Sneakers that Gezza wore skipped on the gravel of the alley, his backpack banged against his spine, the heat of the Playbook vibrating through the canvas.
Mike leaned forward, with his dangling cigarette in his mouth, his goonies snapping their knuckles, leather jackets creaking.
Their shadows had stuck Gezza to a dumpster, whose smell of piss-and-rot was suffocating.
His heart thumped, his perspiration streaming on his greasy hair. Fuck, no way out. Gotta try.
"You think you can screw my girl and walk, creep?" Mike snarled his heels crunching, cigarette sparking, flicking it.
"Think again", He leapt, fist striking the jaw of Gezza.
Gezza nearly fell, flushed cheekedly. Shit, that's bad. I can't let him win..
He grunted swinging, fist brushing on the shoulder of Mike, feeble arm.
Mike didn't mov he stood and laughed, "Oh my God am scared", he mocked him
The goons all burst out laughing as Mike mocked him.
One of the goons seized Gezza hoodie, ripping it, the fist of another broke his ribs.
Fightback fool, fight back Gezza cursed himself, squeezing air, sneakers whistled.
am not a fighter. Never was. He struck again, in vain, with stinging knuckles on the dumpster.
"Pathetic", Mike said, he grabbed Gezza by the neck, his breathe smelled of smoke.
"Still that dirty loser". He battered Gezza into the dumpster, rattling metal, and spit, the wet glob hitting Gezza on the cheek, and rolling down through his shaggy beard.
The goons laughed, one kicking him in the shin causing pain to go up.
Gezza crumpled, gravel biting his palms, backpack sliding off. Not again. Not like high school.
Memories strike--cafeteria insults, fist blows in his face in front of the crowd of Mia and their friends, their laughter killing him worse than blood.
His eyes were sore, the spit and tears were weeping, his body was clenched.
They always win. Sniffing, snorting, snorting, Mike walked away, with goons after him, and their snickers died.
Gezza rose, and his knees shook, and he wiped his face with his sleeve, and the spit was smearing.
His mouth pained, his bones hurt, but his heart was on fire. "I will get my revenge...." He muttered as he dusted his body. "I'll get on your mom".
Gonna hit him where it hurts. He fumbled his playbook, whose leather burned the canvas, and stumbling on his sneakers ran out, clutching his backpack.
As the sun rose the next day, The highway of St. Ivory was deserted and the bakery odor was faint. Don't know her full name. Gotta be smart.
He recalled the house of Mike which he had crashed at a high school party, a squat brick house a couple of blocks down the road.
With every stride of his sneakers he jostled his ribs on the sidewalk. You can do this. Just classic delivery guy scam.
He reached a corner shop, snatching a cardboard box, which was empty, and taped it, and the crackling could be heard. His pen wrote on the side Gift, ink smudging.
This'll work. Get her name, write it, own her. The Playbook was beating him with its heat in his bag, cold burning his heart. Ignore it. I'm in control.
The house of Mike parents was old and dingy, the grass uneven, and there was one porch-light, flickering. His bruised jaw covered by his hoodie, which Gezza lifted up, and a box in his hands, the edges scraping his palms.
He rapped, and knuckles crashed upon the door, heart pounding. Come on, Linda, answer.
The door was creaking and when it opened up, Mike mom stood exposed.
In her mid-40s, chubby, and with auburn hair, which is pulled in a loose bun, with the ends falling around her heart-shaped face.
The green eyes shone with caution and good nature, and wrinkled at the corners. A tight sweater covered her entire breasts, trousers that clung tight on her hips, an apron loosely tied, and powdered with flour.
She scented faintly of honey and flour.
Holy shit, she's a MILF. His jeans grew tighter, though he had pain in his ribs.
"Uh, delivery, ma'am." Gezza said, voice cracking, as he held up the box. "Need to confirm your name." His fingers jerked to his bag pack, the heat on the Playbook pushing him.
Linda scowled and rubbed her hands over her apron, flour puff. "I didn't order anything."
Her voice was sweet and missionary like she was used to pat soothing Mike in his tantrums but her eyes roved over him inquisitively. "Who's this from?"
"It's a uh... A surprise gift", Gezza stammered, and pushed the box, and the tape crinkled. Say your name, come on.
Please tell me your full name so that I can sign off.
She stiffened her neck with a smile, a warm but baffled one. "Okay, it's Linda Maci." Her hands touched her bun, and one of the strands was loosened. "But I'm not expecting--"
Gezza's pulse spiked. Got it. He threw the box on the door, which was only wetened by his thud, and pulled the Playbook out of his bag, turning it over.
"What're you doing." Linda asked—but Gezza didn't bother to respond he got what he wanted. Her name.
His pen scribed Linda Maci, the ink sinking, and glowing, and fading. You're mine.
Mischief in his eyes.
There was a change in the air, and the eyes of Linda opened, and her breath came in short. Flushed, her cheeks, her green eyes darkening, a shy smile, instead of perplexity, came. She was fiddling with her fingers, her apron, her hips.
It's working. Fuck yeah. Gezza smiled and leant forward, and his sneakers scuffed the porch.
"Mind if I come in? Box might need, uh, unpacking." In his voice, he lowered his voice, which was a challenge to her, and his depravity was made possible by the warmth of the Playbook.
The lips of Linda opened, her blush grew deeper, her eyes focused on his lips and then removed." I... yes, come in", said she.
Her voice so much softer, anxious, and withdrew.
She moved her apron and her curves were in the light of the porch. Her scent drew him in and she was holding the door and her fingers shook slightly.
Gezza entered, and the door snapped behind him, and his heart throbbed with victory. We about to be family Mike.