Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Maybe this place won’t be a total drag after all.
Chapter 15
Lawson
There’s a moment that happens when morning first pierces the veil of sleep. I lie there, listening for the sirens and sounds of decay, wondering what disturbances had transpired overnight. And then I feel disappointed, because the world is just as I fucking left it.
When I was little, movies had us believing the apocalypse was imminent and dystopia just around the corner. Any day we’d wake up to society in shambles and anarchy in the streets. The desolated remains of humanity.
Instead, the alarm on my phone orders me to shit, shower, and shave for another day of tedious monotony. Forever on this Ferris wheel of disappointment.
“Get up, man.” Across the room, Silas is already moving around. “You’ll be late again.”
“And yet, I can’t muster a solitary fuck about it.”
“Come on, Lawson. I’m not doing this every day. Get your ass out of bed.”
“Give me a good reason.”
“Give yourself a reason.” His tone is lined with aggravation. He’s already sick of my shit and it’s only the end of our first week. Silas is losing his touch. When we met, I could stretch his patience for at least a semester.
I sigh. “I’d kill for a suicide.”
“Dude.” Silas stops to chastise me with a glare. “That’s morbid.”
“Fine. Maybe we could start a rumor that the fencing coach is running a sex cult of freshmen out of his basement.”
“You need a hobby.”
“What do you think I’m spitballing here?” I swallow a groan, wishing I knew how to explain it. The boredom, and what it does to me.
Trust me, boredom is not an ideal condition for someone with my taste for self-destruction. It’s a gun on the mantel that’s always pointed at my head.
I need constant amusement. I need distraction and perpetual motion. Left to my own devices, I tend to get restless and make a mess of things. Stagnation drags me back inside my own head where I’m reminded why I don’t care to spend much time in there. Turns out, we don’t get along, me and myself.
“I’m taking a sick day,” I tell Silas, watching him walk around in a towel. I let myself linger on the water still dripping down his muscular back for only a moment before redirecting my gaze at the ceiling.
Despite himself, Silas chuckles. “Laziness isn’t a medical condition.”
“I suffer from terminal boredom.”
“And that’s fatal, huh?”
“Could be.”
“Then the cure…” Silas insists, dropping his towel in front of the closet before pulling on some boxers. “Is getting your ass out of bed. I promise nothing interesting will happen if you stay in here jerking off all day.”
“Alright, deal. You jerk me off and I’ll get dressed.”
That gets me a snort. “In your dreams.”
Sometimes. I mean, I can’t lie—it’s definitely crossed my mind more than once. What it might be like to hook up with Silas. If he weren’t straight. But my destructive streak stops just this side of ruining our friendship by nudging that line. Apparently it’s the one thing I hold sacred enough not to set on fire. Anyone else, though? Bring it. When your partner pool is twice the size of most people’s—and with my hedonistic tendencies—sex becomes an endless playground. Male, female, threesomes, orgies, indoors, outdoors…I’m always game.
“Meet you at breakfast. Hurry up.” His shirt still unbuttoned, his jacket and tie in his hand, Silas picks up his backpack to leave.
I don’t bother to shave and make it to the dining hall with just enough time to sit with a coffee and danish, somewhat surprised to see RJ has graced us with his presence. The guy looks genuinely pained to subject himself to the interaction of other humans. From what Fenn says, he’d have more luck bonding with his stepbrother if Fenn were a chatbot.
Still, I respect the mystery. Wouldn’t it be something if the dude turned out to be some black-market kingpin? Running guns and girls to the seediest creeps on the internet. My cameo in a Netflix documentary could be good for a laugh.
“You were on one last night,” Fenn tells me when he comes back with another bowl of cereal.
I furrow my brow. “Was I?”
“Yup. You decided to pick a fight with Duke.”
I crack a smile. It sounds vaguely familiar. “How’d that go?”
Silas grumbles something under his breath.
Before I could press for more details, a short guy with too much gel in his hair walks up to our table. Matt something or other. I’m shit with names. Probably because I’m usually drunk, high, or a combination of both during most introductions.
“Hey, Fenn. This your brother?” Matt asks.
RJ’s gaze lifts from his scrambled eggs. He casts a suspicious look at Fenn, who just shrugs in response.
“Right, yeah. I might have mentioned to a couple people you could offer some homework help,” Fenn confesses.
I grin at the almost complete lack of remorse on Fenn’s part. Like me, he’s more of a beg forgiveness than ask permission kind of guy.