I Sold Myself to the Devil for Vinyls... Pitiful I Know

Chapter Fourteen

A/N: Okay seriously guys, I'm like on a writing frenzy with this story lately... and I really shouldn't. I got homework for pete's sake. Someone has to stop me. ;P

Oh well... what's the worst thing that can happen? I fail? Yeah that doesn't sound good.

So you better comment and vote! ;P

Anyway ENJOY GUYS! :D

Ps: ashleyy_ pointed out the fact, in Blake's POV excerpt, that he might have some underlying issue... which is right... mouhahahaha... Any guesses? XP

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So I had no freaking clue how he managed to do this, but it was like ten PM and Blake was still at our house, watching a re-run, yes a re-run, of a football game with my dad, Ty and me.

"Come on! Run! For Christ sake! I've never seen a defense more suckish then that! RUN!"

"Is she always like that when she watches football?" Blake asked behind me, but I ignored him.

"Jeez! Why didn't you listen?" I yelled at the TV when the running back got tackled, letting myself fall back on the floor while Ty was throwing popcorn at the screen.

"YOU SUCK!" he screamed at the running back.

"Yes. It gets worse during the play-offs," my father answered, but I ignored him too.

"You know they win that game right?" Blake informed me, chuckling, and I threw a cushion in his face for that.

"Yes Mister Know-It-All, I am well informed of it, but I still think my tactic advice always helps them win in the end," I answered to Blake absentmindedly.

"Good thing you aren't a cheerleader at school, otherwise you'd give the coach a heart-attack with all your screaming."

"Don't you have somewhere to be? A party to attend? Alcohol to drink? Girl to fuck?"

"We don't say fuck in the living room Lexi," my father said at the same time Ty screamed, "YOU FUCKING WUSS! KNOCK THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!"

"Actually, no. I'm pretty comfortable here," Blake answered and leaned more comfortably into the couch.

"Suit yourself," I mumbled and then, "NO! LEFT! GO LEFT! WATCH YOUR RIGHT!"

"I never would have guessed your Friday nights consisted of watching football re-runs, screaming at the screen like a lunatic." Blake informed me, and just by his tone I knew he was smirking.

I wanted to answer "Go fuck yourself," but technically I wasn't supposed to use that word in the living room.

Bullshit!

"What do you want me to say? I retired from the wet t-shirt industry. Got too many rashes," I told him.

"So that means I should probably send the Lamborghini to the cleaner?" Blake asked.

"You're the one with the Lamborghini?" dad exclaimed.

"Yes, well, technically, it's my dad's."

"Some guy at school, huh?" my father mumbled.

I rolled my eyes, but he probably didn't see me.

Great! Just great.

"That car's a beauty," my father finally said, thoughtfully.

Oh here we go...

"I know. There's just something about the Murciélago LP 640 body frame... I mean there's the Roadster version but I'm not a fan of convertible and there's the new version, the LP 670-4 SV but I think the spoiler stays up so in my mind it'll just slow it down. You can't even compare it to the Gallardo. And of course, it's got 12 cylinders and the top speed's 340 km and you hit 0 to 100 in 3,4 seconds. It,s got 6 speeds plus reverse, everything's electronic. Sure, it has an awful millage per gallons but I'm not complaining. I love that car," Blake explained, and while he talked about the car, I think I saw something that actually, almost looked like a smile, and not a smirk, on his lips, but that was just for one millisecond, and it disappeared as fast as it came.