Only one way to find out.
“Are we going to see you again, Aster?” Shamus asks, promptly slicing the tension in two. Or maybe the tension was all in my mind, because Aster has no trouble turning away from me to focus on him. I try to listen to the conversation, to hear Aster say she can play again if we find ourselves short, but I can’t. Coming here was a bad idea. A table of chaperones and I can barely control myself. Story of my life.
I down my beer and Shamus reaches for the pitcher to pour me another. “No, thanks,” I say, waving him off. “I have to get going.”
“Oh,” Aster says, sounding surprised even as she gets to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”
“I can walk you home,” Shamus offers quickly. “If you don’t want to leave right away.”
I wince when I see how stupidly love struck he is.
“That’s okay,” she says. “Aidan lives with my boyfriend, and I’m going to their place.”
I wince again when I see Shamus’s heart break into a million little pieces, shattering all over the table. “I see.”
“Thanks for having me,” Aster adds, pulling on her red hat. “Nice meeting you all.”
A chorus of goodbyes follows us out of the pub and into the frosty night air.
“I didn’t realize you were coming over,” I say when we’ve taken a few steps in silence.
“I’m not. I just didn’t want to hurt his feelings later.”
“Ah.”
“Do you think I embarrassed him in front of everybody?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m sure he’s used to being rejected.”
She laughs. “Ouch.”
“At least now he knows you’re off limits, so if you come back, he won’t keep hitting on you.” For my peace of mind, as much as Jerry’s.
“That’s true.”
I glance at her. “Which way to your place?”
“You don’t have to walk me.”
“Of course I do. It’s dark. I’m a gentleman. Or couldn’t you tell?” I hold up my tattooed knuckles.
“How could I forget?”
We walk across the quiet, dark campus, winding between the sleepy buildings and bare trees. Street lamps buzz softly overhead, the sidewalks already glistening with frost.
“How long have you and Jerry been together?” I ask. I’d wanted to ask Jerry about Aster all week, but couldn’t figure out how to work it into conversation without it sounding like I was wondering if it would be difficult to break them up.
“A little over a year,” she answers, brushing a piece of hair back off her face. Her cheeks are pink with cold, making her even cuter, more wholesome, more not my type. But my dick is just not getting the message, and when I sneak a peek at her ass, it blatantly ignores my instructions not to think about it.
“We met at move-in last year,” she adds. “We pretty much started dating right away.”
“Lucky guy.”
“What about you? Jerry didn’t mention if you had a girlfriend.”
“No. No girl.”
“What about Missy?”
“Who?”
“Missy? On your team? She played second base and jumped into your arms after your home run?”
“Oh. Missy. No. Not her.” Missy has been flirting with me since she joined the team in September, but I’ve never taken her up on her offer. I have to play with those guys every Thursday, and I don’t want to hook up with Missy and then see her pouting week after week because I didn’t call.
And though I hardly know her, I know Aster’s a girl who expects a phone call.
And Jerry’s the guy who calls her.
“This is me,” she says, stopping in front of a tall concrete building. “Thanks for walking me.”
“Any time.”
“And thanks for inviting me. That was fun.”
“Why do you live here?” I blurt out. “And not with Jerry?”
“I’m an R.A.,” she replies. “A resident advisor. It covers the cost of dorms and meals. I could use the money. And...it was too soon to live with Jerry.”
“Sorry. None of my business.” Though I file away the fact that if she needs the cash, maybe she doesn’t go on ski trips with her wealthy family. She probably does read to blind kids, though.
“That’s okay. Also, he steals money from my wallet.”
“What?”
She laughs, the same sound I haven’t forgotten from earlier in the week. The same one I hear when I’m jerking off. “Just kidding. Jerry’s great. You’re going to love him.” She waves and pulls out her keys. “Good night, Aidan.”
I step back. “’Night, Aster.”
3
For the next six days, I manage to think about Aster a little less. I only jack off to the thought of her ass in the air and my hands in her hair three times. It’s an improvement over last week.
All of my hard work is promptly undone when I let myself into the apartment Wednesday night and find Aster alone on the couch. There’s a pizza box on the cushion next to her, her bare feet crossed at the ankles on the ottoman. The visual of coming home to Aster hits me stupidly hard, and I tell myself the heat I’m feeling is just the contrast from the cold air outside. That the want tugging at my insides is just hunger.
But it’s not.
“Hey,” I make myself say. I turn around and take off my coat and boots, trying not to show how happy I am to see her.
“Hey,” she replies. “Sorry for just being here like this. Jerry was supposed to meet me for dinner but he got stuck at the lab and I’d already ordered the pizza.”
“Totally fine.”
The kitchen and living room are divided by a small counter, so I can still see her as I fill a glass with tap water and down it in three swallows.
“Do you want some food?” Aster asks. “Jerry’s going to eat at the lab, and he said to tell you to help yourself if you’re hungry.”
I try not to appear too “hungry” when I look at Aster and wonder what else Jerry is willing to share.
I should tell her no. I should say I ate and go into my room and close the door and put on headphones and forget she’s here. But I’ve never been good at resisting temptation, even when it’s wearing an oversized Holsom sweatshirt and faded jeans and seems to be legitimately enjoying Bridget Jones’ Diary.
“I’ll have some pizza,” I say, grabbing a napkin from the counter. “But you’ve gotta change the channel.”
“This movie’s a classic.”
“It’s not.” I take the spot on the far end of the couch, the pizza between us. I can practically feel her scrutinizing my white button-up shirt and dark pants, far from my usual attire of jeans and old concert T-shirts.
“Did you have a late class?” she asks.
I grab a slice of pizza. It’s pepperoni and mushroom and it’s still hot. My mouth waters and I take a bite, glancing at Aster. It’s not a secret that I have a job, but it’s not something I advertise. My job at the library is in stark contrast to the tattooed knuckles and bad attitude.
“I was working,” I say around the food. “At the library.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“I never told you. Change the channel.”
She picks up the remote and scrolls through the options in the guide. “I’m just being nice because you’re new,” she informs me.
I grin. Aster’s being nice because she’s a nice person. “And when I’m not new? What happens then?”
“All this hospitality goes right out the window.”
“Uh-oh.”
“It’s as terrible as it sounds.”
“Does Jerry know you’re cruel?”
“Nope. He came with me to see Bridget Jones’ Baby in theater.”
I groan and stuff the rest of the pizza in my mouth. If that’s what it takes to get a girl like Aster, maybe I’ve been jerking off to the wrong girl. “Jerry needs some guidance.”
She smirks. “Are you going to be that guide?”
“If I ever find h
im watching Bridget Jones by himself, I’ll have to step in. No real man watches that movie willingly. And he only watches it for a girl if there’s a blow jo—” I catch myself way too late. Aster’s blue eyes widen and she freezes, a piece of pizza extended toward her pretty mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say hastily. “I forgot who—”
Then she laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
She drops the pizza back into the box she’s laughing so hard.
“Poor Jerry,” she wheezes, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I just had to buy his popcorn.”
I snicker, relief making me weak and stupid. “It’s none of my business,” I say, even though I want it to be my business. I want to take Aster to a chick flick and make her pay for it with filthy sexual favors afterward. I want to find out if she’d be offended by it.
“I think you’ll be a good influence on Jerry,” she says after a second. She’s focused on the TV again, settling on a Big Bang Theory rerun.
I almost choke. “Did you say a good influence?” Not once in my life has anyone ever called me a good influence. I’m not sure I’ve ever even been called good, period. And I’m not sure how to feel about it.
“Yeah,” Aster says. “He’s so focused on school that he sometimes forgets to have fun. Maybe you’ll rub off on him.”
“What do you do for fun, Aster?”
She glances at my knuckles and rolls her lips contemplatively. “Lots of things.”
I try not to curl my hands into fists, try not to show her how I have to work so fucking hard not to reach over there to touch her, just to see if I can.
I might have been wrong about the money. I might even be wrong about the blind kids. But Aster’s a nice person, a good person. She’s not going to fuck me if she has a boyfriend.
So the boyfriend will have to go.
4
The middle of next week, I come home to find Jerry studying in the living room. He’s alone, for once. Normally I have to see him and Aster cuddling or looking way too happy together as they eat dinner or lock themselves away in his room. I never hear them banging through the walls, but I’m not desperate enough to think they’re sitting in there reading scripture, either.
I wish.
“Hey,” I say, hanging up my coat.
“Hey,” Jerry replies. He closes his textbook. “How was work?”
“Just fine. Ready for the weekend.”
“I hear you.”
“Yeah?” I grab some leftover takeout from the fridge. “When was the last time you went out?”
He doesn’t even lie. “I don’t remember,” he admits. “It’s been a while.”
“Come out on Friday,” I say, like it’s just occurred to me. “A friend of mine is getting married, and we’re having a bachelor party.”
“Getting married?” he exclaims. “How old is this friend?”
“Twenty-three. He’s a fucking idiot. We’re going to give him one last send-off before the ball and chain get tied on.”
“That’s young.”
I eat another mouthful of cold chow mein. “Real young. You and Aster headed that way?”
“For marriage?”
“Yeah.”
I wait for him to say no, this is college, they’re having fun, it’s not permanent. Instead he says, “Maybe once I finish med school and I’m working. I don’t want to tie her down when I have nothing to offer.”
A little shiver of guilt snakes through me, but I ignore it. “You’ll have lots to offer—in ten years. For now, live a little. Come have a beer on a Friday night.”
“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “You’re right. I’ll come. Thanks.”
I throw the empty takeout container in the trashcan across the room, sinking the three-pointer. “Thank you.”
* * *
Jerry tries to wear a tie to the bachelor party. He comes out of his room at ten on Friday night, no doubt having sat in there for the past two hours, wondering when we were supposed to leave. I told him around ten, but he didn’t think it was possible to start something so late. I swear Jerry’s an eighty-year-old man in a twenty-one-year-old body.
“Take that off,” I tell him when I spot the polka dot tie. Polka dots. Jerry might be nice and on his way to becoming a doctor, but I’m not sure those facts can make up for this tie. I’m doing Aster a huge favor by intervening here.
At least, that’s who I tell myself the favor’s for.
“What?” Jerry asks, automatically touching the tie. “This tie?”
“Yeah. It’s a bachelor party, not a horse race.”
“I haven’t been to a horse race in forever,” Jerry says. “Have you—”
“No. Tie off.”
He reluctantly undoes the tie, folds it carefully, and rests it on an end table. I’m sitting on the couch, wearing jeans and black button-up shirt, my combat boots propped on the ottoman as I eat a bowl of popcorn. I told him this wasn’t a drink-expensive-scotch-and-smoke-cigars type of deal, but I don’t think he believed me until now.
“And untuck your shirt,” I say.
“But that’s so slopp—” He breaks off when he sees my face. He’s got his sea green shirt tucked completely inside his khakis, and it takes him twelve full seconds to pull it out. There. At least he looks like a semi-youthful person. Or at least a bank employee who’s finished work for the evening.
“All right,” I say, getting to my feet. “Let’s go.”
I can tell Jerry’s nervous as we make the twenty-minute trek through the cold night to a dive bar called Bender just off the edge of campus. Bender is the anchor of a plaza of seedy businesses, all of which are open twenty-four hours. Pawn shop, sex shop, money lending. Everything a guy could ask for.
I grab the door and noise pours out, the battle of old rock music warring with drunken revelers and a recap of a rowdy football game. Jerry pauses for a second before entering, probably uttering a quick thank-you-God he’s not wearing the tie.
The bar is small and tightly packed, and so dark I probably wouldn’t have located my friends if I couldn’t hear them. They’ve commandeered three tables and a booth in the back corner, near a hallway blocked by a flimsy beaded curtain. They haven’t been here for long, but the table is already littered with empty shot glasses and baskets of greasy food.
“Shaw!” someone bellows, and more shouts follow.
I lead Jerry to the table and pull out two chairs near the curtain. “Hey,” I say. “This is my roommate.” I make the introductions and Jerry does a commendable job of not appearing too alarmed at the company he’s being asked to keep.
I enrolled at Holsom as part of their Promise & Potential Program, and that’s how I met most of these guys. Boasting tattoos, piercings, muscles, and perma-scowls, we work at the library, the bakery, and the campus daycare. My friend Wes did two years in prison for his part in a small scale drug operation; now he can change a dirty diaper in ten seconds flat.
Not that anybody will tell Jerry this.
I see a couple side-eye glances at the khakis, but no one comments. They don’t know about Aster or my ulterior motive for this evening, they think I’m just bringing Jerry out for a good time. And I am.
A fresh round of shots arrives and I expect Jerry to ask for a glass of white wine, but he grabs his glass and joins in the toast for Brix, the unlucky guy getting married in a month, and downs the whisky like a pro.
I keep pace for the next two rounds, then switch to water. I’ve got a small buzz, but Jerry’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy and he’s not half as tense as when he arrived. He even laughs at T.J.’s story about threatening to break the fingers of a student who claimed his cinnamon bun was over-baked and tried to get a refund.
“That bun was not over-baked!” T.J. shouts, pounding the table. “It was moist!”
We shout our agreed outrage and I can practically see Jerry making a mental note never to visit the bakery.
“Hey, boys,” coos a familiar voice, soft but seductive enough to wind th
rough the testosterone-fuelled noise.
“Hey, Sin,” comes the chorus.
“Sin?” Jerry echoes as she steps through the curtain and puts her flawless, mostly-bare body on display.
“Sindy,” she says. “Sin for short.” She bends to whisper in his ear. “Or long.”
“Huh?”
Brix gives me a strange look. I’ve told them most of the truth about Jerry: he’s my roommate, pre-med, nice guy, a bit uptight. Definitely not a guy who’s paid for sex, or seen someone else pay for sex. I’ve never paid for it myself, but if you’ve been to Bender, you’ve seen guys—and gals—slip through that beaded curtain after Sindy and slide back out with a satisfied smile on their face. Hence tonight’s prime seating arrangements.
Sindy sinks into a free chair and crosses her legs, monitoring Jerry’s face the whole time, sizing him up. He’s a little drunk, a little confused, and a little turned on.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” she says. She leans in, arms pressing into her torso to emphasize her fantastic rack. She wears a sparkly gold bra that leaves little to the imagination, and I can almost see the shiny fabric reflected in Jerry’s eyes.
“Um, it’s my first time,” he manages to reply. “I’m normally...studying.” He’s having a hard time keeping his gaze off her chest, though he’s doing a commendable job of trying.
“Hey,” Brix says, rapping on the table to get my attention. “You wanna watch your friend get his rocks off or play pool?”
“That’s a tough one,” I say, standing. “But I guess I can kick your ass before your new wife takes over.”
Half of us move to the far side of the bar with the pool tables and dartboards. I see Wes talking to some sketchy guys in the corner, but tell myself to stay out of it. We all got our spot in this program for a reason; it’s probably nothing.
Brix reserved a table and now he racks the balls and takes the first shot. “Should we make this interesting?” he asks, reaching for his wallet.
“No,” I say automatically. I’ve done a lot of bad shit, but I never gamble. Never.
My Roommate's Girl Page 2
