3 Is that your jacket? (2)

Jamie

The kid wearing my jacket was known as Gangsta. His name, which not many knew, was Arden. He was 20 and full of testosterone, full of bursting potential, and basically full of himself. We were in the elevator together two days ago, I was wearing my jacket. He said it looked amazing on me, if only he could borrow it so that he could look half as good.

"Go suck it," I said, in my best deadpan. I deadpan really well.

It seemed to have the opposite effect on Gangsta. "K," he grinned at me, closed in and reached for my pants.

I pushed him away from me and slammed him against the elevator wall. I was a little surprised at my own strength. He recovered quickly and laughed, "So this is how you like it, bro?" He cupped me with his free hand before I could react and gripped tightly.

The elevator door started to open and we stepped apart from each other. He quickly and enthusiastically greeted the people who were about to enter, offering them pats on the back and handshakes. With the same hand that grabbed me just seconds ago. I stood there, quietly, arms across my chest.

"Good afternoon, Jamie, sir," said the trainees respectfully. I nodded at them without really looking at their faces and was quiet until it was my floor.

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"Bro, please let me borrow your jacket? Please?" The elevator doors closed on his fake innocent smile.

The next day, I gave the jacket to Cherry, with a note that said I would kill him if he ruins the jacket, tears it, discolors it, stains it, makes it smell.

One by one, the other guys lost interest on PYD's performance even before they got to the chorus of their first song. None of us were that heavy into hip hop, even though Mark was a better rapper than either Gangsta or Biff, the group's two rappers.

"Well, would you look at that, Pretty Young Dicks in the house."

Steve had washed his make up off and changed into his regular clothes, about to run out on us. He had a radio show at midnight every Thursday and looked too happy that he didn't have to stay for curtain call. "Hey Jame, is that your jacket?"

"Why are your pants red?" Mark asked him, before taking the last swig from his water bottle.

"Because they are," Steve cocked his head as if to say, any more stupid questions, dumbass?

"I thought you were leaving," Mark clarified, crumpling the bottle in his fist.

"I am."

"So why are you still dressed like the stylist is making fun of you?"

"Marky," Steve rolled his eyes as he pulled his leather jacket on. "Does D&G know that you're clueless about fashion? They might fire you if they knew their top endorser was so uncool." He shifted his gaze to us and said, "Bye losers, I'm off."

Mark threw the plastic ball that was his water bottle at Steve and hit him square in the chest. "Yeah, stop wondering why you can't get any girls, then. See ya."

Steve had stopped in front of LJ and ruffled his hair, smelling it in lieu of saying goodbye. He threw the water bottle ball back at Mark and gave him and Burt, who was sitting beside Mark, a quick hug. Then, me. As he gave my shoulders a squeeze, he whispered in my ear, "Careful, Jame, he's not even bi, he's just playing."

As he pulled away, I frowned at him, one eyebrow up. He smiled at me indulgently, as if to say he knew me all too well. He gently patted my face twice and walked off.

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