Prince Charmings (BOOK ONE)

13

"He sounds like a major douchebag," Clark announced.

The guy was half splayed on his desk chair, listlessly swinging side to side as he entertained himself by loosely throwing a baseball between hands. I laid on the floor, his carpet plush and doing wonders for the kink in my back. I had been on my feet for only a few hours, shelving books, but the strain had started to set in. Which meant I wasn't the best company for Clark, who I was scrambling to have time with as it was.

"Look on the bright side. No play means I get my Number One back," he chuckled, dropping the ball to his chest before rolling my way. His socked foot kicked me in the chest before a frown crossed his features. "Okay, get that tortured puppy look off your face. I didn't ask you to come over just so you could cry into my carpet over Deli Meats."

"I'm not crying, asshole," I huffed, sitting up far enough to glare at Clark. Though it didn't do much good since I was practically head-on with his crotch, housed comfortably in a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, the image of which made me slam my head back to the ground immediately. "Plus you called me over here to help with your history report as if I know anything about 1940's Germany."

"Didn't you do a report on the Cold War last year for extra credit?" Clark asked, furrowing his brow at the incredulous look I gave him.

"What?"

"You do know that the Cold War was between us and Russia, right? Jesus, Clark, do you read, like, anything?" I scoffed, earning a harder kick to my side.

"Okay, Cold War is a touchy subject for you," he muttered before getting out the chair, dropping into a squat by my bag. "I'm gonna steal some loose-leaf, hopefully, get at least an outline done for Mr. Franks to read."

When Clark pulled out a folded set of pages that were definitely not my loose-leaf pad I scrambled to my feet.

"I'll get it for you," I said, going to pull the pages from his hand. Clark sent me a look, jerking them out of reach before clambering onto his bed.

"What're you hiding Bow-Bow, love letters to Jessica or something?" he smirked, unfolding the page before rolling his eyes. "The fucking script. If you have such a hard-on for drama why not just write your own?"

"Fuck you," I said, dropping onto the foot of the bed as Clark shuffled to the headboard, the ceiling brushing against his shaved head. "Just give them back. I forgot to toss them out since there's no point in rehearsing it. Spencer's not coming back, he made it very clear."

Clark mumbled an affirmative, flipping the pages haphazardly before his eyebrows all but flew off his face.

"Beau, you didn't tell there was tongue action in this little play of yours," he smirked before blanching. "And not just with SW. You are aware this says you'd have to kiss another dude, right?"

"Yeah, why do you think Spencer was in such a hurry to quit." I scoffed, dropping back against Clark's sheets to stare at his ceiling. A few posters were taped to it alongside a couple blown up shots of the swim and baseball team. A creased photo of Tommo, Clark, and I as kids sat on his nightstand, our grinning faces staring back at me when I tipped my eyes its way.

"So shouldn't you be relieved? You don't have to kiss him, plus you don't have to waste time on that shitty play," he repeated.

"No play means no hours cut down. And believe it or not, wasting time sat on my ass watching other people act is better than being screamed at by children in the library for not doing voices when reading Harry Potter aloud."

"You gotta do voices man," Clark said, affronted. "Dumbledore requires a voice. Snape requires a voice, if you even dare."

"Jesus Christ."