David, admittedly, is fucking perfect. Which makes me hate him even more. David is the one who gets to go on dates with Esmeralda. He’s the one who gets to kiss those perfect lips. He’s the one who gets to — Well, actually, if they fuck on their dates, she’s really good at hiding it. She’s never come back smelling like somewhere else’s shampoo. Nope.

Well, I’m the one who gets to live with her. I’m the one who knows about her magic. We even sleep in the same bed. (It’s a queen, and we’re too cheap for a two-bedroom apartment.) Ha. Take that, David. Fucking evil perfect boyfriend.

Somebody’s been sucking-off the green monster of jealousy, the voice in my head taunts.

Shut the fuck up!

Sometimes, I don’t really know where I stand with Emmy. I mean, I can put my fucking hand in between her titties and she doesn’t give a shit! She knows I’m interested in women (yes men too, but that doesn’t change shit). She knows I’m a man, and she still trusts me that fucking much to not be interested in her in that way. Maybe it’s the whole “sex-addict” lie. I don’t fucking know.

I sigh and collapse on the couch. FuckFace leaps up on top of me and farts in my face. Great.

I reach up to tap the choker around my neck. It’s a black tattoo choker with a yellow jewel in the middle. Whenever Emmy leaves me home alone, she forces me to wear this thing. Apparently, it has some sort of protective magic on it that should help deter any gangsters from busting down the door and killing me while she isn’t home. I can’t wear it all the time because it “drains” Emmy if I use it for a long duration of time, but she insists on it if I’m not in her presence. Take that David.

I slap myself in the face. I need to stop being so possessive of my friend. Emmy and I don’t really have a normal friendship (we are definitely not normal roommates), but I am not insane enough to mistake our relationship for mushy gushy romantic feelings. Am I attracted to Emmy? Yes. Do I love her? Also yes. But not in that way. It really isn’t like that.

Uh huh, the voice in my head chuckles, mocking me.

It really isn’t! Fuck you!

The one thing I really envy about David is that he can be totally honest with Emmy if he wants to. I… I’m just not ready to do that. The thing is, to keep how my magic works a secret from Emmy, I have to tell a lot of other lies. Like the sex-addict one.

Or the one about me being sixteen. I’m actually fucking eighteen. I’m fucking legal! I’m sixteen on paper, and my body is sixteen, and I need to be underage to keep us employed — the gangsters we catch cannot go to prison for allegedly fucking an underaged kid if that kid is not underaged. Emmy can’t know. If Emmy knows, then she will want to know how and why. And for her to know that, I will have to tell her about my magic. Fuck.

The voice in my head starts to talk, Speaking of keeping your body sixteen, you need to go out and get some. Now. If you don’t, I will haunt your subconscious like I did last night. But this time, I won’t pull any punches… that means your mother will be on the table —

NO!

I shudder at the prospect of those nightmares. Shit. Fuck. I hate that the voice in my head is so demanding. I hate that I don’t have full control over it. I hate that it can fuck with my head and my nightmares. I didn’t want Emmy to think that I had snuck out to fuck some rando — that’s why I’d stayed home last night, despite desperately needing to get some. I had faced the nightmares for her. So she wouldn’t be disappointed in me.

But we have a deal, me and the voice in my head. It keeps my body sixteen, and I get it what it needs.

Sorry, Emmy. I’ll put on pants (close enough) for you when your boyfriend comes over so he doesn’t get pissed, but I’m going to need to disappoint you again.

I slip the choker off of my neck and put it on FuckFace. I don’t want him getting catnapped by some gangster while I’m gone, and honestly, I don’t really need it. I have my own way to defend myself. (Which Emmy also doesn’t need to know about…)

“Hold down the fort,” I command him, patting his bald head affectionately.

I grab my black hightop Converse, an umbrella patterned with lemons (just in case) and a squirt gun full of fake blood (just kidding — why the fuck would anyone have that?) and head out the door.

No pizza for me tonight. Fuck.