Tate & Low’s story.
I’m loud, I’m proud, and I like to bust balls in my spare time. At least, that’s what Low Parker would do. But, she is just a mask, one that I have perfected over years of running. I am Willow Knoxx. Master of deception, secrets, and lies. I am the girl your mother told you to stay away from, and the girl your father fantasized about. I have been running for years, always looking over my shoulder. Now, the mask that I have perfected is about to disappear, and everything I have done to keep myself hidden is about to be revealed.
“Ahh, liquid heaven.” I sighed, inhaling the rich aroma from my coffee cup. The scent alone loosened my tense muscles, taking the edge off the monstrous hangover I was still nursing.
“Two skinny lattes!” Jared hollered to absolutely no one, the glint in his eyes told me he knew I was dealing with a hangover from hell. His voice sounded like a high pitch shrill, ringing into my ears and playing my brain like a freaking drum kit. I really should lay off the Tequila.
“Jared, dude, lower the freaking volume would ya?!” I groaned, slowly rubbing my temples, trying to alleviate the throb that had now taken over my delicate head.
Jared’s laughing eyes meet mine as he slid the lattes across the counter in a drink carrier. “Late night?” He chuckled.
Now, if my head didn’t feel like it was about to roll off my shoulders and land into a poor unassuming strangers lap, I would’ve probably slapped that stupid smile off his face. Jared Spencer was the hottest piece of ass on campus; dirty blonde hair that was long in the front and short at the back, deep blue eyes that instantly pulled you in, and let’s not forget the rocking hot body underneath his apron. But, there was a downside… he’s gay. I’m not talking a little gay, I mean thrust your hip out, pout like a model, gay. Such a shame.
“Just because you can swallow margaritas like water, doesn’t mean the rest of us can you know.” I said, raising my brow.
Placing his hand on his hip, he thrust it out to the side dramatically. “Girl, that’s not the only thing I can swallow like wat-“
“La, la , la, la! I can’t hear you!” I shouted, cutting him off as I picked up the coffees and made a run for the door.
“Don’t hate the player, girlfriend!”
S.K. Hartley is a mother, wife, avid reader and writer based in the not so sunny North West of England. You can find her either glued to her computer desk, in the library (yes they still exist) or floating around her favorite authors book signings!