HIS FAVORITE GINGER ✓

SIXTEEN.

"COME HERE SAPPHIRE, GOOD BOY. Breakfast is ready." The oversized grey munchkin perks up at the sound of its name and jumps out of his year-long nap on the couch. Still keeping the typical feline pride and composure in its paces, it scampers over to Grayson Jackson.

The blonde stares in amusement as its black stripes wriggle on its fur and overfed belly — which is full of tonnes of cat food and human food. Grayson can't even count how many times this menace of a cat has stolen groceries edible in its perspective — which is everything — and even ate from his plates when he isn't looking. When it is caught, Sapphire will-smith-s like nothing happened or exhibits its invincible kitty cat eyes. The cat is a savage that even hyenas should run from.

Grayson's attention leaves his phone as the feline kneads its furry head against his bare leg. It flashes its blue-gray orbs — the slits like razors — with absolute admiration. The blonde rolls his eyes at its obese, attention-seeking ass but regardless lovingly strokes its head with equal adoration. The only thing he truly cherishes the most in his life flutter its ears and let out an heart-melting purr and indeed, his heart melted. Grayson thinks it purrs like Layla, except her purr melts dicks.

There are two things Grayson's father left him; Sapphire and art, before he abandoned he and his mom into abject misery — well his mom into misery. The art though, it has always been part and parcel of Grayson. Taylor just assisted in resurrecting Grayson's interest. Grayson remembers vividly when Taylor would drag his ass into their art room — the attic which was and is dirtier and stuffier than a kiwi's nest — and tempt him with costly designer brushes and canvases till the younger blonde concurs. Taylor saw the beast in him.

Grayson's front door is startled out of his thoughts by the spasmodic knocks that crack into the peaceful atmosphere. It isn't that type of knock that you'll answer with a cheery "come in". It's the type that you'll put out hot revolver and spray the door with hot bullets. Grayson curses out loud at the person who can ever think of visiting at this ungodly hour. Yep, nine o'clock on a Sunday morning is a really bad hour for Grayson. He wouldn't have been up if some clingy cat didn't think well to scratch his face out of wonderland.

Unsurprisingly, it's the one and only Layla Bellatrix Barnes. And yeah, her middle name is really Bellatrix.

Grayson sneers at her being, eyeing her with recently found distaste. She has never been this unattractive on his eyes. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair is tied into a neat but ugly — in Grayson's perspective — ponytail. The black dye is gone now, reliving its usual, dull auburn. She almost looks like a female version of Alejandro, except the latter is much more attractive.

"Can I help you?"

"Can I come in?"

"Wow, look who's got nerve." Grayson hasn't realized he has been glaring at her for like thirty years now without uttering a single word.

"Nope."

Layla lets out a deep sigh, combing her fingers through the frill of her ponytail; which is weird to Grayson. He really hopes some bitch isn't trying to act slick and pull out some stunts or he's gonna snap them — and her — like an dry French fry. "I've come to apologize."

"Pardon?"

"You ain't deaf."

Grayson narrows his eyes cautiously. Being stunned is the least of his emotions. It is obvious than Nicki Minaj's curves that she forced those words out. However, judging from her face and voice, she seems serious and realistic. Not that Grayson cares anyways. He doesn't want to have anything to do with the girl ginger.