by DD Prince
I open the envelope and there’s a note from Mr. Carmichael, along with a Visitor badge for Monday morning and a $50 gift card for a restaurant called Buchanan’s.
Welcome to San Diego, Carly.
We’re excited to have you on board. Enjoy your weekend and feel free to use this card to have dinner on the company at the steak house a few blocks away. We’ll see you Monday morning. My assistant will send you a text first thing with information about your transportation.
Cheers,
QC
Quinten Carmichael. CEO, Carmichael Consulting Intl
Nice touch.
2
AIDEN
“You’re a dirty bastard motherfucker. That’s what you are, Aiden Carmichael.”
Fuck, she’s angry. Angry shifts to evil as the nasty bitch smashes my phone screen against the corner of the granite breakfast bar, four times, and I don’t blink despite the ear-splitting repetitive sound. She tosses it in the direction of where I’m sprawled on the couch. It lands on the area rug.
Her face is twisted into an ugly expression. She looks rough, ten years older in broad daylight than she did last night. Her black eye makeup is in clumps and still all over her face, left over from the night before when I’d face-fucked her so hard mascara and tears left tracks down to her jawline. I’ve got a great snapshot of her gagging on my dick. Another of her bent over the coffee table taking my cock up her ass.
She was too polluted to notice me taking that front-facing snapshot when I pretended to check the time. What bitch doesn’t take notice when you stop to check the time while she’s giving you head? I suppose it’s what the girls I fuck have come to expect from me. They know better than to expect anything but cool indifference.
One side of my face twitches and I give her a cockeyed smirk.
“Thanks for the news flash, sweetheart. Not the first time it’s been said.” I shrug.
She whips a beer bottle from among the other dead soldiers on the counter at me. It bounces off the back of the couch and lands on me, not breaking, but dribbling backwash dregs all over my arm. I wipe my arm with the blanket that I’ve got over me. If I wasn’t looking forward to closing my eyes again and seeing the back of this bitch, I’d be tempted to retaliate.
I can’t let it go without at least a warning.
“Watch it, Bella.” I point at her with the bottle, then toss it to the table. It rolls off and lands on my rug.
“I deleted the sex video and the pictures, you asshole. I can’t believe you tried to pull that crap!” Bella hisses.
Oh yeah. I took video while I was doin’ her from behind out on the balcony, too. Why? Because this chick is a calculating bitch and doesn’t know that I know her game. Knowing her game, this is my insurance, so to speak.
Just the fact that she was in my phone at all lets me know I was right to take out my “insurance policy”.
She wasn’t only snooping in my phone, the bitch. But, I don’t tip my hand that I know what else she was doing.
I hear a key going into the door from the hallway.
I shrug again. “Not sure why you thought you had a right to snoop in my phone, bitch. Not that it matters. I already sent them to the cloud. So, just remember, I have those, should you decide to try to fuck me over in any way, shape or form.”
Bella glares at me while yanking her skanky form-fitting dress over her head and she’s fumbling into her hooker heels, ass hanging out, when the door handle turns. Bella stabs her index finger in my direction, ready to say something, when the door creaks open and there’s a chick standing there, behind Bella, looking uncertain, having obviously heard some of the shouting from the hallway. She’s watching Bella pull her dress down over her purple thong. Bella glares over her shoulder at the newcomer.
The chick at the door is petite, curly light brown hair, olive skinned, big light brown eyes. Big tits. She looks to be in her early twenties, dressed in yoga pants and running shoes with a half-zipped black hoodie that blesses my eyes with cleavage spilling out of a tight orange top.
Shit. Is this the roommate my father texted me about late last night? Fuck me, but she’s got a great rack. Great face. Great body. Fuckin’ love yoga pants on a chick who clearly does actual yoga. I can’t remember what the text said. Can’t re-check it, either, given the state of my phone.
“Are you Ally?” She looks at Bella. “Want me to call the cops?” She jerks her head in my direction as if to offer to save Bella from me. She’s got a pink iPhone in her hand.
Bella flips her long dark hair with a flourish to untrap it from the neck line of her dress and glares at the girl. “Who the fuck are you? His next victim? Or his last one?”
The girl rears back, startled, brows jutting up.
“I am outta here.” Bella points at me. “You fuck with me, I’ll fuck you right back.” She looks to the chick at the door. “Sister, heed this warning. Don’t tango with that fucker. He might have that rich, hot, bad boy thing down pat, but he is a ruthless dirtbag dawg, and despite his skills and equipment, he won’t be worth the trouble.”
She grabs her designer bag and struts out.
I roll my eyes and throw the blanket off.
The girl watches Bella leave and then has her eyes on me as she drags a massive rolling black and white polka dot suitcase, a big purse, and a carryon bag in from the hall and shuts the door.
She looks at me with a mixture of horror and curiosity.
I lean forward and scrub my eyes with my palms.
“I, uh, I’m Carly Adler. I’m supposed to be sharing this apartment with Ally Kingston. Is she here?”
I head toward the breakfast bar. She jerks back a little bit, but I can’t focus on that reaction she’s having to my body, because the room spins a little. How much did I drink last night? I put fingertips to my temple and sway a little.
Too much. That much is obvious.
“I’m not sure if there was a mix-up with apartments, or…”
She takes one breath and then continues talking. Fast.
“Are you just here today or till tomorrow, because Ally is supposed to be here tomorrow, so I’m not sure if this is just an overlap, or ---”
“One sec,” I mutter, trying to stop myself from swaying.
Her fast-talking is making me dizzier.
I reach for the half full bottle of Booker’s and twist the cap off.
She waits while I take a healthy glug.
“Do you work for Carmichael, too?” she asks.
I set the bottle on the counter and look around for my smokes, catching her look at me. She’s trying to not assess my equipment, me being in nothing but my underwear, but she’s failing.
She keeps talking. “Um, I’d call the office to see if there’s a mix-up, but it’s Saturday, so I don’t know if…”
I take another swig and she stops talking, but then starts again.
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning San Diego time,” she points out, staring at the booze bottle in my grip.
“Got a smoke?” I ask, not looking at her, spinning the cap on top of the bottle.
“Um, no. I don’t smoke. But, there’s a pack on the floor.” She gestures. “You’re not gonna smoke in here are you?”
I look down and see them by my blazer from the night before. I squat and grab them. “Goin’ to bed. Your room’s that way.” I gesture down the hall. “First door.”
“But…” she starts.
I don’t wait to see what comes after ‘but’. Instead, I head down the hall, carrying the bottle by the neck, my smokes in the other hand.
3
CARLY
“But…”
He’s gone. Absolutely ignored me.
What on earth have I walked into?
The guy was almost naked, showing off a body as good as any male fitness model I’d ever seen in print. But this wasn’t print; it was right in front of me. Ripples of muscles. Abs for days. Chiseled face. Tanned. Five o’clock shadow. Short messy dark hair and
dark chocolate brown bedroom eyes. Bedroom eyes. Did I say bedroom eyes twice? Talk about smolder. Full and pouty mouth. And those hip bones? It’s like he’s been Photoshopped in real life somehow. I can’t even…
Maybe he’s here just until Ally gets here. This apartment is The Shit, but it’s also the shit, because it’s trashed.
I stepped in on a domestic dispute of some sort that had something to do with a sex video? I don’t even wanna know. I got warned off by a girl who reeked of alcohol, sex, and bad decisions, and wound up in the middle of a post-party zone filled with overflowing ashtrays, empty beer bottles, multiple liquor bottles, and clothing and garbage strewn all over the place, then watched a 6 foot 2ish hottie in his underwear (with the most perfect hip bones known to man) stumble down the hall carrying a bottle of bourbon. And I had not been able to take my eyes off the ass (that you could bounce a quarter off of) of that ass who refused to answer my questions. My very reasonable questions.
His door clicks shut, and I look around.
This place would be beautiful if it didn’t look like it’d been trashed by a gaggle of drunk teenagers. It’s modern and industrial-looking with a loft feel. It has exposed beam and ductwork ceilings with several steel ceiling fans. Cream granite breakfast bar with three sleek chrome and brown leather stools. Distressed wood cupboards. Black appliances. One brick wall covered in black and white framed photos of landscapes, beachscapes, the New York City skyline, and a really cute baby, with the centerpiece an enormous TV.
The furniture looks comfortable. A big slouchy red couch (that he’d been on) and distressed dark wood coffee table, made more distressed-looking by the dishes and fast food garbage all over it. High-end stereo system. Marble fireplace that matches the breakfast bar and backsplash. Nice rustic wood floors.
It’s a long room that opens up into a hallway and I see pocket doors protruding, offering the ability to close off the living and kitchen combo space from the bedrooms space. There are four doors in the hall; two on one side, one on another, and one directly facing me at the end. The end one is where he went. I move into the hall to investigate, arms filled with my bags. I see a big bathroom with a soaker tub and a shower spacious enough for a football team with a separate water closet that has a toilet and sink.
I open the second-last remaining door and see it’s a utility room with a sink and sleek-looking silver space-age laundry machines. This room serves as a linen closet, too, and it’s stocked with towels, sheets, and blankets.
If he vacates before I do, should I check out the room he used in case it’s better? Old me would never have done that. New me? Maybe I should. Maybe I will.
The first door on the left is my room and it is far from lacking, though. It’s spacious and clean-looking with white walls and white furniture. There’s a queen bed in the middle, covered with a navy and white striped comforter and a half a dozen blue and red pillows. There’s a sliding glass door with vertical blinds as well as a window seat that has soft sheers and mini blinds. The room has a spacious walk-in closet, long white dresser, and a medium-sized TV mounted on the wall. The view is fantastic. Water, palm trees, and tall buildings. Gorgeous.
This’ll do. This’ll do just fine.
I smile and dump my bags and do a backwards dive onto the bed and bounce, a big smile on my face.
Yeah, it wasn’t the entrance I expected. I expected to come into an empty and clean apartment, not walk into some hot guy’s fight with his girlfriend or hookup or whatever. But that’s okay. I’m not letting that dim my excitement about my new life.
He’ll probably be outta here today and then maybe there’ll be a cleaning service in. I’ll stay out of their way and maybe I’ll shop for some food. Perhaps tomorrow night, depending on when she arrives, me and Ally can go to that steakhouse together, if she’s likeable. I’m not opening myself to further abuse if she’s some corporate bitch who pretends to be nice when really, she’ll climb right over me on the corporate ladder, using my head as a rung. I’m a terrible judge of character, expecting everyone to be pure of heart. I gotta work on that.
Don’t be a doormat
Forgive and Forget are F-words.
Not everyone is pure of heart. Be suspicious of everyone.
These are my new rules and I must remember to follow them. I’ll add to them if necessary as I find my feet here in San Diego.
My phone starts ringing. I lift it out of my bag.
Jon calling.
I scrunch up my face. If we’re over, why is he calling me again? Decline.
4
AIDEN
If Bella smashed my phone, why the fuck is it ringing? Oh. Not my cell ringtone, it’s a landline.
It registers that I recall seeing a phone in this bedroom, though I didn’t give it much thought, because who bothers with those nowadays? Yeah, this is my apartment, but I’m rarely here.
I reach over to the nightstand and, eyes still closed, I feel around until I find the handset. I lift it and make the ringing stop.
I’m dosing off, but I hear a male voice, sounding far off, calling out. “Hello? Hello? Anyone there? Carly? Hello?”
I’ve still got the handset. I drag it to my ear and grunt.
“Who’s this?” the male voice demands in response to my grunt.
“You called me, motherfucker,” I rasp and clear my throat. “Shouldn’t you tell me who you are?”
There’s silence.
My eyes flutter half open. Fuckin’ drapes must be wide open. Too goddamn bright in here.
“Is Carly there?” the bozo keeping me from sleeping asks.
“Who?” I fire back, aggressively.
“Carly. Carly Adler. I’m told she’s at this number.”
“No fuckin’ clue,” I say.
What was that chick’s name? Was it Carly? Did she even tell me?
“She got loads of curly hair and big tits?” I ask.
Silence. But yet it feels hostile. Shit, it could be her father on the phone. Not that I really give a rat’s ass. “There’s a chick here but I dunno her name. She looks a little like whatsherface, singer with the hips that don’t lie. But call back later,” I mumble and put the phone down.
It starts ringing ten seconds later. I give the cord a sharp yank, making it stop, then close my eyes.
I hear it continuing to ring in the distance. It isn’t loud enough to stop me from passing back out.
***
I wander out of the room, feeling only half like death warmed over after getting a bit of shut-eye, and make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge and find it’s empty. As usual. Forgot I’m in this dump. Been here six days now with no staff. In New York, someone cleans my apartment and stocks the fridge. Fuck. Wish I was home.
San Diego used to be home. This apartment is mine, though the spare room gets used for the company, tax write off, the deal is that no one uses my room. Now it’s where I am only when necessary, but fuck no, I don’t let them put anyone in my room. I don’t even let the bitches I fuck into my room. Here or in New York.
I grab a glass from the cupboard, the last clean one, as the rest of them are all over the joint. I tap the glass into the alcove on the front of the fridge and water gurgles out.
It takes forever to fill. When it finally deigns to do so, I down the whole thing.
I’m recovering from how fuckin’ cold it was and the shock to my booze-battered body, when I hear a key go into the door.
There she is again. The chick staying in the other room.
She’s wearing jean shorts, has orange Toms on her feet, and a jean jacket with an orange t-shirt on. She’s on the short side, yet long-legged. She’s toned and curvy at the same time. She works out, but she also eats. She’s got her curly hair pulled up into a knot on her head, pieces have come loose. There are sunglasses resting on her head.
I’ve got my eyes on her legs. She’s got arms filled with grocery bags. The girl raises her eyebrows at me and her eyes travel down to my feet and back up again. I’m
still in my underwear.
She struggles to shut the door with her full arms, shit falling out of the bags, fruit rolling toward me, and then she gets to the bar and drops what didn’t already fall on the floor beside it. I put my water glass to the fridge and refill it then put it to my mouth and take another long guzzle.
When I turn around, she’s giving me the evil eye.
What? Did she expect me to relieve her of her bags? Am I her butler?
I put the glass down on top of a stack of four already dirty glasses.
“Dropped your Tampax,” I inform.
Her eyes dart to the floor and she goes red-faced and then squats to lift the box as well as the two apples and box of granola bars that’d fallen out of her bag.
I catch a peek down the front of her shirt as she leans forward to fetch the apples.
She catches me looking. Her eyes narrow and flash with anger.
I saunter past her, back toward the bedroom. I can tell she’s about to mouth off and I am not in the mood. I need at least another few hours alone with my hangover in a dark room.
“Excuse me?” She snaps. I stop and turn around to face her.
“I’m Carly, as I said. You are?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Aiden.”
“And, you work for Carmichael?” she asks.
“I guess you could say that,” I answer.
“And, how long are you staying here?” she asks.
“As long as I’m stuck here.”
She gives me a befuddled look. “I was told I was sharing this apartment with Ally. Are you not leaving?”
“No clue who Ally is. This is my pad whenever I’m here. Sometimes there’s someone in the spare room, not usually. Guess this time it’s you.” I shrug and go to move away.
“Is this your mess?” She gestures to the room at large.
