Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Julianna Keyes. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher at [email protected].
Visit our website at www.juliannakeyes.com.
Cover design by Khoi Le
ISBN 978-0-9950507-4-7
First Edition June 2017
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
My Roommate’s Girl
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
Thank you!
Books by Julianna Keyes
About Julianna Keyes
My Roommate’s Girl
The day a judge gave me the choice between going to prison or going to college was the day I vowed to stop stealing. Never again would I see something beautiful and beyond my means and take it, just because I wanted it. Just because I could.
When I moved in with Jerry, it was with good intentions. I needed a place to live while I got my degree, and he needed a roommate.
Then I saw Aster.
Blond and beautiful, good, pure, sweet, smart...and Jerry’s girlfriend. She was everything I never thought I could have. Except...maybe I can.
So I put a plan into action. Yeah, I’d probably go to hell, but it would be worth it. I wanted Aster. I wanted her yesterday and tomorrow and every possible way.
But you know what they say.
Be careful what you wish for...because you just might get it.
1
In hindsight, the story ends the moment it begins. I park in front of the apartment building, my new roommate, Jerry, comes out to help me bring in my meager belongings, and everything is fine. Then he says, “This is my girlfriend, Aster.”
I look at Aster and I’m done.
So if you think about it, Jerry kind of started it.
From our few text exchanges, I know that Jerry, like me, is a third year student at Holsom College, a reputable-if-not-notable school just outside of Seattle. He’s pre-med, a meticulous recycler, and, if today’s outfit is any indication, a fan of polo shirts and the color purple.
“Hey,” Aster says, sticking out a hand as she props open the door to the building with her hip. I hoist my over-stuffed duffel bag higher onto my shoulder and take her hand, forcing myself to let go after a few seconds.
“Hey. I’m Aidan.”
“I know. Jerry told me all about you. Come on up.” Jerry had a lighter load and took the stairs, but Aster presses the button for the elevator and we get in, making the quick trip to the second floor. “Do you live here, too?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.
“No,” Aster says as we step out into a quiet hall with pale gray walls. “I’m on campus. This is it.” She stops at door 211 and holds it for me to pass through.
We enter just as Jerry goes back out for more stuff, and Aster leads me past a tidy living room and down a short hallway. It’s my first time living off-campus, and though I’d only seen the place in pictures, it’s already better than the two years I spent in Holsom College residence. The walls aren’t made of stained concrete, the floors aren’t covered in stained carpet, and, well, there aren’t any stains anywhere. The walls are still clean, the wood floors still shiny, the appliances still functioning.
I got into Holsom as part of a scholarship program that gives troubled kids a second chance, and when it became apparent that my second chance was being jeopardized by the distractions of life on campus, I’d managed to convince the program director to let me use my room and board credit to rent a room in town instead. Now here I am, January third, new year, new home, new blonde distraction.
Jerry’s previous roommate left his furniture behind, and I’ve inherited a queen size bed and a slightly lopsided desk. Combined with my duffel and milk crates, it’s the most I’ve ever owned. “This is nice,” I remark, taking things in as Aster lingers in the doorway. “Way better than residence.”
She smiles. “I know, right? Nothing is stained.”
She has a shoulder-length blond bob and clear, makeup-free skin. Her white T-shirt sets off her natural tan, and her torn jeans and bare feet make her look like she’d be more at home on a surfboard than a college campus. The dip in the V-neck of her T-shirt gives me a glimpse of cleavage I will think about for many nights to come.
I don’t have a type. I like all girls. Short, tall, thin, curvy, light, dark, and everything in between. Aster lands on the naturally pretty part of the spectrum, straight white teeth, clear blue eyes, and, when I pass her on my way to collect more things, a tiny smattering of freckles across her nose.
She smells like laundry detergent.
I’m still smelling it after Jerry and I have carted up the rest of my belongings, and I’m still thinking about it when he offers me a beer and toasts with, “To roommates.”
Jerry seems like a nice guy, but he’s my total opposite. His hair is dark, mine is dirty blond. His arms are tattoo-free; both of mine are etched in ink I started getting when I was fifteen. Jerry’s here because his dad’s a doctor; I’m here because the judge told me if I didn’t go to college I’d be going to jail instead. He said lifting cars and lifting weights weren’t the only things I could do, but that’s all I had to look forward to if I didn’t take the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he felt strangely compelled to offer me.
I’m not an idiot. I took it. I took the scholarship they probably could have given to some kid who wasn’t faking his gratitude. But hey, I figured I’d made a living taking things that weren’t mine—why stop now?
“How were your holidays?” Aster asks, perching on the arm of Jerry’s chair. The living room has a leather couch and two club chairs, and I’m on the couch opposite the two of them, trying not to eyeball Aster’s cleavage.
“Just fine,” I reply, sipping my beer. “Yours?” To stop myself from staring I turn my attention to the front window. The January sky is gray, its pale expanse carved up by the bare branches of the tree that looms outside. In the summer, when it’s leafy and green, it’s probably pretty. Right now it feels like prison bars. I’d only spent a few nights behind them, but it was enough to convince me I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere right around the time I stole my first car.
Jerry wraps up a story about spending Christmas with family in Portland, and I missed whatever Aster said. Their politeness makes me feel antsy, like more of a black sheep than I already am. They’re the smiling, sweet people you see in catalogues, modeling corduroy and sneakers. I’m...not.
A shrill ring interrupts and Aster gives a little jump. “Shoot!” she exclaims. “Sorry.” She stands and pulls a phone from her back pocket, answering on the third ring. Her voice grows muffled as she disappears down the hall.
“So,” Jerry says. “You back to class tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“The break was nice.”
I nod along, like I didn’t spend it in residence with a kid from Taiwan. He didn’t speak much English but he had some awesome video games, so that helped pass the time.
“You said you, uh, play Frisbee baseball?” Jerry asks when the silence becomes awkward. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
I try to appear pleasant and conversational, but it’s not easy. I don’t fit in at Holsom, and I definitely don’t fit in with purple polo shirts. “Me either,” I say finally. I hadn’t heard of the sport until I was informed that part of my scholarship requirement was that I have at least one “approved” pastime and a part-time job. Now I play Frisbee baseball at one of the campus gyms every Thursday and pull three shifts a week at the library.
“Aster’s good at sports,” Jerry says when Aster pads back into the room, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood.
“I’m okay,” she says, returning to her spot next to him. “I can run without falling down. What do you play, Aidan?”
Hearing her say my name has an odd effect on me. Most people call me by my last time, Shaw. For some reason it makes me want to sit up a bit straighter, put the beer away, be better. But I don’t.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Not really.”
Her brows pull together in confusion. “Oh.”
“He plays Frisbee baseball,” Jerry offers, suddenly uncertain. “On a rec team?”
I feel bad. I’m not really a dick, I just don’t like small talk. Or a lot of talk.
“On Thursdays,” I make myself say.
Aster scratches her knee through the torn denim, echoing Jerry’s words from earlier. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“A lot of people don’t. We’re always short players.”
Jerry perks up a bit, seizing the chance to show me what a good roommate he is. “Aster could fill in for you, if you wanted.” Then he turns to Aster. “And if you wanted,” he adds.
If she’s annoyed at him offering her services, she hides it well. “I’m free Thursdays. Just call me, if you want me.” Then she laughs. “To play,” she corrects herself. “If you want me to play with you.”
She presses her hand to her chest, drawing my attention there yet again. My stomach tightens, then my thighs, my arms. Everything pulls in tight, anticipating my next move, the way it did whenever I found the car I’d been sent to steal, sitting there, innocent, waiting.
No clue what was coming.
And no way to stop it.
2
I’m smoking in front of the gym when Aster arrives on Thursday night. It’s dark and cold, the sky clear. The parking lot is half-full of cars, and Aster weaves between them as she walks up. She’s wearing a puffy yellow jacket zipped to her chin, a red hat pulled down low over her ears. She’s the brightest thing in the lot.
I stub out my cigarette on a trash can and toss the butt away, nodding at Aster when she’s close. “Hey.”
“Hey. I didn’t realize you smoked.”
“Only sometimes. Don’t tell Jerry.” The apartment building is non-smoking, but I only smoke when I’m stressed, so it wasn’t an issue. The fact that I stressed all day at the prospect of seeing Aster for the first time since I’d moved in, is an issue.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” She smiles, but I swear I see her nose wrinkle a little bit when I reach past her for the door. I’m wearing a hoodie over my T-shirt and sweats, and now I pull it off as I follow her inside, hoping the smoke doesn’t cling to my skin.
The building has two gymnasiums and a small pool, and the air smells like chlorine as we walk down a hallway lined with orange lockers. The gym doors have been propped open to encourage spectators, none of whom ever turn up.
“That’s us,” I say, pointing toward a small group of people in white mesh jerseys on the far side of the room. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” Aster replies. She pulls off the red hat and shakes out her hair, the thick, shiny strands falling neatly into place. She’s a foot in front of me and I take a second to admire her ass in the black workout tights, her lean legs, graceful walk. I meant it when I said I like all kinds of girls, but I’ve never been with a girl like Aster. A girl who looks like she goes on ski holidays with her wealthy family and reads books to blind kids in her free time. Someone who’s totally comfortable smiling and shaking hands with my teammates and introducing herself, saying her name, Aster Aster Aster, so many times it turns into a chant I can’t get out of my head.
Frisbee baseball isn’t terribly different from actual baseball, we just use a disc instead of a ball, but Aster listens politely as Shamus, our Irish team captain, outlines the rules, then takes her position in right field as we begin. My team is called the Shamrocks, courtesy of Shamus, and our opponents are the Scare Bears. I’m playing third when the first player comes up to bat, eyeballing Aster. There aren’t a lot of Frisbee baseball teams at Holsom, so they immediately identify her as a newbie and predictably hurl the disc in her direction. She jogs back ten feet, waits for the disc to drop, and easily catches it before tossing it back in. One down.
The next batter tries the same thing, this time a shorter toss, aimed to drop in front of her. It skitters across the ground and she runs in, scoops it up, and fires it into second, catching the runner as he tries for a double.
Two down.
Okay, maybe Aster looks like a girl who skis and reads to blind kids and plays Frisbee baseball.
The third player isn’t intimidated by the last two plays, and whips the disc into right field. It soars high and deep and Aster breaks into a sprint as she tracks it. The disc is coming down but still has momentum, and the runner is already rounding second. It’s an easy home run until Aster leaps into the air, one arm extended, and snatches the Frisbee. She lands on her feet, takes two steps to slow her speed, then casually jogs back in. Our team waits there, deeply impressed, and I’m standing at the back of the line to high five her as we return to our bench.
“What the fuck?” I mutter into her ear as she tosses the disc to the other team’s first baseman.
She bats her lashes at me, too deliberate to actually be innocent. “What? Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?”
“How many more secret skills do you have?”
She grins and blows a piece of hair off her forehead. “No secrets here, Aidan.”
* * *
The first inning wasn’t beginner’s luck. Aster is a fucking all star. She “hits” well, runs smart, and fields like a genie. There’s nothing she can’t do. Shamus is drooling over her by the time we get to the bottom of the fourth, and he’s fully in love with her when we win 13-8. Though she’d offered, I’d had no intention of actually asking Aster to play with us tonight. It was only Shamus’s pitiful email pleas begging us to find a female player for the game—and the dearth of response from the rest of our teammates—that prompted me to ask Jerry if he’d invite Aster on my behalf. He’d been more than happy to help. In fact, Jerry is always happy. He’s the most upbeat, positive guy I’ve ever met. He’s so upbeat he circles right back around from happy to annoying to kind of mystifying. It’s also why I told myself not to invite Aster to play—it’d be one thing to lust after Jerry’s girl if he were an asshole, but it’s quite another when he’s so, well, nice. The kind of guy a girl like Aster would fall for. The kind that’s nothing like me.
The team goes for drinks after each game and I normally bail, but tonight Shamus invites Aster and she accepts. “You coming, Aidan?” she asks.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but hearing the invite come from Aster takes away any impulse to reject the offer. Maybe I can consider socializing with my t
eammates penance for jerking off to the image of my roommate’s girlfriend three times in the four days since I last saw her.
We get dressed and trek across campus to a small Irish pub, Shamus’s favorite. There are ten of us, so we grab a couple of tables and stick them together while Shamus goes to order the first round. He returns with a couple of pitchers and a server follows with a tray of glasses, and in less than a minute we’ve all got a glass of beer and a fake smile as we pretend to listen to Shamus’s toast.
I’m sitting next to Aster, and I don’t hear a word of what Shamus is saying. When everyone echoes the toast I just mumble something, touching my glass to that of the guy next to me, and the girl next to him, then, finally, Aster’s. Our fingers bump and she notices the four letters crudely etched into the back of my knuckles: R-I-D-E.
“Ride?” she reads, automatically reaching for my other hand. I want to pull it back, keep it out of sight and not offend her, but there’s really no way to jerk away without doing exactly that. Instead I let her enfold my rough hand in her smooth one, her fingers curling mine into a fist so she can read the second word. H-A-R-D.
“Ride hard.” She looks at me. “Ride what?”
I try not to stare at her eyes. They’re cornflower blue, a shade I know because they used to grow in this weird little patch in the field behind our home when I was a kid. It’s a color I associate with being young and carefree and happy. A color I haven’t seen since one of the bookies my dad failed to pay burned down our house.
“Ride whatever,” I make myself say, the words scratching my throat. I take a sip of beer like my only problem right now is dehydration.
“Jerry said you don’t have a car.”
That’s true; I’d borrowed one for the hour it had taken me to pack up my stuff from residence and cart it over to the apartment. “There are other things to ride.”
“Motorcycles?”
She’s too close. I can see her freckles, count the tiny strands of hair that cling to her temples, damp with sweat.
I’ve never had a girl this close to me in a bar that wasn’t waiting for me to make a move, or planning her own move. All of my instincts are urging me to put down my glass and take Aster’s hands and put them on my crotch and show her just how hard I like to ride. It might offend her. Or it might turn her on.
My Roommate's Girl Page 1
