Flick Read Online Free Page B

the tip of my dick. She grins, showing her teeth.
    â€œMy name . . .”
    â€œYes, baby?” Baby. Chuh. I’m pulling out all the stops.
    â€œIs Rainbow.”
    The voice from the back of my mind slams into my frontal lobe, deadpan, and loud in my ear: TIT .

THE MORNING AFTER
    I wake up wishing I wasn’t waking up. It’s light and someone in the house has got the radio on loud, playing that song about getting all the girls. Tommo, my brother, older and wiser and yet somehow with much poorer taste in music, must be over for his regular Saturday morning visit. It’s something he’s done for a few years now, since he and Nikki moved into their own place, and I think it’s somehow tied in to his image of being a “real man,” coming round to give his wee shortie mam a hug and slap Dad mate-ily on the back, then drink beer and cook a fry-up. It’s like one day he was a normal teenager, then the next he became this responsible, I-don’t-ever-cry, talk-in-monosyllables “bloke” and now I can only ever have a conversation with him about football or doing up his house. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, but there’s only so much leaning against the kitchen counter and sighing I can do before I get bored, lose concentration and fall over.
    Still, it’s nice that he cares. It’d be great if he waited ’til at least midday to care though; fuck the early morning. I groan. I try to drift off but it’s too loud, so I shout from my mattress on the floor (I feng shui’d my six-foot-short child’s bed out to the garbage last year, when the headboard started to give me neck-ache).
    â€œShut the fuck up!” No one replies and the music continues. I’m indignant. How dare he? Twat. I bet he’s doing it on purpose to get me up. It’s fucking Saturday and it’s only . . . I’m squinting at the clock . . . eleven thirty.
    â€œOhhhhhhhhh.”
    My brain shuts off for another half hour and the next thing I’m aware of is being rock hard. I roll over onto my back and start pulling at my dick. I’m still fairly unconscious at this point and last night just hasn’t entered my head yet. As far as I know, I went back to Ash’s, listened to her cry, pissed the night away and walked home like every Friday, but as I wank, images start appearing in my mind. Parted red lips, tits peering from a ruffled top, darkly suggestive eyes, soft chocolate-colored hair flicking into my face, and as I come I remember: “Rainbow-oh- oh - OHHHHH .”
    A few seconds pass in which I realize the radio is now off. I hear footsteps on the stairs and suddenly my door flies open and Tommo enters, deadpan as ever. “Oi, Will—our Nikki’s made baguettes, so come down and get one if you want. Nice wang.” He turns to go.
    I pull my duvet cover over myself. “Thanks, Tommo.”

QUESTIONS
    Monday comes and I kick through the school gates as the bell for registration stops ringing. Our year has 120 people in it, and we’re split into four forms. My form room is at the top of a stone staircase, past the library and the radiators, where a year eight who fancies me waits every morning for an eye-fuck. Today I wink at her and she smiles, picks up her bag and skips happily away down the stairs, presumably to her own form’s registration. I must make her constantly late. Luckily Dr. Stiles, or Timothy as I like to call him, doesn’t give a shit if I’m late or not, so I walk in to the sound of him mumbling my name in the register, clap him on the shoulder and shout, “Here,” in a confident, suave, twatty way. I then sit casually on a desk in the front row, where the rest of the gang instantly lean in asking me about Rainbow and drown out names beginning M to W (there are no names that start X, Y or Z).
    My group of mates is ten strong, or at least we always refer to ourselves