terrible," I admit. "My own mom doesn't trust me to bake."

"Okay, we're not baking," he laughs and stands up, stretching. "Or I might, and then make you watch because I'm cruel like that. . ."

"As long as I can have some when you're done baking." I reply and he winks, pulling different ingredients out of the cupboards and all the bowls and stuff.

"If you touch any of this, I'll hit you." He warns, obviously joking. I hope.

"And I'll kick you in your balls. Again."

➳

"And. . . they're in!" He cheers, and I laugh. This past half an hour of baking, I've seen a different side to Brad that I don't think many people get to see. He was happy and playful and I didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable when I was with him. "Now, we wait: what shall we do?"

"I'm terrible at ideas. You tell me." I shrug and he sits down next to me, leaning on the side.

"Well, how about I get to know you?" He asks and I hesitate for a moment before nodding. "Twenty questions?"

"What are you? A child?" I laugh at him.

"Hey! A child? Really?" He whines and I roll my eyes, grinning.

"Yeah, I'm thinking around a three-year-old's age." I reply with a smug smile, thankful he's not snapping out of me for taking the piss out of him like he usually does.

"No, no, no!" He shakes his, pouting his bottom lip out like a three year old would. "I'm at least an eight year old."

"Nah, at most six," I wink and he laughs. I heard Brad Simpson laugh: not a strained laugh, or a false laugh, or menacing or sarcastic laugh—a genuine laugh.

"Anyway," his smile never falters off of his face. "Shall I go first or you?"

"First at what?"

"Twenty questions, duh," he says and I sigh.

"I've never really played it, to be honest," I admit and he stares at me in disbelief.

"Twenty questions is where we go into the deep stuff," he explains.

"Deep stuff? Oh god, like what?" I begin to panic slightly—what if he asks about my dad? Or my actual home-life?

"The deep stuff," he repeats. "Like what your favourite colour is." As soon as he finishes his last sentence, I calm down, the panic falling out of my system and my shoulders instantly reacting—of course he's joking.

I smile, "what is your favourite colour?"

"Depends on my mood," he shrugs. "When I'm sad I like the dark colour's but when I'm happy I like the more vibrant colours. You?"

"I like the colour red," I smile. "Not blood-red or dark red. I mean the simple red—the lipstick kind of red."

"See, this game brings out the deep stuff," he smiles. "Now, my turn—what's your favourite song at the moment?"

"Hm. . . I'm really digging Hannah Montana at the moment," I reply and he rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me you're a hater!"

"Hannah Montana died ages ago," he shrugs and I gasp at him.

"How dare you?!" I shake my head disappointedly. "Hannah Montana is as alive as ever."

"Wake up, Tas, she's not even a thing anymore—it's all about Katy Perry and Taylor Swift," he rolls his eyes again.

"Boy, you just started a war."