by Megyn Ward
One
Briana
2015
May
“Holy shit—did you see the new guy in 8J?”
A shadow falls across my face and I raise my gaze from the copy of Vogue in front of me, just in time to watch my roommate, Amelia, throw herself into to chaise next to me. Well, one of my roommates, anyway. There are six of us stuffed into a three-bedroom, two-bath apartment, because off-campus housing is expensive and this is the only building within fifty-miles of campus that has 24-hour security.
My father insisted on the security.
Chicago is a dangerous city, Briana. If you insist on living off-campus, at least find a building that offers adequate security.
“Sure haven’t,” I say, lowering my gaze to flip the page in my magazine. I don’t say anything else. I just wait for her to fill me in. When it comes to gathering intelligence, the CIA has nothing on Amelia. Within five minutes of unpacking his first box, she probably knew everything there is to know about the poor guy.
“Okay,” she says, sitting up, excited that I took the bait. “First—total hottie.” She fans herself, either for effect or because it’s nearly 100 degrees out here. “Like, I could barely look at him while we were talking and form coherent words at the same time kind of hot.” She lets out a low whistle. “The tattoos alone make me want to have his babies.”
Amelia’s a sucker for tattoos. Me, not so much. Give me a clean-cut college guy over a disheveled-looking bad boy any day of the week.
“So, 8J is hot and has a bunch of tattoos,” I say, goading her a little. “Is that the entirety of your fact-finding mission, or is there something else you’d like to share?” I look up to find her glaring at me, her dark eyes narrowed on my face. She’s not mad. She knows I’m teasing her but she feels challenged all the same. She’s nothing if not competitive.
“His name is Keaton Carver. He’s older than us, but younger than thirty. He drives a 1969 Shelby Cobra and he reads.” She cocks her head and crosses her arms over her chest, giving me a smug smile. “A lot.”
“What?” I laugh, sitting up to face her while giving her a smile of my own. “No social security number? Job? Boxers or briefs?” I widen my eyes at her. “Commando?”
“You’re an asshole.” Amelia shakes her head at me, laughing. It reminds me of my twin sister, Claire. Makes me miss her. She used to say that to me at least once a day.
“I know.” I give her a cheeky grin, even though I suddenly feel like crying. It’s been months since I’ve been home. Months since I watched My Fair Lady with my sister, stretched out on her bed, pigging out on popcorn and brownies. She’s been different since I left for college. Distant. Like she’s built this invisible wall around herself. I mean, I get it. I left, just like our mom. Makes me wonder, not for the first time, if I’m like her. If she felt this urge to run at the first sign of trouble, same as me. If she left us because things got too hard.
Putting it away, I shake my head at her like I’m disappointed. “You’re slippin’. There was a time you’d have this guy’s jock size by now.” Amelia went through a pretty bad break-up a few months ago. She got a little too close to one of our roommates. Never a good idea. Since then she’s been off her game and I’ve made it my personal mission to get her back into fighting shape.
“Give me time—the poor guy just loaded his last box onto the elevator twenty minutes ago…” Her grin goes from smug to predatory in a flash. “We’ve gotta have something to talk about over our first morning after breakfast.”
I catch movement over the slope of Amelia’s shoulder and my gaze is drawn in its direction. “Morning after, huh?” I stand up and pull my cover-up over my head. “Why wait?” I say, flicking my gaze over her shoulder again and she turns to see what I’m looking at. “Inquiring minds want to know, Amelia.”
Amelia looks over her shoulder and lets out a yelp. “Bri,” Amelia squeaks. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I say, slipping my feet into my trust flip-flops before I skirt around her and make my way toward the guy who entered the pool area. Since I’ve never seen him before in my life and I can see tattoos snaking down both of his arms, along with one wrapped around his neck, I’m guessing this is the new guy.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathes, right before I hear her scramble after me. Amelia’s open and inquisitive, bordering on nosy, but when you get down to it, she’s more bark than bite. She’s never going to make a move on this guy.
Not unless I make her.
He’s standing at the edge of the pool in jeans and a T-shirt and as far as I can tell he doesn’t know he has company. Even if the pool area wasn’t deserted, I’d have noticed him because tattoos or not, this guy is the kind you’d stop and stare at. Dark hair, clipped short on the sides and a little longer on top. Can’t see his eyes because he’s wearing sunglasses but the face behind them is a thing of beauty. Firm, angular jaw. The kind of cheekbones a supermodel would sell her soul for. A nose too straight and perfect to be natural. A little too tall for my liking, but either he was genetically engineered in a lab or he’s on God’s short list of favorites.
Either way, Amelia’s right. He’s pretty hot.
On instinct, I put a little swing in my hips as I approach him but I might as well be invisible. He sits on the nearest chaise and starts pulling off his boots and socks. He doesn’t even look at me until I’m practically standing on top of him.
Not exactly the kind of reception I’m used to.
“Hi,” I say and because being shy has never been one of my hang-ups, I stick my hand in his face. Up close, I can see what looks like a few days’ worth of stubble shadowing his jawline and even though I can’t see his eyes, I get the feeling he’s tired. Like he wants to be left alone, but I’ve got my hand in his face and I’m committed. There’s no turning back now. “I’m Briana St. James. I live in 6C.”
He drops the boot in his hand and looks up at me. “Keats. 8J.” Barefooted, he stands, forcing me to drop my hand and take a step back. “But I’m guessing your friend already told you that.” He reaches up and behind to catch the neckline of his shirt to drag it up over his head.
Holy. Shit.
This guy is definitely on God’s short list of favorites.
“What’s the matter, sugar?” He tosses his shirt on the chaise he was sitting on before cocking his head at me. “Never met someone as pretty as you before?” The corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk that tells me two things. Keaton Carver is used to being stared at by women and he’s not particularly impressed by me.
Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t something I’m used to.
For the first time in my life, I’m at a loss.
“Excuse me?” I jerk my gaze up from the vee that disappears into the low-slung waistband of his jeans to find him watching me.
“You can touch it if you want.” The grin sharpens. Goes from smug to knowing in an instant. “It won’t bite.”
I can feel the skin on the back of my neck start to prickle and tighten from the heat that erupts across it like wildfire. Who the hell do you think you are? That’s what was about to fly out of my mouth but then he starts to take off his pants and I forget how to talk.
Two
Keaton
In retrospect, taking off my pants—not the best way to introduce myself to my new neighbors, but in my defense, I’m worn the fuck out and when I’m tired, I’m a bigger asshole than usual. To top it off, I’m pissed. Not at my new neighbor—her reaction is pretty standard. I’m pissed at my little brother. He agreed to drive in and help me move but flaked out on me, as usual. I should’ve known better than to depend on him. If there’s not beer or pussy involved, he’s not interested, spoiled rot
ten little prick that he is.
Yeah, he’s spoiled. Whose fault is that?
Mine, that’s who.
Pretty much everything wrong with my kid brother is my fault.
So yeah, I’m pissed.
And tired from loading and unloading a moving truck by myself.
And hot because my dumb ass thought it was a good idea to move in the middle of May.
And none of that matters because my new neighbor is looking at me like she can’t decide if she wants to kick me in the balls or call the cops. Neither reaction is something I consider desirable.
So, naturally, I feel compelled to make things worse.
Reaching into the shallow space between us, I find her hand and lift it to the waistband of my boxer briefs. “See…” Keeping my hand loose around hers, I slide my grip down the length of her fingers to their tips, so I can run them along the ridge of muscle that cuts diagonally across my lower abdomen, from hip to groin. “It doesn’t bite.” The Vee. For some unknown reason, women lose their shit over it, every single time. I bust my ass in the gym six days a week to maintain it and the rest of what I call the merchandise. My eight-pack. My pecs. The defined cuts between every hard slab of muscle. The carefully constructed body I use to make a living.
She reacts as expected. Like they all do. Her gaze flares wide. Her mouth falls open. Her tongue comes out to lick her lower lip. She likes what she sees. Likes what she feels even better.
What I don’t expect is my reaction.
I’m used to being handled. Touched. Treated like a piece of meat. Fuck, I’m not just used it. I encourage it. It’s how I pay the rent. Keep the lights on. Pay my kid brother’s college tuition. My body pays the bills. It’s a tool, and I use it shamelessly and often enough that having some stuck-up college princess touching it should hold all the excitement of clipping my toenails.
This is not the case.
The instant her fingers make contact with my skin I feel all the blood in my body make a quick and decidedly violent trip south. I have to grit my teeth and think about naked, elderly nuns playing baseball with dead kittens, just to keep my dick from shoulder-tapping me and demanding an introduction.
Usually, I don’t fight it. A physical response is so rare in situations like this that when it happens, I just go with it because truthfully, I’m glad it still works properly, but something tells me 6C, while used to having guys tripping over themselves to give her just about anything she wants, wouldn’t appreciate my cock poking her in the bellybutton.
Thinking about her reaction isn’t doing me any favors because I have this sudden and self-destructive urge to push her hand lower. Past the waistband of my boxer briefs. Wrap her fingers around my shaft and show her how I like it. Before I can say or do something to solidify my reputation as the rapey guy in 8J and probably get myself arrested, her friend appears over her shoulder.
And thankfully, that breaks whatever hell kind of spell she’s put me under.
“How ‘bout you, Amelia?” I say, remembering her name from the elevator earlier. Women like it when you call them by their name. Makes them feel special. Helps them convince themselves that they’re not just a face in the crowd with cash in hand. That when I touch them, it’s because I want to, not because they’re paying me to.
Amelia’s dark eyes go wide. “No—I…” She shakes her head. “I don’t want—I mean… I shouldn’t—”
Dropping 6C’s hand like she’s been dismissed from class, I give her friend a quick flash of teeth. “Sure you should,” I say, taking a step back in open invitation. It’s a random Tuesday and I’m giving out free samples. “It likes the attention.” From the corner of my eye, I can see 6C narrow her eyes on my face. Her mouth goes tight.
Nope.
Definitely not used to being dismissed.
6C closes her fingers around her friend’s wrist when she extends her hand toward my abs. “Let’s go,” she says giving me a quick, dirty look before starting to drag her toward the elevator that provides access to the rooftop pool.
“But I want a turn,” Amelia says, looking and sounding like an overgrown toddler, getting dragged away from the monkey bars but her frustrated mother.
“You really don’t.” She shakes her head, stabbing the elevator call button with her finger before throwing me a dismissive look over her shoulder. “It’s not nearly as impressive as it thinks it is.”
By it she means he.
As in me.
Ouch.
I think I’m in love.
Three
Briana
“Sure you don’t want to come?”
I look up from the small mountain of laundry I’m sorting into piles and shake my head, giving Amelia a quick smile. “Positive,” I tell her before tossing a couple of tank tops into my color pile. “It’s Tuesday. You know I have plans.”
She rolls her eyes at me while tugging at the hem of her mini skirt. “Three years we’ve been roommates and I still don’t understand why you don’t wash your clothes on Sundays like everyone else.” Sundays are a big deal in the building. Management throws a pool party, setting all the machines to free, hiring a DJ, bartender and couple of lifeguards so they can sell poolside drinks for ten bucks a pop. They make a killing. Whoever decided to put the laundry room on the roof next to the pool was a genius.
“Because.” I toss a couple pairs of underwear in my delicates pile. “While everyone else is jockeying for a machine between drinks, I get to relax and have fun.”
She’s shaking her head at me like she feels sorry for me. “Still, laundry and watching The Bachelor aren’t what I’d call plans.” Amelia shrugs. “But that’s none of my business.” She gives me a little finger wave as she strolls out the door to join the rest of our roommates in the living room. It’s finals week and dollar beers at some off-campus dive bar. That means every college kid in Chicago will be squeezed into a space roughly the same size as our apartment. I like to party as much as the next girl but not on Tuesdays.
Laundry and The Bachelor are just a cover.
Tuesdays are when Claire and I Facetime.
I don’t know why I don’t tell Amelia what I’m really doing. That every Tuesday night, while everyone else is drinking and dancing, I’m on the phone with my twin. Maybe because it makes me feel like a kid. Because I left home almost three years ago, and I still miss her. Because even though she answers every time I call, I can feel it. A distance that’s never been there before.
And the distance scares me.
Gathering my keys and my basket of clothes, I head for the elevator. Pressing the call button, I settle my basket on my hip and flip through my notifications. Amelia’s tagged me in a Facebook post. A group selfie of her and the rest of our roommates with the status, Missing 1. Because she’s a laundry-washing loser. #myroomiesux
Laughing out loud, I look up from my phone when the doors slide open. I expected it to be empty.
It isn’t.
He’s slumped against the back of the elevator, what looks like a cup of gas station coffee dangling from his fingers, wearing worn jeans and a beat-up leather jacket. A T-shirt with the logo of some bar in Texas I’ve never heard of and the same boots he had on the last time I saw him. When I hesitate to get in the elevator with him, the guy in 8J gives me a quick flash of his perfect, white teeth. “It’s alright, sugar.” He lifts his cup and takes a drink. “It still won’t bite.” He’s wearing a ball cap and sunglasses again, despite the fact that we’re inside and it’s nearly ten o’clock at night. Behind their dark lenses, I can feel his eyes raking over me. Sizing me up. Despite the teasing, I get the same feeling as before. That he’s tired. That I’m the last person on earth he wants to see.
Well, the feeling is mutual.
Lifting my chin, I give him my best you can’t sit with us look before stepping onto the elevator. Turning, I jab the button for the roof before tightening my grip on my basket and digging my feet into the floor because I have this insane urge to bolt throug
h the crack when the doors start to slide closed.
“Too slow,” he whispers as soon as the doors close completely.
Two floors.
I can handle two floors.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
I feel my shoulders stiffen. It’s true. I have been avoiding him. Not because I’m afraid of him, although something tells me I would be if I had the sense God gave a potato. No, I’ve been avoiding him because ever since he took my hand in his and guided it across his lower abdomen, I can’t stop thinking about the contrast of soft skin over hard muscle. What would’ve happened if I’d given into my urge to push my hand lower. If he would’ve let me.
If he would’ve liked it.
It’s been nearly two weeks since he moved in and I still can’t stop thinking about it. Which is completely nuts because he’s not my type.
Not even close.
Like he can read my mind, he chuckles softly. “No worries, sugar,” he says when I don’t answer him. “You’re not my type.”
Despite the apparent insult, I laugh, shooting him a sharp look over my shoulder. “I didn’t know guys like you had a type.”
His mouth quirks in a quick smile. Even though I can’t see his eyes, I have a feeling it didn’t make the trip north. “Saw your friends heading out for the night,” he says behind me. “Don’t tell me they didn’t invite their Queen out for a beer.”
“They invited me,” I say, turning to aim my gaze straight ahead when the elevator jerks to a stop on his floor. “I have standing plans on Tuesday.”
“Those aren’t plans you’re holding, sugar.” The doors slide open and he moves past me with a quiet chuckle. “That’s a basket full of sadness.”
I feel my jaw snap tight. “If you must know, I have a Facetime date.”
Yeah. With your sister.
In the hallway he tosses his coffee cup in the trash can posted next to the elevator. “Well, give my condolences to whatever long-distance college boy you got your hooks in to.”
Before I think of something clever to say, the doors slide closed between us.
