Aria DeLang is cursed with three things: Sasquatch height, crippling social anxiety, and an Honorary Dick. That means Aria's love life is as non-existent as James Harden's defense.
The first two she was born with, the third was an unintentional gif...
I felt around for my alarm and slapped the snooze button. I'd forgotten to reset it the night before, so it still went off at 5am. I tried to go back to sleep, but I spent the next hour staring at a dark ceiling, stewing over everything that had transpired.
I groggily rolled out of bed, skipped breakfast, and headed out the door.
I froze when I stepped outside.
Sitting on the top step, was a lone piña colada Sobe bottle. I didn't need a note to know where it came from.
It was warm to the touch, which meant it'd been sitting there for quite some time. My heart fluttered at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, but I quickly smashed it down. I knew why I thought Roscoe was an ass, but why did he?
Roscoe had acted as any Prince of Pepperwood would — he'd party, swap spit with the head cheerleader, then assert his dominance over the other males in the room. That's what he was made to do.
Considering our past, and the fact that I hated him, I'd grown awfully comfortable in his presence. I got it twisted — Roscoe was Roscoe because he was good with people, not because he was genuine. He'd finessed me just like every other bitch.
Sucks to suck, Aria.
Right before the last period of the day, I stopped by my locker to switch out a textbook.
"DeLang, you're coming to my party right?" Katie asked with a giddy shiver as she walked by. I smiled. At least I had that to look forward to.
"Mos def." I answered. Katie gave a little fist pump and continued on her way.
I pressed my locker shut, the metal vibrating loudly. Roscoe Tate was on the other side of the door, leaning against the wall, foot kicked back, hands shoved in his gray sweatpants. He was wearing a navy blue, Nike, crewneck and a longer white tee was poking out at the bottom, almost like a ruffle.
The freshly-bleached tips of his burst fade mullet made the contrast between his golden eyes, charcoal eyebrows, and dark skin all the more striking.
I made a mental note to close my mouth, lest I resemble a fish gaping for air. The gods only knew that he didn't need an extra ego boost.
"I need to talk to you." He said flatly and kicked off the wall.
I turned on my heel and headed in the opposite direction.
How did he know where my locker was? Roscoe never used this hallway.
I could hear him growl under his breath, but he used those long legs to catch up to me a second later.
He swerved in front of me and cut me off. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he said, "Look, about that kiss with Whitney—"
I tried to step around him—I did not want to hash out the details of his make-out session—but his large frame nearly filled the hall, so he hardly needed to move to block me again.
"I'm not your therapist, Tate." I snapped and he winced. I could see his mind working as he hunted for another way to explain his dilemma.
He held his hands up, "I'm sorry I interrupted you, your turn. I should've let you speak for yourself." He said diplomatically.
Ugh. This cat didn't get it.
I stared at him blankly, then tossed my hands up as if to say, "Um... okay."
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