Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
No less than six people call him Buck on the way.
It’s moderately quieter in the pool house and there are no bodies fornicating, which is a relief. “Why is everyone calling you Buck?”
“It’s what all my friends call me. You should call me that, too, actually. Only my dad calls me Miller.”
“But why?” The only connection I can make is to a bucking bronco. Which might fit.
He pulls on his front teeth and suddenly they’re in his hand and his mouth is sporting a black gap where they used to be.
“What in the actual fuck?”
“I got a puck to the face last year. Best thing that ever happened to me. Knocked out my front teeth, so now I have these fakies until I can get implants.”
“I still don’t get the nickname.”
“It’s a joke. Everyone knows me as Buck around here. Just roll with it.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, okay then, Buck. You realize there are people making out all over your house, right?”
He looks confused. “I thought I locked the screen door.”
“There are people fucking in my bed.”
“Oh shit. Really? I’ll get them out.”
I grab his wrist before he bolts for the door. He’s way stronger than I am, though, so he drags me along for a few steps. “Wait!”
He comes to an abrupt halt, and I slam into him. His eyes are wide and mostly vacant. He’s so wasted. This is not good.
“How many of these people do you know?”
He shrugs. “Most of them are from my school or my hockey team.”
“And the rest of them?”
He shrugs.
“Not to be a total downer, but you realize we have to clean up this mess tomorrow, right?” And based on his inability to focus on my face for more than two seconds, I’ll be doing the lion’s share of the work involved. Unless I throw him under the bus. That’s looking more appealing the longer I watch him do a weeble wobble impression.
“It’s cool. I’ll take care of it.” He blinks repeatedly. “Let’s get those fuckers out of your room.”
I have little confidence in his ability to put one foot in front of the other, let alone get people to stop banging in my temporary room, but I follow him across the patio, anyway.
He falls into the pool on the way. Which is not a surprise. It helps sober him up a little. He’s accosted by no fewer than four girls in the pool. He strips down to his boxer briefs. Unfortunately, they’re white, so I’m treated to the very clear outline of his peen when he drags himself out of the water.
He continues across the backyard, undeterred, apparently. Again, he’s stopped several times by girls who are very excited by his wet boxers. Eventually, by some miracle, we make it to the house. He drips all over the floor as we pass through the kitchen. He nabs an open bag of chips on the way and shoves his giant mitt in the bag, cramming a handful of chips into his face, half of which end up on the floor. When we reach the living room, there are three couples going at it on various pieces of furniture.
I don’t know what kind of high school he goes to, or whether I’m just extraordinarily sheltered, because I’ve never seen so many exhibitionist teenagers in my entire life. Although I am a Mathlete, and I did accidentally teach one of my teammates how to French kiss without using too much tongue. Because he and Abby are still dating, and I’ve heard rumors about his exceptional kissing skills, I feel justified in taking some credit for that, even if the whole situation was cringey and awkward.
“Hold this for me.” Miller, or Buck, or whatever I’m supposed to call him, hands me the bag of chips.
He cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey! No fucking on my living room furniture! Take it to the backyard.” Chips fly out of his mouth and land on the floor. He wipes his hands on his chest, smearing wet chip crumbs all over his abs and his blond fuzz.
He’s living up to the jock stereotype in spectacular fashion.
He’s a decent guy. But when all these dude-bros get together, their combined testosterone levels reduce their brain function to ten percent.
The couples break apart and hands duck out of tops and bottoms. I don’t want to contemplate too closely the bodily fluids that are currently being wiped on Sidney’s sofa. All the horny teens vacate the living room.
Buck-Miller takes the bag of chips from me, and I follow him upstairs. When we get to my temporary bedroom, he throws open the door. I’ll never be able to unsee the tangle of limbs, or the frankly disturbing act taking place on my bed.
“Is she eating his a—”
Miller-Buck’s hand comes up to cover my eyes. I’m semi-grateful, because I couldn’t look away and I honestly didn’t want to see any more of that, but my eyeballs refused to close.