𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝟏𝟖+] ✔

27

Memorial Day is here, and I'm close to smothering Gareth with his own pillow if he doesn't wake the hell up. We leave in ten minutes, and he's too hungover to even hear his alarms sounding from every bloody speaker in the flat.

Folding my blanket and placing it on the armrest of the couch, I huff, making my way into his bedroom that smells like a brewery. I flip my hair over my shoulder, hand to my hip, glaring at him.

"If you don't get up now, I'll leave without you, and you'll get sacked," I warn him as he buries his head under the pillow. "Your friends didn't go home until four this morning...four! And the flat's a mess."

He groans, moving his fluffy shield from his face. "You don't have a hangover?"

"No," I reply, rolling my eyes. "I had one drink. Now, hurry up before I hurt you. If I miss Orla standing on the stage, I will kill you."

I march out of the room, picking up bottles and filling the bin bag as I go. Seriously, how can one night result in so much mess?

Eric would never have his place looking or smelling like this. I mean, if I even attempted to clean something, he'd growl at me and tell me to fuck off. Now I'm a maid for the entire apartment block while these young men indulge in alcohol when they aren't on shift, and party like they're in college.

To be fair, Gareth had turned twenty-one yesterday, so last night was his time for boozing, but it still goes against his contract to consume alcohol while working. I won't tell my dad, but he can't do it again if he wants to be taken seriously by me or anyone who is deemed a threat.

He is good at his job, he really is. Two days ago, when we were going to my parent's place for dinner and a briefing for Gareth, we were stopped by two guys. They had said the usual, scum McClure, rich slut, wanting to know what I had on under my dress. Gareth, impressively, managed to hold his own while beating them to a pulp. Later, they were arrested and are currently in the holding cells.

I haven't seen Eric since the school, over a week ago, where he had taken my underwear and reconnected our communication systems. But, since he sent the message saying he was coming to get me, I closed off and told him not to bother.

Eric picks and chooses when I'm enough, decides when he can touch me or whisper words against my ear to make my body feel on fire. But not anymore, I'm worth more than an hour of attention before being shoved aside when he remembers his orders and oath.

So, since telling him not to come and get me, he has sent me five messages, and one live call at five in the morning, and I have ignored them all. He stopped three days ago, the last asking what he had done wrong.

I feel bad, but I'm not happy with being an object of misjudgement.

If he wants me badly enough, he can put in the effort and work for it. Eric is used to getting sex easily, and people asking him how high when he orders them to jump, and I'm not one of those.

"Do I look hungover?" Gareth asks me as he enters the living room, hair a dishevelled mess. His eyes are bloodshot, and he snorts as I pull his hands away from his tie which resembles a triple knotted barge rope. "I know how to do that," he says while I fix it quickly, folding his shirt collar down properly.

"You tried four times," I point out as I pat his chest, stepping back. "Okay, you don't look like a drunk homeless person anymore."

He narrows his eyes. "Do I smell like one?"

"No, you've masked it well with my coconut shampoo."

He chuckles. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have had so much to drink." He runs a hand through his hair then gives me my bag. "It was irresponsible of me."