Perv
Fuck. I told myself I didn't miss him but that's kind of what it feels like.
I'm mad as hell at his stupid stunts, but when he dances like an idiot, I have to turn away to hide my smile.
It's fucking confusing.
Collecting myself, I remember why I'm here and storm into the library.
Punk is flipping through a copy of The Wall Street Journal. When I reach him, I push the newspaper down so that he can see my face.
It takes a moment, but he finally looks up.
"Oh hey, what are you doing here?"
Punk
Squirming in my seat a little, I glance at the librarian's desk, wondering if he would notice if I blew my angry man right here.
While he folds my paper back into shape – all lined-up pages and super-sharp creases – I look at his fingers. Damn. The whole time he's folding, he whispers what a fucking incredible pain in the ass I am. He hasn't had an hour of peace all fucking week, and can't I manage for five fucking minutes on my own?
I point at the jizz stain on my t-shirt, make my helpless face, shrug and shake my head.