Gezza opened his eyes, and the dim light of Elena lamp was stabbing his eyes.
His back hurt and he was sprawled on her couch of leather, sticky under his hoodie of sweat.
His ripped sneakers were hanging on the armrest and knotted. Elena scowled against the couch, headipped over, dark hair spilling over her bare shoulder, tank top lying slack over.
Her low inhalations blew jasmine, her contours up and down.
There was a twinge in his chest, a faint echo of his fall of night before. Fuck, still kicking.
Book messing with me, but I am the goddamn king. He stretched his eyes, wiped his knuckles, and moved, the couch squeaking.
Elena, lashing his eyebrows. "Gezza?" Her voice was deep and drowsy, but her gaze was on him, playbook-crazed and hungry.
She reached, yoga pants gripping her thighs, and crawled onto the couch, her hand skimming his knee and sending a shiver with her nails.
You frightened me, going dead like that.
His throat went dry and his jeans clenched in spite of the pain in his bones. She's still hooked. Playbook's got her good.
"Yep, I guess, I got tired", he said, and pawed at his greasy hair.
His hand shook in the direction of his backpack with the heat of the Playbook running through the canvas.
"You good?" Gezza said, Her smirk increased, cutting her nails across his arm through his hoodie, his crotch heating.
"Better with you here."Her lips got separated, her breath was hot, and she leaned closer. "Stay."
She is pleading to get a second round, goddamn.
His heart sailed away but his legs were heavy. "Gotta boune", he said, cracking his voice.
His feet dropped, hitting the carpet in sneakers and he picked his backpack slung it over his shoulder.
Her hand was still resting on his arm, her fingers still warm, Elena pouted.
He yanked up, fumbling to the door, with its handle chilled in his palm. Can't keep up. Not now.
Night air stung him, and the chirps of the crickets and the buzzing of a streetlight in the yellow light upon the broken walks.
His sneakers marred the grass, dripping blades that were clinging to the soles.
His chest pained him once more, more keenly. Screwing me, but worth it book. Mia, Tara, Elena? Legend shit.
He grinned and tossed his keys jangling in his pocket, but there was a shadow dashing around the corner, with broad shoulders in the wavering light. Mike. Cigarette smoking, gazing at Gezza, a twisted expression.
"Hey, asshole!" The voice of Mike was like gravel. He walked on, crunching on his boots, flicking his cigarette to the floor, sparking it.
"What the hell were you doing in Elena house? His knuckles turned white as his fists clenched looming nearer.
The gut of Gezza strangled, and his fingers clenched on the backpack strap. Shit, he got me now.
"N-nothin, man", stammered; legs twitching to run. And his sneakers scuffled pavement, heart skipping. No don't want this meathead messing up my high.
Mike sneered, and made another step, the odour of smoke about him. "Bullshit. You sneaking around my girl?" His eyes were slit and his eyes shone with anger and a vein throbbed in his neck.
Gezza got tight in the throat, and his keys were slipping out of his perspiring palm.
Gotta get outta here. He ran, his sneakers clanging on the sidewalk, his backpack jumping, his screams, Mike screaming behind. "Get back here, you creep!"
The legs felt burning, his breath ragged and Gezza hit his mom porch the paint flaking under his hand. He forced the key into the lock and turned it and slipped into the house slamming the door behind him breathing heavily.
"Gerald?" The voice of his mom came through, like a stabbing blade.
She was half-closing the kitchen window, the apron still covered with grease, the gray hair standing on end, the spoon still in the middle of a stir.
Her eyes flicked angrily up and down at him, then at the house of Elena. "You comin' outta Elena's place? You datin' her now?"
She snorted, lips curling. "Was she drunk or what." She burst a laugh.
Gezza clenched his jaw, balled his fingers, bit his palm with keys. Fuck her, always mocking me.
"It is not your business, Ain't it," he swore, with a low voice, walking away.
His sneakers were clomping down the steps of the basement, the place filled with stale socks and nacho dust.
She believes that I am a joke, like those high school jerks. Greasy Gezza, perpetually the butt. He threw his backpack on the couch, with a squeak of its hinges, and threw his door open.
He dropped into his gaming chair, where vinyl rubbed his thighs. It hurt his chest, not necessarily because of the run--reminders of laughing at the cafeteria, of her smirk when she looked at him, of children pushing him into lockers.
"Fuck 'em all. I got the Playbook now. They'll see." He grabbed the book out of his bag, the leather being warm, the runes shinening under his desk lamp.
He turned it over, pages cracking, Elena, Mia, and Tara names barely glowing.
His thumb rubbed against another page, rough handwriting: Every level has a limit. Each limit has a reward. Lower rewards, safer you stay.
"What the hell?" he said to himself, with aching head, squinting. Levels? Rewards? Some RPG bullshit?
His fingers were trembling, and the words were smearing.
He took his laptop, which flicked its screen and entered the text into an AI decoder application, fingers clumsily typing on the keys.
The outcome showed: Progressive risk, hierarchical structure. Increasing power requires increased sacrifice. He bit his beard, frowning. Sacrifice? My soul? Nah, I'm good.
His eyes were sinking, weariness hitting him. He threw the book on the couch and crawled to his mattress and sacked out with his sneakers in his hand.
The daylight had broken in upon the window of the basement and dust was flying about.
Gezza awoke, in a bad temper, his head clear, but angering. Still pissed.
Everybody believes I am a loser, Ma, Mike. Naked, apocalyptic in smell, and showered, with hot water stinging his naked flesh.
Instead, he drew on a more worn-out hoodie and sneakers that had worn-out laces.
His mother was at home, making oatmeal, apron cleaner. "I am sorry I teased you, Gerald", said she, smirking. "Didn't mean to ruffle ya. Haul the garbage away, however, as you are going away".
He glared, spotting the trash bags--his own junk, chip bags, energy drink cans from his cleaned-up room.
She's still screwing with me. "Fine," he growled, grabbing the bags, plastic crinkling, and hauled them outside, the taco stench hitting his nose.
He dumped them in the bin, lid clanging, and started down the street, aiming for the gaming convention downtown. Gonna score some nerd chicks' names. Playbook's my ticket.
He cut through an alley, gravel crunching under his sneakers, air damp with piss and garbage. Footsteps echoed behind. He spun, heart lurching. Mike stepped out, cigarette dangling, two guys flanking him--big, buzzcuts, leather jackets, fists clenched. "Thought you could run, huh?" Mike snarled, cracking his knuckles, eyes glinting with rage. Gezza's backpack felt heavy, the Playbook's warmth pulsing. Shit, nowhere to go.