Disclaimer: I'm still wondering, just as you are, about the "ending," so...


Her boobs are divine. Just think of them without that tight-fitting tank top, her, there, for me, all for me.

Focus, Tony, focus.

It doesn't help that I'm standing in front of the next hottest thing in this neighborhood. And here I am, wondering why this girl has yet been owned. If thoseā€¦if her body has been touched by someone else before.

Doesn't look it. All the better.

I give her the usual confident raise of my eyebrow. "Hey," I say, "Nice to meet you, I'm Tony."

A look crosses her face. She must have heard something about me. Rumors. The shit people spread around this place. You can't believe them.

Her lips curl into a straight line as she replies, quite curtly for my taste, not very conducive to further developments in our relationship, if we were to go any further, "Michelle."

Nice name. Nice sounds. Short, sweet. Just like her. But no, I haven't really tasted her yet. Not then.

We shake hands, a civilized greeting. Her hand is small in mine, and soft. Must have been some of those lotion girls always use. She pulls it back, a faint smile on her face. I shrug. "Well, see you around." You won't listen to me if I try to tell you, but hear me out anyway. Pretended disinterest is the key to interest. That's right. Works every time.

And so, right on queue, I walk off on my path and leave her there.

Plenty of time to turn back and admire her later. Plenty.

I'd only dropped the bait.

His eyes are hypnotic. The piercing blues lure me in. I've seen plenty of blue-eyed boys before, just for your information, but never one this striking.

School has ended for the day. I'm walking out, on my way home (Jal, my best friend, has gone back early for her clarinet lessons) when this guy stops me, crosses by my path. Deliberately.

I'm not an ass. I know he's checking me out, probably seizing me up in his dirty, masculine imagination. The daily charity sessions from your very own Michelle, whom today has come in her favorite tank top and skinny jeans. Looking undeniably hot. After all, what else is this outfit of mine for?

Nice to know it's doing its job.

He blinks. A signal that his brain is adjusting its mode back to social-friendly functions (as opposed to hormones-induced ones).

Then he introduces himself. His voice deep and warm. And I think, Oh. So this is the infamous Tony that everyone's on about. The Player. The Bad Boy. Spliff trading agent. Great Dancer. Goes out with a different girl every week. (and so on. I'm even surprised at myself for recalling quite a length of Tony's accolades). The answer to his presence now is obvious.

But that is before I allow myself a look into his eyes.

And lost it.

There is something in those eyes. Vulnerability. Conflicted emotions. Arrogance. Challenge. The complex blur of emotions. Similar to the whirlpool in mine. I don't know how, or why, but at that moment, for a slight second, I feel I could connect to him. That, or I know I could give myself to him completely.

He's handsome, I'll give him that. Better taste in clothes than other boys, another plus. His voice, and his eyes.

I've lost my mind, I know. I'd just met a boy and I want him.

Gravity has nothing to do with this attraction. Hormones, maybe. The way he's enjoying his eye-sex, yes.

I run through the rest of the introduction (my name) and shake hands with him. He holds on to it for a while. The motions after are accountable. It's as if we are reading each other as we go.

He says his last, parting line and leaves.

Probably think it'll spark my interest in him. It could. It could.

Crazy thing is, he already unconsciously does more than that.

A/N: Something based on their last conversation together.

Big Thank you's to all my lovely readers, reviewers, and anyone who's clicked by,


Your ever humble fanfic writer :)