Roommates

by Erin Leigh

  Along the way home I spot a small grocery store and head that way, determined not to be a complete slacker in the kitchen.

  I know I can’t cook, but I can at least supply food so he can cook if he’s there. If he’s not, I can definitely make something in the microwave or another smoothie.

  But do I use his things without him there to agree to it?

  I don't know where we stand on sharing or costs or any of those other matters. It’s something we should talk about tonight when he gets back.

  When I get back to the apartment he’s already there. “Hey!” He nods at me from the couch where he’s watching some sports show.

  “Hi.” It’s awkward, a little bit. Seeing him there on the couch, my reservations come back fast. But for all the stupid reasons. Ridiculous things like he’s outrageously hot. I can’t live with someone that hot.

  He’s wearing a baseball hat with his shaggy brown hair hanging out the bottom. A Superman shirt that’s not formfitted but tight enough for me to see the bulging muscles. I love Superman. I think I love him more in my living room in washed jeans that look casual and yet tight on his thick strong thighs.

  To top off the perfect body and great hair thing, his face is like a Michelangelo. He’s a god.

  Yup, he’s too hot to be a roommate.

  I panic a little because I’ve been silent and staring for too long.

  Focusing my brain on the fact William is crazy hot too, I shake off the desire to see what is under that tee shirt. I’m way stronger than to swoon over a guy who is going to call me dude while he farts every day for the next year.

  He is the jock, maybe not BJ the girl jock but a jock nonetheless. A meathead. That's not my type.

  “What do you want to do for dinner?” he asks from the TV that has him in its tractor beam.

  “I bought groceries and sort of thought you could just look at it all and choose?”

  His head swings around, his dark eyes are like deep pools of—cut the shit, Banks. He’s not that hot. He’s not a gentleman. He made you one smoothie. Calm you tits!

  It’s a satisfying pep talk that I will need to make until I find something filthy about him to focus on. I’m the girl that needs one thing, just one little thing, to remove all attraction.

  We had a teacher’s aid at school, mamma mia! Oh God, he was beautiful. He was so hot and so smart. He loved literature and read us poetry. It was smart-girl porn. Just as I was about to become Aria and Ezra and get him fired, he picked his ear, stared at it, rolled it into a ball and put it in his pocket. He didn't flick. No. He kept that shit.

  The attraction died an ugly death that day.

  “You bought food?” Brady asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Food. You bought it willy-nilly?” He cocks an eyebrow and gets up off the couch, sauntering with serious swagger into the kitchen. “With no plans, just random food?” The Superman shirt and the biceps do me in. I’m weak! Oh God.

  But the kitchen light shines down on him, making a smile cross my lips as I see the thing that might help me see him for the gross player he is. “What’s that?” I point at the bruise on his neck that's clearly not a bruise.

  He lifts a large hand and covers the exact spot, obviously aware that it’s there. “What? I took a dirty hit in practice.”

  “Gross.” I let my head fall back as I laugh. “You don't have to lie to me. I don't care if you manwhore your way across America under the guise of sports.”

  “There’s no guise.” He makes duck lips, not improving the situation. “Okay. I might have Clintoned the team nurse. But she asked for it.”

  “Clintoned?” I only have to say it aloud to realize he means ejaculated on the nurse’s dress. “What the actual fuck?” The f-word slips out in an unladylike way.

  “You know—” He does the jerking motion for me in case I am that naïve, which I’m not.

  “I KNOW! I GET IT!” I wave a hand and shake my head, blocking it out. I need to make the montage of why I can never be swayed by Brady’s sexy self but this is more than enough ammo. It’s repulsive. “What kind of disgusting slut lets a guy do that?” I don't mean to call Monica Lewinsky a slut, but if the dress fits . . .

  “The team nurse, that's who. She even wore this little nurse’s costume—”

  “Whoa!” I jump, lifting a hand and cutting him off. I don't even realize my hand is covering his lips until I notice I’m way too close. Close enough to maybe catch whatever diseases he might have. My chest is pressed against his and I’m touching him. His Superman shirt is against my boobs. I don't know how to undo this.

  He pauses, cocking an eyebrow and staring at my hand over his lips and then continues talking anyway, “She was a PF, it’s no biggie. It’s a mutual thing.” His words are muffled by my tightening hand, but I get the gist of it.

  “No. We need ground rules. I’m not a guy. I don't need to know.” My blood pressure is rising.

  He laughs against my hand, getting spit on it and making me moan even more in disgust. “Nooooooo!” I pull back and wash my hands. “We definitely need ground rules.” Rules like I shouldn’t put my hands on you or rub against your Superman shirt.

  “I think I need a drink if you’re going to talk about rules.” He sighs.

  Seeing his hickey and hearing the dirty nurse story I nod. “Yeah, let’s make a drink. You like mojitos?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay. I’ll make those if you want to make dinner.” I nod my head at the bags on the counter that I haven’t put away, mostly because I was marveling at his sexiness. That moment has since faded away to herpes and other things I don’t want to think about. I wash my hands again.

  “I don't have anything. You don't have to keep washing your hands. I use protection and I don't return the favor, if you get my point.”

  I close my eyes and lean against the sink, nodding. “Being selfish in bed isn’t something to be proud of.” I say it before I can stop myself.

  WHY ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THIS?

  “I’m not selfish, I’m just not stupid. I don't go down on girls I don't know.” He says it so matter-of-factly.

  “But you put your penis in them?” And I sound exactly like my mother.

  “Not without a condom.” He recoils like I’ve said something heinous that's offended his delicate little self. “Jesus, Nate, I don't have a death wish.”

  “Nat or Natalie.”

  “You called me BJ. I get to choose. I like Nate. I might even add a dog to the end of that. Nate-Dog. I like it.” He burps and comes to the sink. He’s close again so I sidestep, showing my obvious discomfort. He rolls his dark eyes. “I just need to wash my hands.”

  “You're like the little brother I never had. I used to want one. You’ve fixed that. Thank you.” I say it like it’s heartfelt and not savage sarcasm.

  He mocks me under his breath, just like a little brother might.

  We poke fun at each other and laugh while he makes dinner. I get comfortable some time between drink one and drink two. Too comfortable. His smile makes me stare, not just at the beauty of him; it’s a great smile. But at the lips. He has perfect lips. And his shirt seems tighter or I’m using my Superwoman skills and imagining it tighter.

  Even the dirty nurse story starts to wane in effectiveness.

  Maybe because dinner is amazing. It consists of roasted potatoes, grilled chicken, and asparagus done in the oven while he sautés broccoli to the point it looks a little burnt almost. I wrinkle my nose at the burnt broccoli until he feeds me a piece from the spoon.

  “Oh my God, that's good.” There’s something about a sexy guy in a Superman shirt feeding you food he cooks that is akin to an aphrodisiac.

  “I know, right?” He uses one of the limes to season the chicken with salt and garlic and butter. The whole thing looks fabulous.

  “You should be a chef,” I say as I sip the perfect mojito I made.

  “You should be a bartender. This mojito is the best I�
��ve ever had.”

  “Thanks. Bartenders don't make any money.”

  He winks. “The reason I’ll never be a chef. I like cooking but I love hockey. And my mom didn't sacrifice everything in hers and my brother’s life for me to be a chef.” He laughs but the thought of that makes me sad. We have more in common than he will ever know.

  Chapter Seven

  Rules of engagement

  Brady

  We finish eating and she looks weird. Tense again maybe? After a minute she blurts out, “We need a list of rules—things like pet peeves or expectations. Things that make ground rules for us so this is easy.”

  I think it’s already easy. She’s a virginal head case, and I’m against girls acting like they’re my mom. Her bringing up the rule sheet is perfect. It’s a major boner killer.

  Thus far she seems like the perfect roommate.

  She’s got the apartment all settled in.

  Her stuff is nice and clean.

  She smells good and looks good, but not good enough to even out the churchy head-case thing. She’s brought up the ground rules three times in the last two hours. It’s what’s going to save me from breaking the cardinal rule of never sleeping with your roommate. Ever. Never.

  She gets a pen and paper and writes my name at the top as BJ, likely to annoy me. But then writes her name as Nate-Dog. It’s unexpected, like the smile on my face. She can laugh at herself. I didn't see that coming.

  I sip more of the mojito and sit back, still completely sated sexually from the nurse who just bounced on my balls. That has taken away all the awkwardness between Nat being fucking hot and me being me. I should find that nurse and thank her, but I honestly didn't even catch her name.

  “Things I think are important: The bathroom. If you could not leave it a complete mess—toothpaste and shaving cream and little hairs everywhere—that would be awesome.” She gives me an expectant look.

  I take that as a sign that I have to add something to the list. The only thing I hate is someone peeing in the shower. It goes back a long way, back to shit I don't like thinking about. But it’s a bit early in the friendship to talk about pee.

  It takes a minute for me to remember the things I hated from the houses with girls where I was billeted. “No shoes at the front door for me to trip on. I hate that. Nothing worse than coming home drunk and nearly dying because of a high heel.”

  She nods. “That’s fair.” The way she bites her lip as she writes has me wishing her lip was in my teeth.

  I glance at the third mojito and wonder if the small amount of booze in it is getting to me.

  “No sex in the apartment while the other person is home. No one wants that.”

  I part my lips to argue that one, but then I realize listening to her lose her virginity isn’t going to be amazing for me. I don't know why that is—I’ve heard plenty of dudes bang their ladies or PFs in my time, but she’s different. Maybe because we have to live together.

  Maybe because she looks like an angel.

  Maybe I should stop drinking.

  Clearing my throat I add, “No people over late unless it’s mutually agreed upon. I have a lot of early shit in my life. I like my sleep. I need sleep.”

  She nods. “Agreed.” She writes it down and contemplates the next one. “No disgusting stories unless I ask.”

  That one makes me laugh. “You know you wanna hear my nasty stories.” She doesn't blink, smile, or change from the constipated look on her face. It’s there a lot. I lift my hands defensively. “Deal.”

  She smiles. “Another drink?”

  “Okay.” I shrug, enjoying the loose feeling. “Sure.”

  She takes both our glasses and gets up, hurrying to the kitchen to make the drinks. I grab the pen and write. “We share the food bill so you aren’t buying all the time. That's not cool, and I am getting paid to be here. I don't need to slack off on bills.”

  “You get paid to be here? To play hockey? In Hartford?” She looks confused.

  “Yeah. We’re the farm team for the Rangers. We are considered professional hockey in the AHL.” I can’t believe she knows nothing about hockey. “Have you ever watched a game?”

  “I’m not from here.”

  “I mean any game of hockey?”

  She pauses and thinks. “No. My dad likes hockey and watches it if no one’s looking. But he goes to horse races and yacht racing and tennis and golf and football with my mom and their friends.”

  “Is your dad gay?”

  “No. He’s clearly still married to my mom.” She gives me a look. “My father is a saint. He does what he has to do to fit into the life my mom has made for them.”

  It’s a weird thing to say and an even weirder way to say it. “So he’s super whipped?”

  “No. He’s loyal to a fault.” She laughs, shaking her head and carrying in the drinks. She staggers a little bit and sits down hard, passing me the drink. “I have to stop making these doubles.”

  “I was wondering why I was feeling them. I spent an hour in the hot tub after practice. I’m weak like a kitten.”

  She blushes and laughs. “Was that where the nurse was assaulted?”

  “No. It’s not assault. If anything she assaulted me.” I point to my neck.

  “Her dress probably doesn’t see it that way.”

  “It was a costume.” I counter and take another drink.

  “So she’s a stripper?”

  I open my mouth to defend my fair nurse but pause. “That I’m not sure of. She was a freak.” The way she rode my dick and rubbed her round tits on my jersey still makes me smile.

  Natalie wrinkles her nose. “Ewwwww. Stop thinking about it while we’re in the same room.” She giggles and leans a little too far. I catch her and hold her up. “Oops!”

  “Why’d you make them doubles if you can’t hold your liquor?”

  “Oh, uhm.” She stops giggling and stares at me, her perfect porcelain face freezes in the most innocent look I have ever seen. She swallows hard and bites her lip, holding back whatever she wants to say. She doesn’t have the courage to say it so she shrugs and I can see the lie in her sapphire blue eyes. “I usually can handle my booze, but I’m pretty nervous about starting my new job tomorrow. I didn't eat enough today I guess. I never even really thought about it much. Food that is.”

  Do I make her nervous?

  Or is she getting drunk so she can tolerate me?

  Her dislike isn’t obvious, but I can sense it in the air when she’s sober. Maybe it’s more like disapproval.

  She grabs the pen and laughs again. “No leaving the toilet seat up. I fell in once. It was bad.”

  That makes me cringe. “Into the bowl?”

  “Yes. It was so gross.” She nods and shudders.

  “No hair in the shower.” I point, getting excited I remember something I hate about chicks.

  “What?” She giggles again. “No shower spiders?”

  “No one wants to see gobs of long girl hair in the shower. It’s sick.”

  She giggles and laughs until she finally gets serious again. “Okay, uhm. Can we use each other’s things? Like your Magic Bullet and my blender and your butter and that sort of thing?” She takes a breath and fights a smile. Her cheeks are flushed and I realize something about her. She’s fun. She’s easy to be around. She’s not a stress case; she’s just uptight around new people. A couple of drinks in and she’s normal.

  “Do you go to church?” I might be in some trouble here.

  “No. Is that something else to add?” She looks confused.

  “Sacred Heart isn’t churchy?”

  “I’m not churchy.” She laughs, looking lost.

  A terrible dilemma greets me in that thought. There’s a very good chance that as we get to know one another she’ll relax and I’ll see more of this face from her. This face I find so alarmingly easy to stare at and imagine. Shit!

  “Brady.”

  “What?” I don't even remember what we were talking about.
/>   “The question was can we use each other’s things. I mean I don't care if you use anything of mine.”

  I can think of things of hers I would like to use. Scared of what I might say, I blurt out the first innocent thing I can think of. “You can have anything of mine that you need.” It comes out in a way I don't mean it. She pulls back, tensing again. “I mean, use any of my stuff. If you need it, it’s yours.” I try to recover but the mood is gone, and I’m possibly hitting on her. I panic. “You don't have to worry, Nate-Dog. I’m not into you. Not at all. You aren’t my type even a little bit.” I try to recover and reassure her, but she presses her lips together and writes down the answer on the paper.

  “Okay.” She glances at the drink that's full. “I should probably get some water and a shower. I have an early start tomorrow.”

  She didn't appreciate my answer. Should I have said I’d fuck her in a heartbeat? Would that have made her more comfortable? I feel like it wouldn't have. What do women want?

  Whatever it is, I’ve given the wrong thing. She dumps the drink, completely abusing the alcohol in her glass and heads for her room, offering me a wave. “Post those rules on the fridge. Add any you can think of.” She closes the door and I feel like a dick.

  I thought I recovered well with the whole you’re not my type. Would that insult her, even after she called the naughty nurse a disgusting slut? I thought it was more of a compliment that I wouldn't fuck her. Like she’s not the type of girl I generally like to use. I wouldn’t use her, not just once. I know that. She’s going to get to know me and lose that tense shit. And she’s small and soft and pretty and fun. She’d be a whole weekend, maybe a couple of weeks. But we live together so it’s not an option.

  Looking at her door I think maybe I should apologize. Should I tell her I’d fuck her?

  No.

  Better to let this cool off and go away.

  I post the note on the fridge, chug the drink, and head back for the couch, plugging in my Xbox One to her surprisingly huge TV first. I lift the new NHL 16 but pause, looking at the massive TV again and knowing what I have to do. I grab The Last of Us and put it in. I’m so close to the end of this game and my mom’s TV was so tiny I nearly went blind.