my fist and ryder's jaw

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Sometimes, I want to punch Ryder Hudson right in his asymmetrical jaw.

After all, there are some people that you want to just punch.

And not just any punch, either. I'm talking about one of those good ones, the ones where your knuckles just connect with that jaw and you know that you've done everything right in the world.

Now, I don't condone violence on a normal basis, despite the fact that my own mother is a firm believer of La Chancla™, what with being a firm Latina with a heart of steel yet honey at the same time.

However, at this moment in time, with Ryder Hudson laughing his ass off, saying some stupid shit about women or describing in disgusting detail a fucking freshman that his eyes are wandering to, I am more than willing to bend my morals.

"She seems easy." He laughs.

You seem punchable, I mean to say, instead it comes out as, "she's a freshman."

We're on one of the outdoor tables, me seated on the cerulean table top, and him leaning off to the side, scoping the girls around us like a fucking predator. My legs swing back and forth, my combat boots swinging with me.

The wind whistles, and so does Ryder. From the seats at the table, Cath Greene giggles from next to Ella McConnell, the two of them propped onto the chair, hair in waves as though it's school photo day, and glossy lips twitching into smirks as though they can't find anything wrong with what Ryder's just said.

He raises his eyebrows, almost as if asking, "and your point?"

I have to wonder how my knuckles will feel against his skin. He, as per usual, doesn't wait for me to respond, just leans forward, tongue tracing over his bottom lip.

I'm tempted to offer him some chapstick. 

"Don't worry, you don't have to be jealous, babe." A wink.

That final statement instantaneously brings me to my list of Things About Ryder Hudson That I Do Not Like:

1. His haircut. Tousled in that typical fuckboy way, he seems to be adamant about running his hand through those dirty blond waves at any chance he gets.

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