Having slight writer's block with 'Letters to Freddie', so here are a few short chapters, set after the third series, to keep you entertained. I think, at the beginning of series four, Effy adjusts to love a little too quickly - before she goes insane, that is. If you've read the SKINS novel, you'll know that Effy goes away - runs away - to holiday with Anthea. This is set before her departure, but quite a bit after the boat scene at the end of series three. This is what I think could have happened if Effy couldn't change her old ways. Reviews would help me out, alot (: Enjoy!

Jim Morrison once said that -

Drugs are a bet with your mind.

In that case, I'm in severe debt.

But Acid, LSD, Tabs, Trips, Blotters, Microdots
- or whatever your sordid clan of scummy acquaintances call them -
are a pure delight.
They propel me into a state of utter elevation.
I don't have to try.
I don't have to wear this stagnant façade of cliché rebellion.
I don't have to be Effy.

I can just spin in wavering circles and let the delicious nausea wash over me.

Of course, like anything, the pleasure is ephemeral.
I often wake up lying next to the naked evidence of a 'good' night which I can't remember.
With his provocatively inked skin, chiselled jaw and vomit breath.
James Cook.
The crude, rude and downright oblivious-to-anybody-else's-feelings nymphomaniac, or so he says.
Sandwiched between my sheets.

For the last time, I promise myself furiously. Trouble is, it's always the 'last time' with Cook.

No matter that he's hooked up with bustiest, blondest, molly-dolly of Bristol, and that I keep swearing I'll stop shagging around and settle down, someway or another Cook and I always end up thrust together in a night of unashamed, undeniably amazing sex.

Even if we hate each other.

But that's all it is, all it will ever be.
Just sex.
And that never hurts anybody.

Right?

I hear him stir, and turn to watch him rub his at his erubescent eyes, groaning in his groggy state. He spies me staring, and his deceivingly angelic face splits into a smug grin.
"What?"
"You are fucking beautiful, Effy Stonem."
His eyes scan over me then, and I almost feel them burning through my skin as I slip into one of Tony's old shirts.
"Cor, what happened last night?" he asks, propping himself up against the pillows.
"It doesn't take a genius to piece it together, Cook" I murmur, stepping into a thong that lays abandoned on the floor. "I'm sure even you could draw up the conclusion."
He laughs then, a deep fruity guffaw.
"I detect the sarcasm, and receive the message. I'll be out of your hair soon enough, grumpy draws." He wriggles out of bed, and slaps me slyly on the arse, before heading to the shower - only a sock draped over his impressive 'morning glory'.

I thank the (perhaps existent) God that my Mother isn't home.

"So, dinky, what's your plan of action for the day?" Cook queries, slipping into his sweat stained garments from the night before.
I quickly observe the dip in his back, his sculptured shoulder blades, his soft approachable skin…"
"Pandora knows an arsonist. He's taking us to a 'private show' this afternoon." I fold my arms.
He looks at me, smiling in approval. "Sounds promising."
"Yeah. Well, there's a fuckload of negotiable vodka involved. The guy's a complete moron, apparently. So his little neekish followers shouldn't expect more than blowjobs."
I see something flash across his dazzling eyes. A look I don't quite recognise.
It doesn't suit his face.
But before I can decipher, he replaces it with his usual manic energy.
"Easy night, then."
"Fingers crossed," I shrug.
He sighs, and wipes his hands on his jeans.
I soften. "You can come if you want."
His ears prick up. "I can?"
"Sure, why not. It's not as if you're busy."
He bites his bottom lip. "I'm actually supposed to be seeing Tina tonight…"
"Oh, well you can't object to her diva demands, I guess."
He smiles at me. Sadly. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I clear my throat.
Cook shakes his head. "She's probably got some pedicure appointment, anyway."
We look at each other for a moment, then burst into a fit of immature giggles.
"Or a perm," I snigger.
"Yeah. Or a perm." The laughter stops. "Will Freddie be there?"
I shake my head vigorously. "I know he's under the thumb, but I wouldn't exactly make him stand and watch me dish out BJ's for spliff, would I? Use your brain, Cook. What's left of it."
"Trouble in Paradise?" he retorts, knowingly.
"There's never a fucking Paradise when you're around."
"That's cause you can't resist me," he smirks.
"No, it's cause you're always in the way."
If he's hurt by my remark, he disguises it well.
Instead he saunters towards me, almost hesitantly. I flinch as he plants a kiss on the tip of my nose.
"You've got to give in, Effy."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
Cook shrugs one shoulder, ruffles my hair, and makes his way down the stairs.

As I hear the door close, I fall gently to my knees.

I fall, and I cry.

I cry for Freddie.

I cry, because I've fucked everything up.

I always do.