Maybe it was the lack of coffee and lack of orgasm, but Clint looked at Ainsley with a small frown and a shake of his head. "You're an argumentative little shit when you want to be. 'I'm not doing this!' 'I never said that!' 'I know this!' 'I know that!' If you know, why the hell are you here? Do you want my fucking advice or not? If all you did was come here to listen and then argue against everything I'm saying, seriously, go to Renz because this is not my area of expertise. If you're crippled in how to talk to another kid and get to know them, then hook up with a therapist, because that's real clinical shit and definitely out of my skill area. When I was your age, I was slashing tyres, fucking teachers, and punching jocks in the face for the hell of it. You're not trying to go too fast with your feelings but already plotting on asking him out? Kid, fucking stop and listen to yourself."

He gave a huffy sigh of frustration and was aggressively stirring the sugar into his coffee. He took the spoon out and tossed it in the sink, taking a long sip before speaking again. "So what? You're not taking on anything I'm saying. I could be your fucking father right now, and what I say would be pointless because I'm not saying what you wanna hear. So, stand there and get it off your chest. I'll zone out and think of cock while you answer your own questions. I'm going outside for a smoke, so follow or discuss your teen angst with the fridge. You might like its answers better than mine."