Ouch.
That hurt.
Like really hurt.
Like it put the time Kerry broke his wrist for reaching up her skirt while they were in the cinema into perspective.
Maybe it was just because he was drunk, but James thought that may possibly have been the most painful slap ever. Not just most painful that HE's ever had... Just most painful EVER. In all the world. Guys everywhere would respect him for that slap. That is, if he had any intention of telling people that he'd just got rejection-slapped, as opposed to LAD-slapped. Which he didn't. Obviously.
As he drifted out of his drunk-and-just-been-slapped haze, he saw whatshername stalking angrily down the hallway, ass moving too-and-fro so nicely in that skirt, that he was almost glad he'd pissed her off. But hey, if she didn't wanna play, why'd she come to the party? Everyone knew that eighth floor parties were basically just an excuse for all the horny 14-17 year olds to suck face and blame it on the alcohol..."it was late!", "the music just felt so good!", "I was just swept away in the moment!"... And while those excuses work fine when you're convincing YOURSELF it's okay, your girlfriend/boyfriend/bestfriend/sister/sister's best friend might not agree with you.
So anyway, back to the party. And the slap. What could he say?! It wasn't James's fault...that Girl had been eying him up all night, and had made NO complaints when he'd come over to flirt with her. How was he supposed to know that she was meant to be the Wingman...and Even then, how come HE got slapped?! Not his fault the girl was just too tempted by how smokin' he looked tonight...
As James's brain spiralled off into thinking about how attractive he was, he heard a thump from the end of the corridor. He looked around to see what had caused it, but then immediately wished he hadn't. As much as he was sure he'd moved on, it's never nice when you've just been rejected, and then moments later you look round and see your ex-girlfriend being pressed up against a wall playing tonsil tennis with your best friend. Ew.
James was deciding whether puking right there on the spot, or walking away and looking awkward would leave him with more pride, when the disturbing sight before him vanished as Kerry and Bruce found an unlocked door and fell through it. Subtle guys. They could at least have shut the door if they intended on screwing all night long. Oh. There went the door. Shit.
How the hell had Bruce managed to get so far with Kerry in just 5 short months?! James had held out for a fucking year, and got nowhere past second base! (and only then when Kerry was in an exceedingly good mood, and he hadn't done anything wrong for a while). No fair.
James suddenly began to feel completely and utterly shattered, and his head started to throb in time with the loud music drifting down the corridor. He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes, head swimming with his lack of sleep, high blood-alcohol level, and the image of Kerry and Bruce. Not a good combination. Eyes still half closed, he started to feel his way up the corridor to his room. As he reached forward to lean on the handle while he got out his key.
To his surprise, the handle turned as he leant on it, and the door swung open. Weird, he thought, he could have sworn he'd locked it on his way out...he'd Learnt his lesson from the last time he'd left it unlocked, and Lauren had nicked half his supply of cadbury's. No way he was making that mistake again...
He decided to ignore the freaky unlocked door conundrum, too drunk to be paranoid and too lazy to care. He shut the door behind him and, not bothering to turn on his light (he was sure that with a headache like his, light could make you go blind or some shit. Not that he'd have been able to find the lightswitch anyway, considering how long ago his co-ordination had leapt out the window), he made his way towards his bed, pulling off his shirt as he went.
Once he hit the mattress, he pulled the covers over him, and began attempting to remove his trousers. As he struggled with the monumental task of undoing his combats' button and zipper, his mind wondered how come his sheets smelt different. Obviously the cleaners had come today, but since then he'd spent half an hour after running laps lying on his bed watching porn before getting in the shower? Even on a good day, his sheets would have ended up smelling like his BO after THAT. What he smelt now was like some sort of cologne he didn't recognise. Or did he? Now he thought about it, it smelled vaguely familiar...
At some point along his train of thought, James had given up on his fly, and begun to drift off to sleep. He briefly had a self debate as to whether his urge to pee could wait till morning, but then, upon deciding it could wait, fell immediately into a deep sleep that could almost be called endearing until he began to snore loud enough to make unwanted relatives not stay round...
