Roomie Wars Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Kat T. Masen

  Like my ex, Jess.

  Don’t think about that dirtbag now.

  “There’s holes all over the back. And Zo... I think your nipples are showing.”

  I look down in horror. Bullshit. In fear of losing my shirt at this very moment, I stretch my arms and remove it, standing in the living room only wearing my white-laced bra.

  “Happy? I’ll soak it now.”

  His eyes wander to my breasts, and he does that thing with his lips where he bites the corner. Boy, does it annoy the shit out of me! The same bite that supposedly got women into his bed at the drop of a hat. “Hey, just looking out for your shirt.”

  I mumble something about him being a dick on the way to the bathroom. Placing my shirt in the sink, I run the hot water and let it soak with some stain remover praying for a miracle before heading to my room and opening my wardrobe.

  As usual, my wardrobe is full, yet I have nothing to wear. Rephrase—nothing that fits.

  The right-hand side is jam-packed with designer dresses and skirts that no longer zip up, and the few hangers on the left-hand side hold a couple of new pieces I was forced to buy. Otherwise, I’d be wearing only my birthday suit every day.

  I tug the gray tank off the hanger and quickly put it on. The full-length mirror is positioned next to the wardrobe, and stupid me stops to examine myself. I take a deep breath to control the anxiety that seeps its way through when I see how much weight I’ve gained.

  For some reason, I have no idea how to stop the vicious cycle I fell into of eating and sitting on the couch. My gym membership continues to be debited from my account, yet I haven’t stepped foot in a gym in over a year. The motivation, willpower, and drive for success in all areas of my life has disappeared into thin air.

  Turning to the side, the extra skin across my belly sits comfortably on my sweatpants. Muffin top. And is it wrong that the word ‘muffin’ makes me hungrier? If Drew weren’t my roomie, I would probably smash this mirror to pieces with how angry I am at myself for getting to this point. But I know better than to be destructive, and I head back to the living room ignoring my inner demons.

  I plonk myself back on the couch with the remote in hand. It’s not long before a delicious aroma enters the living room, and I breathe in the exotic spices making my stomach growl in anticipation. Drew is humming away some tune to a familiar song. We didn’t exactly see eye to eye with music. Drew liked modern funk or whatever the crap they play in clubs, and I’m all about the eighties. Madonna is—and always will be—the goddess of music.

  “Whatcha cooking?” I yell out.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I probably don’t. Another thing we don’t see eye to eye on—food.

  Drew is a health nut and always trying some new diet which involves food claiming to be the next best thing for your body. We’re forever arguing over the food I purchased, and Drew’s the biggest nagger when it comes to what food you put in your mouth. He drives me insane—a far cry from the guy who walked into my apartment four years ago.

  Andrew Baldwin, the chubby geek I chose as a roomie over Mr. Blue Eyes.

  Back then, Andrew was your typical university student living on pizza and Ramen noodles, struggling to get his medical degree. After moving in, he decided to go on a health kick given the demanding hours he’d soon have to commit to in the medical field. He admitted that he struggled with many things in his life, and his weight was one of them. At that time, I couldn’t relate, thinking I was invincible. Being twenty-five with a banging body, I thought I was one of those lucky women.

  Ha! What a delusional idiot I turned out to be.

  Andrew started hitting the gym every day and eating like a rabbit while I threw myself into a destructive relationship. Over time, he transformed his body, and I had to admit, he looked good. He was no longer that geek who walked into my apartment that day. Spending that much time in the gym toned his body, and it felt like overnight his abs came out of nowhere. For a while, I thought he had some compulsive gym disorder, but he was just motivated and didn’t stop until he achieved the results he was after. The cocky bastard knew he looked good and so began the shirtless parade through the apartment every day.

  Watching him transform didn’t bug me the slightest bit. If anything, I was proud he made changes to better his situation. Aside from the weight loss, he cut his hair shorter and started wearing contacts. He threw out all his clothes and went on this shopping spree purchasing trendier pieces since he was hitting the club scene every spare moment he got.

  Women began throwing themselves at him, and soon, he referred to himself as ‘Drew.’ Of course, I went along with it being a supportive friend. He was living the life—a rocking body, a career beginning to take off, and gorgeous women begging to be in his bed. He knew how to play the ‘Doctor’ card when it came to luring women to his room.

  I’ll be the first to admit seeing him transform should have motivated me, but instead, I went in the opposite direction throwing myself into a relationship that was toxic.

  Jess was your typical tattooed bad boy. A chain-smoking, Harley Davidson-driving bad boy.

  He was every daddy’s worse nightmare. My dad warned me on several occasions I could do better than him. That his little girl deserved the world, and Jess was a deadbeat living paycheck to paycheck with a drinking problem. It just took me so long to figure that out.

  We dated for a year and a half, breaking up a dozen times because of his jealous antics. It’s easy to look back now and realize how destructive our relationship was, but in the midst of it all, I thought I was going to marry him.

  We vacationed at some beautiful resorts and had fun most of the time, but Jess’s drinking problem spiraled out of control. It was brought to my attention by Drew one day, yet I ignored him, thinking he was pissed off because Jess spent so much time at our apartment. When Jess got drunk, Drew was his target. The thought of me living with a male drove him insane.

  To think I nearly moved out to live with him in his rundown shack shows how pathetic I was. I guess you could say it was a blessing I found my ex-best friend, Callie, blowing him in the back of his workshop.

  Reiterate—ex-best friend.

  I lost my sense of strong, independent Zoey and turned into the devil, cursing revenge on their lame asses. I was on the warpath to make their lives a living hell, and in the meantime, all that did was put me in a depressive funk that could only be cured by eating more.

  My love life dwindled after that and not because I didn’t get any offers, but because I just couldn’t be bothered anymore. I’d joined the anti-men bandwagon. They were all the same. At least in my eyes, they were.

  “Since you didn’t reply, I’ll take it you’re not interested?” Drew yells back from the kitchen.

  “Pass,” I shout back, digging into my corn chips.

  He emerges ten minutes later with a plate of green crap. Settling on the couch beside me, he devours his meal making these odd sounds. It smells good, but boy, does it look like a pile of mush.

  “Geez, you sound like you’re having an orgasm.”

  “Kale does that to you.” He moans on purpose, closing his eyes as he runs his tongue along his top lip.

  “Honestly, where is the fun-loving Andrew who would fight for the last slice of Hawaiian pizza? Remember pizza wars? When we would battle for the last slice?”

  “I believe that’s buried along with that name. C’mon, Zo, you know I hate being called Andrew.”

  I’m not about to get into that argument again. Drew struggled with talking about his past every time I got all Dr. Phil on him. It’s a man thing. Something I wish I could do because I have no problem dragging up the past. A woman thing.

  Fumbling with the remote and skipping past all the Friday-night rubbish on television, I stop at some wedding-dress show until Drew warns me to keep surfing.

  “The last time you watched this, you cried for an hour saying you would end up a spinster collecting cats.”

  �
�It was that time of the month,” I mumble with a mouthful of corn chips.

  He removes the remote from my hands and settles on some travel show. Although I let out an annoyed huff, crossing my arms like a spoiled child, I end up enjoying watching the hosts trek through Asia and explore different cultures—another reminder my life has become stagnant. Yet, that push, that drive, my mojo, has no desire to experience life outside of this apartment and my office.

  “So, what are you doing this weekend?” I ask, swiftly changing the subject before my head explodes.

  “I’m going to the beach down the coast with a couple of guys. I think it would be good for you to join us.”

  “Why? You know I hate the sun. It’s a freckle funeral in this heat.”

  “Because you need to get out. Ever since you broke up with what’s-his-face, you’ve been down in the dumps, eating rubbish, and watching reruns. You’re young, Zo. How many other single girls at twenty-nine do you see doing the same thing?”

  “They don’t because they’re all engaged or married.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t need a man. I’m fine.”

  “When you can say that to me without pulling that ridiculous face, I’ll believe you. And as for tomorrow, go find your bikini because I’ll be dragging you out of bed at six.”

  “Six!” I cry out.

  Fuck. My bikini will cover only one boob. I haven’t worn it since my ill-fated trip to Fiji with Jess. Back then I was a B-cup. These Ds have no chance of staying put.

  “I’m not going,” I say firmly.

  Turning to face me, he extends his hand. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

  “Argh, you’re so annoying,” I moan, following his move.

  We both clench our fists and shake three times. At the same time, we release our hands, both pulling out rock. We repeat the game, and when Drew pulls out rock again, I throw my scissors hand into the air in frustration.

  “Okay. You win,” I complain, sinking deeper into the couch with my arms folded.

  Drew pulls my wrist toward him reading the time on my watch. “Shit. I’ve got to start getting ready.”

  “Hot date?”

  He winks. Manwhore.

  Since Drew is so anal about cleaning, he couldn’t leave without washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen. The dishwasher starts to run, and he heads to the bathroom to take a shower but not before accusing me of leaving corn chips all over the floor and ordering me to vacuum them up.

  Housework is so mundane, so I do just a quick vacuum before shoving it back into the small storage cupboard without wrapping the cord around it properly. I’ll pay the price for that later when Drew finds it.

  Feeling lonely and bored, I walk to his room to find him out of the shower and changing into his clothes. Already wearing his skinny black jeans, he pulls a white tank over his head before grabbing his ironed shirt off the hanger.

  “Ooh, that’s your I’ll-definitely-get-laid shirt,” I tease, throwing myself on his bed while I fiddle with his iPod.

  “I like to think every shirt is my definitely-get-laid shirt.”

  “Bet you’re bringing home a blonde,” I tell him.

  “Nah,” he says casually. “How about two brunettes?”

  I look up at him in shock. “A threesome?”

  “Relax.” He smiles. “I save those nights for when you’re on work trips.”

  Without even thinking, I throw his pillow at him.

  “What’s that for?!” he yells, annoyed that the pillow touched his perfectly styled hair.

  “For being a manwhore. I liked it better when you were a geek who couldn’t get laid and probably jerked off watching Princess Leia in Star Wars.”

  Who am I kidding? Drew being a manwhore has its perks. Like how in the mornings the women are always trying to impress him by wearing his shirt and cooking him breakfast in the kitchen. At first, I was taken back and slightly threatened but soon realized there’s advantages to his sleeping around. These chicks cook enough for an army. My favorite one-night stand was Jacinta. She cooked me a mean omelet that I craved for weeks. I even asked Drew to bring her back, but it was a big fat ‘no.’ Something about her being clingy and a dud in the bedroom. Such an arrogant asshole.

  Drew takes a bottle of aftershave and sprays it on himself. The scent permeates the room, and I inhale it, closing my eyes, enjoying the masculinity of the fragrance. Okay, maybe for a split second I’m craving the touch of a man. God, it’s been forever. You’re on the verge of becoming a nun. A pizza-eating, sweatpants-wearing nun.

  “How do I look?” he asks, turning around to face me.

  Despite our platonic relationship, I’d be a fool not to see how good he looks. The maroon-checked shirt enhances his tan from his last vacation to Cancun. His dark brown hair is slicked to the side with a slight spike, and his face is freshly shaven showing off his masculine jawline. I notice he’s put in his contacts, his normal reading glasses sitting on his bedside table.

  “Good. For a manwhore,” I add.

  He moves toward me, leaning down to kiss my forehead. “I love you, too.”

  With that said, he grabs his wallet, keys, and cell and tells me to behave.

  The door shuts, and I’m alone. Again.

  Behave. Impossible to get into trouble when you’re on your own and let out the biggest yawn at only nine o’clock.

  Back in my room, I change into my nightie after brushing my teeth and applying my face cream. Pulling back the comforter, I climb into bed and make myself comfortable. The lamp sitting on my bedside table is turned on, so I pull my drawer open and take out my Kindle that conveniently sits next to a pair of handcuffs I got as a gag gift at a bachelorette party. I put my iPod on shuffle and adjust the volume to low. The first song to play is Madonna’s True Blue, and as I softly sing along to the lyrics, my head lies on the pillow, eyes staring widely at the ceiling.

  True love, does that even exist?

  I used to be a believer but being burned once was enough to make me a pessimist. Yet, I continue to lie here, dreaming that somehow, someway it’ll happen to me. Find that great love that will rock me to my core. A man who will sweep me off my feet and love every part of me—the good, the bad, the ugly.

  Alone, and in bed, I switch the Kindle on and begin to read a new release that my online book club is raving about. A book about a jerk, a very hot jerk according to the ladies. Somewhere during the seventh chapter, my eyes struggle to stay open, and once again, I fall asleep to the only thing that keeps me company at night.

  My fictional boyfriends.

  Chapter Two

  Drew

  A wide smile spreads across my face as a warm sensation envelops my cock. I must be dreaming one of those fantastic dreams where a girl’s sucking you off like it’s her last meal on earth. My arms stretch above my head, and I let out a longwinded moan, forcing my eyes to open. This is some fucking good head.

  The mess of brown hair surrounds my groin, and instantly, my eyes flash wide open, and my body stills in fear while I take in the situation. Oh fuck. Quickly, I close my eyes hoping it’s all just a terrible dream. One that will go away once I reopen them again.

  Her name is Michelle something. It only took one flirtatious glance across the dancefloor for me to realize I needed to take her home—long, lean legs that have a nice bronze tan and full tits begging to be played with. The details are blurry—lots of shots and some dirty talk have led to her being in my bed.

  We stumbled back to the apartment where I told her to keep her trap shut if she wanted me to fuck her. Great, she cooperated. But then it happened. On our second round somewhere during the night, she started to blow me, and since the both of us were completely out of it, I ignored the fact that she was talking to my cock. Baby talk. As I said, we both had a lot to drink, and just when I think I can move past that, she begins to giggle as she strokes my shaft.

  “Who’s the cutest little peewee in the room?” She giggles childishly.

&n
bsp; And there it is again.

  No man, and I repeat, no man wants their cock referred to as ‘little peewee.’ Especially since I know I’m not little, and I don’t think peewee is the appropriate terminology for anyone above the age of four. Shit! How do I get out of this? My cock starts to feel flaccid, but I want to let her down gently without causing a scene.

  My head moves toward the clock on my nightstand—seven o’clock. I told Zoey we would leave for the beach at seven. To her credit, she hasn’t knocked on the door to wake me up. No fucking surprises. It’s now or never.

  “Uh, Michelle.” I gently tug on her hair hoping I used the correct name. “As much as I would love for you to continue, I promised some friends I’d be somewhere shortly.”

  Lifting her head, the mess of brown hair surrounds her pretty face. The bright red lipstick which was perfectly applied last night is smeared across her lips, and beneath her vibrant blue eyes are traces of leftover mascara. Jesus, not the best sight. What the hell was I thinking?

  You weren’t thinking. You wanted to get laid.

  She bows her head, giggling once again, continuing to latch onto my cock. “Surely, a couple of minutes won’t hurt?”

  Of course, a couple of minutes won’t hurt. But how can I blow under these circumstances? Her mouth envelops my cock once again, and with her childish noises gone, I shut my eyes tight trying to remember my night with that French woman, Bijou. Now she was all woman—mid-forties, mature, and knew how to get me off quickly.

  The next minute is spent with my mind on Bijou’s beautiful, tight pussy drowning out the squeals of Michelle until the pressure mounts, and I can’t hold it in any longer blowing all over her manicured hands.

  With a satisfied grin, she says, “See? A couple of minutes didn’t hurt.”

  She looks proud. Accomplished, even. I don’t have the heart to say anything. I just want her gone and out of my life. Forced to open my eyes again, I manage a fake smile as she rolls to the side and puts on my shirt. Oh no, not my favorite shirt. SpongeBob doesn’t deserve this!