|The Preacher's Son
Author: Enigmatic Night PM
Spin-off of Rocked. Life for Deacon is one long hard party, he drinks like his liver is invincible, and sleeps around like STDs don't exist. What did you expect from the preacher's boy? An Angel? Yeah Right. Warning: swearing, violence, sexual references.Rated: Fiction M - English - Humor/Romance - Chapters: 4 - Words: 13,667 - Reviews: 37 - Favs: 21 - Follows: 42 - Updated: 01-06-13 - Published: 12-10-08 - id: 2606631
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The Preacher's Son.
Spin-off of Rocked Like Me. Deacon's the biggest bastard in town, only in it for a good time, not a long time, he's all about leaving before the sun rises. To him, life's one long hard party, and girls are toys to be played with. What do you expect from the preacher's boy? An angel? Yeah right.
Being the Son of a Preacher Man.
Thump. Thump. Thump. God he loved bass.
It was raw, it was booming and it made the girls grind like there was no tomorrow. The music thumped, flowing, like the alcohol, through his body. He was pissed beyond repair, absolutely fucking smashed. "Mate!" Someone called from his left, or right, "Mate!" He inclined his head but couldn't find the owner of the voice, it didn't bother him. This guy was gone, he was happy and carefree. So at one with the world that it could come crumbling down any second and he would have no freaking clue.
He downed another drink, lips savouring the taste of undiluted alcohol, before they tasted the cherry lipgloss of the girl dancing with him, this flavour became mixed with the strawberry flavoured lipgloss of another girl. The tastes all melded into one and before the song even ended he felt ready to puke. He disengaged himself from the throng of people, the heat becoming unbearable.
But being the guy he was he wasn't even close to being finished, the night was young and so was he. He was ready to return to the heated throbbing mass of people, but was easily distracted when soft hands slid around his torso, "I'm over the group thing, aren't you?"
A sultry, well when you were as drunk as he was everything sounded sultry, voice purred from behind him, he turned around. For the girl who didn't know how to keep her hands to herself (woohoo) he could definitely be over the group thing, "Sure." he murmured, eyes hazily unfocussed but trained in the general direction of her chest.
He allowed the girl, who was a lot more steady on her feet, to lead the way. He probably wouldn't remember much, but that was beauty of it. He stumbled into the night, unable to stop himself from thinking, 'God is Good.'
The question was, kid, for how long?
"Your notes." A stack of paper dropped onto his face. Fuck, was the first thought that came to mind. His eyes refused to open, but the force of the stack and its weight on his face brought with it the excruciating pain that sleep had previously lulled, pain commonly referred to as 'a hangover.'
He called it the Hangover God.
His movements were slow, as to not anger the Hangover God, yet he somehow managed to push the paper off of his face. His normally clear blue eyes were bloodshot and bleary as they slowly opened and shifted over in the general direction of the unimpressed voice.
The unimpressed female voice. A female voice in his room was slightly uncommon, an unimpressed one even less so... hey yo. Even hung over, his mind could whip up quips to appease his already tremendous ego. However it was true, a female in Deacon's room was rare, especially in the morning after a huge night out. If he had hooked up with someone, which was more likely than not, he would never have offered up his flat for the 'after party' because, well… he couldn't exactly sneak out of his own room and never come back could he?
"Why?" He managed to croak wondering how on earth someone could be this cruel. He strained to see the clock behind the figure belonging to the unimpressed voice.
11 am. Double fuck. It was way too early, at least for Deacon West O'Hara.
"James asked me to." The girl said in a short clipped tone, ah yes… that explained why she was in his room. The girlfriend of one of Deacon's new flatmates, and drinking buddies, James… something.
Deacon tried to focus his stuffy head, why the fuck was she still talking to him? "He made me promise, but he obviously can't keep his, ugh! Here're the bloody notes for the class you both missed this morning." She hissed before turning and storming out of his room, most probably to torture James in the next room. At the mention of class Deacon had squeezed his eyes shut, was it really Monday? But yesterday was only… Saturday? Ah crap, that could only mean one thing. He didn't go to Church.
"You could have just placed them on my desk." He muttered, before sitting up, scratching his toned stomach softly, knowing he wouldn't be able to return to the land of nod anytime soon.
That was his one vice, in his opinion, once he was woken up, he couldn't get back to sleep.
It was a bloody shame, a crying bloody shame.
He remembered stumbling to the flat in the early hours of the morning, having snuck out of some girl's room in Pope House at Victoria House on The Terrace. He grinned, he couldn't remember much, or even how he got from the Terrace to Kelburn on foot in his drunken state, but what he did remember was nothing short of sinful. Pope House was perhaps the quietest of houses, and considering it was deemed a non-alcoholic zone it made sense, but the room he was in last night was anything but quiet.
The roguish grin faded as he remembered how his mother had wanted him to study and live at home, and true it would have been free board and all, but he wanted to move out, so he found an affordable flat with tolerable flatmates in Fairlie Terrace, Kelburn. Nice and close to the University's Kelburn campus, obviously.
Besides, he couldn't stand his father's disappointed looks after every time he snapped Deacon coming home after nights filled of naught but Drinking and Debauchery his second and third favourite D words in the world. With number one being his name, contrary to the popular belief that his favourite D word was four lettered and less wholesome.
So what if he considered himself wholesome? His father was a preacher, and this gave him the right to. Well at least by name, if not by nature.
Because his nature was far from wholesome. He partied like there was no tomorrow, drank himself silly and basically used girls for one thing and one thing only. At least he was honest about it, Deacon made it very clear that with Deacon you had a good time. Not a long time.
His best friend once told him he'd one day wake up from his life in the fast lane, but his best friend also blackmailed people for money and threw rocks at cars. So she wasn't exactly a pin-up role model, but at least she made it to church on Sundays.
And he was back to remembering that he hadn't gone to church yesterday, Deacon knew he was going to have to make up an excuse for why he was a no show. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, which curled around his ears when he left it alone. Hmm, maybe he needed a haircut.
Damn it, right, Church. He winced. He often let his mind drift like that, he also often forgot about his little promise to be at Church every Sunday but still managed to drag his, more or less heathen-like ass to his father's Hall, and half the time he wasn't entirely sober or punctual.
It was exactly because of his less than wholesome nature that, despite the appeal of free board and food at home, freedom and independence won out and Deacon moved out.
He had to put up with his father's 'teachings' for the past nineteen years of his life, according to Deacon it would be cruel to subject himself to anymore, surely. It wasn't easy growing up 'the son of a preacher,' it meant that everyone watched and judged your every move. His only saving grace was the fact that he was a guy and guys had it easy.
According to his Samoan mother; girls needed to be constantly watched over, whereas boys could fend for themselves. And his Irish father agreed. Had he been born without his Y chromosome, Lord knows the restrictions that would have been wrapped around him.
Deacon shuddered at the thought, it was bad enough being half Samoan, it meant obedience was inherent… even if he exhibited it a little differently than his peers, but being the son of a pastor?
Talk about a poor deal, alright so maybe it hadn't held him back one bit from living his life but obedience was still somewhere in him. Deep, deep down.
However, at the first chance to gap it, he did… and yet it still came with conditions; if he wanted to flat on his own, with people his parents didn't know, and pretty much live how he wanted, he was to attend church every Sunday.
"If you're not going to stop your waywardness, at least ask for forgiveness once a week." Deacon loved his father, sure, but surely God was sick of forgiving something Deacon was never going to stop doing.
The efforts were futile, really, but for his mother, Deacon had, up until now, complied.
Half the time Deacon used the two hours to catch up on sleep. Make that most of the time.
Fine, all the time.
Perhaps now that the trimester had started he'd work a little harder at trying to get home at a reasonable hour to settle down and study. It was a given that he'd been partying pretty much non-stop since coming back from Jess's farewell bash up in Auckland.
Auckland. The grin returned. When he first got back from Auckland at the start of the year, the term 'Jafa' was thrown about a lot, especially whilst moving in to the flat. The acronym stood for Just Another Fucking Aucklander, no shit.
Google it, he'd googled it once just for the hell of it and couldn't stop laughing at the Wikipedia entry. Every Kiwi knew there was a love hate relationship between… pretty much all other cities in New Zealand and Auckland, even if he, personally, loved the place.
But then again this was Deacon, he loved any place that sold booze and was abundant in hot single females. His hand subconsciously rubbed his once broken nose, a reminder that he didn't always stick to single females, and if he could go back and do it differently… nope, it still would have happened.
The offensive Jafa remarks, which Deacon never took offense to, died down when people realized Deacon was always keen for a good time, not a long time, but a good time.
Grabbing his towel, Deacon didn't bother putting anything else on over his boxers as he wandered out of his room. He lived with seven other people, four of which were uni students. Flatting was an interesting experience to say the least. A bunch of early twenty-somethings and a few late teens in a house together? Surely there'd never be a dull moment.
"Georgie! You better not be using my tampons as part of your fucking art projects again!" A girl hollered from the other end of the flat, see?
"No, Mona! I need smaller ones anyhow!" Someone, obviously Georgie, replied. A shaggy haired fella, moseyed out of one of the rooms as Deacon passed by.
"Hey Georgie," Deacon greeted, his voice still scratchy and raw. "Better not eat anything she offers you today." He advised Georgie, who had a habit of offending his on-again-off-again girlfriend. Deacon wondered why they even bothered to put themselves through it. Why anyone did. It seemed too much effort, having to watch yourself because of some girl.
Georgie smiled dopily, saying, "Crazy bitch, I used one or two, once,and suddenly it's a big thing." He also had a slight habit of either trivializing things, or blowing them out of proportion. Considering he'd used one or two boxes of Mona's tampons, Deacon learnt this the day he came to check out the flat, it was safe to say he was trivializing this one.
Deacon chuckled, before shaking his head and making it to one of the two bathrooms to take a shower. He'd known none of his flatmates before living here, and he hadn't been here long, but Deacon being Deacon had already made a drinking buddy, James, and angered the girlfriend of said drinking buddy, he couldn't remember her name. It wasn't really important, at least not to him, surely.
Then there was Georgie the artist, whose work Deacon didn't really get, Mona the sales consultant who wore more of the merchandise than she sold, a girl that spent less time home than Deacon did, it was safe to say he hadn't met her yet, and a guy, Cory, who Deacon felt might turn out to be a serial killer.
This notion stemmed from a most unpleasant conversation with the guy the first day Deacon moved in. The last flatmate was the girl he'd first dealt with on the phone about the vacancy. Adriana, she kept to herself until she asked for rent. With no obligation to anyone under the roof, except to the girl that took the rent perhaps, Deacon was quite sure his stay here was going to be brilliant.
The sounds of crashing from somewhere in the flat was followed by some colourful language, and more crashing. James was awake, "I'm hung over, not fucking deaf!" More crashing ensued,
"You shouldn't be hung over on a Monday!" His girlfriend, no doubt, was trashing his already trashed room. Fucking aye, brilliant.
Laughing to himself Deacon turned on the shower and stepped in without much thought.
"Fuck!" He yelled in pained surprise as the water hitting his back brought with it a most painful stinging. He'd been with a scratcher last night.
Punishment, Deacon figured, for missing church.
A/N: Alright, so this is the semi sequel to Rocked Like Me. Although there won't be much of the old cast apart from a few references and (maybe) appearances, but that's it. If you haven't read Rocked, you might like to, but it's not a prerequisite. I hope Deacon lives up to any returning readers' expectations. Oh, and because of the information overload I'd have to go through just to get a feel for the story, the chapters might be slow in coming. Thanks to miss-ellen whose titbit of information motivated me to try and write at least the first chapter. And yep, I'm challenging myself by writing in the third person, haha why am I making it harder than it already is? I suck at writing in the third person, I always have the urge to write from the first.
Disclaimer: I owneth not Victoria University, The Terrace, Wikipedia or Google or anything familiar.