Page 27 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

It’s a neo-Tudor-style property set in its own plot, which is just as well as there are people in various stages of undress outside, some fucking against the walls or on the grass, while others are smoking weed or vomiting up alcohol.

You know. Just the usual shenanigans that go on in the life of most nineteen-year-old students.

Sexy and I Know Itis on full blast when we step inside. We’re immediately slapped on the back and high-fived by our peers like we deserve recognition just for turning up. It’s what comes with being so popular. Everyone wants to be your new best friend.

“Padraig.” The voice is coming from behind me, so high-pitched that I’m sure the neighborhood dogs will be arriving soon.

I roll my eyes at Fletch before turning around to take in Brittany. She bats her eyelashes at me as she stands there waiting for me to admire her.

Not that I’m in any way interested, but I do the necessary by dropping my gaze to take in the short black tube dress she’s barely wearing, which highlights a worked-hard-for-slim body and long shapely legs. Her tits are clearly plastic, and her dark hair is a result of extensions, or so I’m told.

Suddenly missing Jaine with her unfake everything, I now wish I hadn’t bothered coming. I’d much rather be moping around my room alone.

Going by her reaction, Brittany’s pleased that I’ve turned up and finally paid her some attention, no matter how little. She sashays over with her trusted blonde sidekick Skylar.

“I’m off to get my dick sucked,” Fletch whispers. He’s not even bothered to get changed. He’s still wearing his basketball shorts and workout tank. He waggles his eyebrows at Skylar before taking her hand and dragging her outside.

They’re not a couple or anything like that. At parties like these, most guys expect to get at least a blow job just for showing up, and most girls are only too willing to oblige.

Fellas like me and Fletch can get pretty much anything we want from any girl we want. Given Brittany’s hanging off my arm with her other hand resting on the button of my jeans, it’s pretty clear what she’s chasing.

“Let’s go get a drink.” She yanks on my sleeve.

It’s my turn to be fake as I force a smile before following her through the crowd of people as we make our way to the kitchen. More high fives. More smiles and nods from people I don’t know but who clearly know who I am.

I pour myself a three-fingered whiskey. I wasn’t going to drink, but what the hell. In my melancholy mood, drowning my sorrows may not be such a bad idea.

I instantly feel better as the amber liquid burns and then warms my throat. I quickly pour myself another, chasing the next alcoholic buzz.

“So, where’s your girlfriend?” Brittany is still hanging possessively from my arm and has now put on her best pout. Apparently, she’s still miffed that I chose Jaine over her.

I shrug. “I’m not sure.”

I watch her lips curve slowly upward, cursing myself for being such an eejit. She’s interpreted my vague response as meaning Jaine and I are having problems. Maybe we are. I pour myself another whiskey.

“Didn’t you invite her along?”

“This isn’t really Jaine’s scene.”

“But it’s your scene.”

I shrug. “It used to be.”

“Oh, come on, Padraig. It still is.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “You haven’t changed. Your tomboy girlfriend is just trying to turn you into someone as boring as she is.”

“She’s not boring.” I defend Jaine because she’s far from being boring. She’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever met.

“You okay, bud?” Fletch slaps me on the back, a broad, shit-eating grin on his face because I’m sure his cock’s now sporting Skylar’s missing red lipstick.

I nod. But I’m not okay. Because the more I drink, the more convinced I am that Jaine’s not interested in me. That she’s still in love with the boy from her hometown and always will be.

“You need to slow down, Paddy.” Fletch frowns at the new drink that’s appeared in my hand courtesy of Brittany. He’s not much of a drinker, hence why he’s the designated driver most of the time.

Which is perhaps just as well, as I’m already feeling a wee bit worse for wear.

* * *

My tongue is stuckto the roof of my mouth, and it feels like someone’s holding a pneumatic drill to the side of my head.

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