Page 59 of Wrong Pucking Player

It feels that way.

At least at this moment.

Imagine her pushing me down and riding me.

Fuck…

“You should fuck off, Cyrus.”

We both glance over in the direction of the voice, realizing Oscar is not only back, but is casually leaning against the glass door of the balcony with a smug grin on his face.

“A certain Winchester called asking where the fuck you are,” Oscar proceeds and adds, “I told him you were fucking Andrews real quick and to leave a message.”

“WHAT!” Xandra screams, and suddenly, I’m falling.

“Ah!” I crash onto the floor, only to feel something land on my head.

“Meow.”

“Good job, Mittens.”

“Mittens?” Xandra sounds horrified. “Why Mittens? That’s the most common cat name on the planet.”

I lift my head enough to see the way Oscar scoffs at her comment. Proceeding to give the best cocky smile, he tilts his head while narrowing his eyes,

“And what would you call her then?”

“Muffin.” The way the room falls silent as we’re all staring back at her has those flushed red cheeks grow redder before she stutters, “W-What?! Muffin is better than Mittens!”

“Meow?”

My head is forced to the floor as a weight jumps on the back of my head.

“Ow!” I muffle into the carpet floor before my head is further pushed into the floor before the weight is absent.

Glancing all the way up only leaves me with a phone screen being shoved in my face.

The picture glaring back at me is Jayce’s face. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen him smile before, but I can’t help but glance over to the person next to him with his arm over Jayce’s shoulder.

Oscar, with a genuine smile that lights up his jet-black eyes with hints of hazelnut that shimmer in the sun’s rays.

“If this call goes to voicemail, he’ll burn my building down for the hell of it,” Oscar voices.

I’m still processing the image because I haven’t seen these two happy like this since we were all in our late teens.

When we were all still friends, living every day to the fullest as a crew.

The phone disappears from my view in an instant, and it follows with, “Calm your shits, Winchester!” Xandra snaps in annoyance. “What? Who gives a shit why I have Armani’s phone! Stop harassing him! My man?”

She pauses and has a big grin that looks like a child who’s about to do something bad.

It’s enough for me to glance over to Oscar, who looks just as confused—and nervous—as I do.

One look back, and Xandra is talking again.

“Aww, you didn’t get the memo? They’re both mine.”

I’m choking on my salvia.

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