Page 4 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

In disinterest? Jesus Christ, it’s not like me to have confidence issues.

Jaine mumbles something back to her before glancing at me, and our eyes meet for the first time.

And there goes my heart.

I smile as her friend elbows her once more, this time causing her to lose her grip on her pen. In her attempt to grab it before it drops to the floor, she knocks over her pink fluffy pencil case. The pen drops and the pencil case follows suit, its entire contents rolling down to the front of the auditorium.

I can almost feel the heat radiate from her cheeks as everyone turns to look at the girl who’s disrupting lessons.

I instantly feel possessive. I don’t want them looking at her. She’s mine to look at.

“Have you been hit by the clumsy stick today, Miss Jones?”

Jaine Jones.

Have you ever heard anything so perfect in all your life?

I instantly feel guilty. This is my fault. She’s obviously not used to being so blatantly admired, and it’s landed her in hot water with Mr. I-hate-my-fucking-job.

He peers at her over the top of his glasses, which are attached to a multi-colored lanyard, his face getting redder by the minute as he impatiently waits for her to respond, his ill-fitting hairpiece now wobbling in sympathy.

“No, sir.”

That. Fucking. Accent.

He stares at her for a moment longer. Too long. I suddenly have the urge to gouge out his eyeballs.

Stop. Fucking. Looking. At. Her.

“Pick them up at the end of class, Miss Jones.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

* * *

Lesson over,I walk across to where Jaine is on all fours picking up the contents of her pencil case.

I run my hand through my hair.

For the first time in my life, I feel nervous around a girl. For the first time in my life, a girl’s shown no interest in me whatsoever.

What do I say? Usually, they’d be all over me by now.

My nervousness is quickly superseded when, at the sight of her perfect backside in the air, my nineteen-year-old lust-addled brain connects with my dick, causing him to twitch.

“You need some help?” I laugh.

I watch as she spins around so quickly that she bangs her head on a chair.

“Oww.” She sits on the filth-covered floor and rubs her hand over the sore bit on her head.

And then she looks up at me.

A heart-shaped face, pouty lips, and eyes as green as emeralds.

My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I’m even more lost for words as I see the perfection that God’s crafted.

Just for me.

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