Sweet Rome (Sweet Home 1.5)
“Then the answer is yes, you heard correctly,” she snapped.
Christ, she looked even cuter when she was mad as all hell, and her attitude was turning me on. “Huh!” I muttered, biting on my pencil. The room was absolutely silent, and even the professor was watching us both with rapt attention.
Ally struck me with her elbow in my rib and hissed out, “Quit it, Rome. She ain’t finding you funny. Leave her the hell alone.” For a moment, I did feel a bit guilty, but I was having too much damn fun sparring to really give a shit.
“Huh, what? Romeo?” she queried with a bitchy smile. That stilled me, and any humor I had soon morphed into rage. She used that f**king name, knowing exactly how I felt about it… and in public too? It was so far below a low blow it was arctic and I couldn’t believe she’d done that to me, didn’t believe her capable of being so damn mean.
Her eyebrow rose, a clear challenge, and I snarled. She wanted to play dirty? Game on.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “I just think it’s foolishly idealistic to think in such a way, Shakespeare, and for someone of your supposed intellect, I’m surprised it came out of your mouth at all.”
“Rome!” Ally warned quietly beside me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I had a burning desire to f**k her off after calling me that bastard name so maliciously.
“I mean, look at the voting analogy you gave: greatest good for the greatest number of people. You mentioned how it was considered good for society, as most people would be happy with the result, but all I see are flaws. What if the ‘majority’ of the people voting are bad or have ill intent and the minority are innocent, and good people are put in danger due to the fact that they’re outnumbered? What if the person you voted in has ulterior motives and goes back on what they said they would do?”
She opened her mouth to butt in, but I kept going, raising my voice even louder so she couldn’t stop me in my tirade.
“Look at Hitler. He was elected by a democratic vote, and for a time, he was what was right for the majority of the people who were living in poverty with no real hope. But look how that ended… I’m just saying that although it seems good in theory, the practical side don’t really pan out, now does it?”
I tipped my chin arrogantly, challenging her to step up her game. Leaving the protection of the lectern, she marched forward, purposefully walking up the first two steps toward me, her hair bouncing, long brown strands falling into her eyes.
“For a start, do me the honor of letting me finish before rudely interrupting.” Her teeth were gritted together and her eyes alight with ire. “What I agree with is the idea that individuals do, in many situations, live for pleasure over pain, at least for the most part. Surely you’d agree with that, Mr. Oh-so-fantastic QB. Don’t you make the majority of your decisions based on your illustrious football career, something that brings you pleasure?”
So she was going to go for the jugular, try and bring me down. I wondered what the f**k I’d done to deserve her wrath. “You’re right, I do, but I also do it for the spectators, for my teammates. They find joy in football, unlike some,” I said pointedly.
Her hands landed on her hips. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning that in Alabama, Shakespeare, football is the greatest pleasure there is—playing it, watching it, coaching it. My training and therefore my success benefits both me and others. You seem to be the only one who don’t like it.”
Her lips twitched and a victorious smile settled on her face. “Then you’ve proved me right. In Alabama, the greatest good for the greatest number of people is football, as it brings pleasure to the majority of the population.”
“In this respect, you may be right, but it’s not always that simple.”
“Go on,” she said, her arms folded under her chest, her foot tapping loudly against the wooden stairs.
“You talk about individuals doing things for pleasure and to avoid pain, things they dislike?”
“Yes.”
“But many individuals do things that cause themselves pain or displeasure to suit other peoples’ wants and desires.” She should’ve gotten that reference. Christ, she’d been the only person I’d ever confided in. Only she knew about the pressure from my folks to marry Shelly and do their bidding. I’d be damned if I was going to let her start spouting it back at me in front of total strangers.
“Oh, I’m not sure they’re always that painful—doing certain things or certain acts that others want, I mean.” Yeah. She was going to go there, and I almost snapped the desk in rage.
“Be completely clear, Shakespeare. What you getting at?” I gripped onto the pencil like it was a stress ball.
“Well, let’s use sex, for example. One of the two people partaking in the act might want it more, and the second person may be altogether quite indifferent in their affections, but the second person ultimately gives in and does it anyway to make the first person happy. However—and herein lies the irony—the one that is unhappy still finds sexual release. Therefore, that party doesn’t really experience displeasure at all. Do they?”
Shit. Realization hit. This was about Shelly. She thought I’d f**ked Shelly the night we talked on the balcony, and she clearly didn’t like it.
The pencil in my fingers snapped, along with my patience and tolerance for Molly’s public form of revenge… And for something I didn’t f**king do! She wanted to air all the dirty laundry? Then I’d air it the f**k out.