Float

Chapter 1: Hangover

Above is kinda how I imagined Chris ^^^^ This is technically a sequel (prequel) to my first book in the series, Drown, however it can be read as a stand alone. I hope you guys like it, and let me know what you think! :)

-Aiyani

I sat in the on-campus coffee shop with a scowl etched into my features. My floppy, sandy-blonde hair was tousled, and sticking out in all directions, while my sky-blue eyes were hidden behind a basic pair of dark sunglasses. All around me, the sounds of people chattering, chairs scraping, and even fingers clicking across keyboards pounded against my skull. I sat all the way in a darkened corner in the back, nursing a hot, caramel latte -- with an extra shot of espresso and oat milk for good measure -- close to my chest. The plastic rim was pressed against my chapped lips, the steamy vapor rising from the opening caressing my features with its soothing heat. It was a small comfort, but the only one I had at that moment.

Long story short, I felt like shit; the result of a chaotic night of drinking and partying the previous evening. I was supposed to have been in my room, studying and preparing for an upcoming test I had. I was also supposed to have been in bed, and asleep by no later than midnight. Any hope for these goals was quickly dashed, however, when Conor had knocked (barged) on my door. As the story goes, one thing led to another, and I ended up attending a party until 3 am, by which time I checked out in the form of passing out... in a bathtub... in a near-stranger's home.

I'd barely woken up in enough time to get a coffee before my first class of the day, but based on the nausea rolling through me in sharp waves, I was considering ditching.

"Chris!" I heard a deep voice call out my name across the room, causing me to flinch from the loud echo pounding against my brain.

Speak of the devil in a leather jacket.

Conor made short work of crossing the distance between the coffee shop's entrance, and where I sat in my wallow-y little corner of pity and self-loathing.

"Conor!" I forced out the half-yell back, sarcasm and agitation clear in my voice. Just that little bit of exertion on my vocal chords was enough to cause a massive episode of vertigo. To try and counteract the way the room swayed around me, I placed my coffee cup on the table in front of me, and my chin on the lid.

"Dude, you look like you just went three rounds with a brick wall and lost," Conor chuckled amusedly, plopping down in the seat across from my own. The screeches on the tiled floor had my brows pressing together on my forehead, and I almost -- almost -- listened to the voice in my head telling me to punch my best friend in the face.

"'M not in the mood, Conor," I stated tiredly, taking in the masculine form leaning against the smooth tabletop.

Conor was basically what you'd expect to get if you mixed a skater boy with a jock. His bulky biceps and sturdy abdomen showed the passion he held for his place on the university's track team. He was muscled, as he must be to keep good stamina for running, but he wasn't overly so. It was just enough muscle that he maintained a sort of crossing balance between bulky, and lean. It wasn't too much muscle though, in the sense that it wouldn't slow him down, or make him look like a gross blob of flesh and veins. The skater-boy side came from his overall sense of style; that style being graphic t-shirts with a leather jacket, worn out skinny jeans hanging low on his hips, and a pair of red and black skate shoes. His dark-brown hair was a little longer than most our age, the ends barely caressing his jawline, and was covered by a loose, black beanie.

Like I said, mesh between Jock, and emo skater that the world has probably never seen until now.

"Well, call it revenge for ditching me this morning," Conor replied with a smug grin, before reaching across the table and grabbing my latte out from under me.