by Kat T. Masen
Where to find me:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorkattmasen
Twitter: @authorkattmasen
Instagram: @authorkattmasen
Website: www.kattmasen.com
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“I’m sorry, you’re into what?”
I glance down at the rental application form, trying my best to make sense of what this guy just told me. Male, twenty-four, employed as a DJ at a popular night club in a seedy part of town.
“I’m into amateur sex. Filming hard-core amateur sex scenes. Will bringing girls here be a problem?” he questions, walking around the room, observing the prints on the wall as if this topic of conversation is no big deal.
I want to laugh. I should laugh. Is this guy for real?
“Kenny, is it?” I ask politely, without trying to ridicule him.
He cocks his head to the side and gives a nod, flashing his gold tooth like he just stepped out of a bad hip-hop video. “Women like to call me Ken.”
I feed into my curiosity, which is usually a bad thing. “Why do women like to call you Ken?”
Shuffling closer, invading what I like to call my ‘personal space,’ he responds in his most seductive voice, “Because if I’m Ken, you can be Barbie, and yours can be the box I come in.”
My throat closes, causing me to choke. That has to be the cheesiest line I have ever heard in my life! There is no way any woman would fall for this. Not unless they were drunk and desperately looking for a rebound. Even then—it’s a far shot.
He rests his hand on his belt, lifting his baggy jeans that have fallen during his attempt to seduce me. His knock-off Calvin Klein’s are purposely exposed, and I swear, with the thick gold chain draped around his neck, we’ve stepped back into the nineties when this was considered fashion. The logo on his shirt says FBI, with small writing below it that reads Female Body Inspector. Everything about this guy screams loser, and not the roommate I am hoping to find today.
Next.
I send him on his merry way, but not before he propositions me again by leaving his business card on my coffee table. Wishful thinking, dude.
Outside my doorway, another two applicants are waiting in the hall. After interviewing ten people today, I am praying that my next roommate is one of the guys left in the hallway.
I placed the advertisement only a week ago. My last roommate, Cherise, did a runner, leaving me with a pile of dishes and two weeks of unpaid rent. Apparently her boyfriend popped the question so she automatically took that as ‘let’s move in together.’ Since then, I’ve been gun-shy about the whole finding-a-roommate thing. I had this theory—females were more likely to move in with a guy based on a spontaneous moment.
Men, they stood their ground for as long as they could. I figured it couldn’t be too hard to live with a guy. I have years of experience with two older brothers. So they stink, and occasionally, if not always, leave a trail of mess behind them. The toilet seat is left up and count yourself lucky if you live with a male who actually knows how to aim. I’ll take that over girly drama any day.
I open the door and call the next person in, my eyes glued to the clipboard that rests in my hands. Then, in walks blue eyes.
Blue eyes—or Liam, as his application form says—is an absolute drop-dead stunner. His occupation says ‘model.’ Well, duh. Liam extends his hand and I shake it, noticing how soft, and large, his hands are. With my jaw permanently stuck to the ground, I attempt to compose myself and start the interview.
I clear my throat, trying to calm the nervous energy that so quickly escalated between my legs. “So Liam, tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Sure.” He smiles warmly, and I can’t help but be drawn to his full lips. They look so delicious and . . . focus! I cross my legs, ignoring my raging libido.
“I’ve got three sisters, all younger. I enjoy playing sports, my favorite sport being football.”
Oh sweet Jesus.
The temperature in the room is stifling hot, and I scan the coffee table for the air-conditioner remote. It’s nowhere in sight, so I’m forced to sit here in front of this beautiful man and pretend he has no effect on me whatsoever. All the while praying that my deodorant lives up to its slogan, protecting me from any sticky situation with round-the-clock fresh-smelling armpits.
His pose distracts me. Long, athletic legs with the perfect amount of muscle covered in loose shorts. If I tilted my head to the right, quite possibly, I could sneak a peek at the crown jewels.
He continues to speak, interrupting my plan. “I’m an aspiring model but during the week, I volunteer at an orphanage across town.”
I’m swooning. I have never, ever, in my life swooned over a guy. I’m certain that an angel dropped this perfect man into my apartment with his piercing blue eyes, dashing smile, and gorgeous ripped body just to test me. He looks and sounds smart, and is everything a woman would want to wake up to each morning for the rest of her life.
But I’m roommate-hunting, not on some game show looking for love.
My heart, mind, and body are torn into a great dividing wall.
I spent the last year saving every penny so I could afford to finish my degree in architecture. Distractions would deter me from reaching my goal. I’d be on edge all the time, trying to impress him or something. God forbid I wore my ratty T-shirt with the holes all over my back or leave my granny undies hanging in the bathroom. I know myself too well—I have to let him go.
But he is so pretty it hurts!
Move on.
Next.
I continue to make small talk then tell him I’ll call him with an answer. Being the perfect gentleman, he extends his hand once again and a little too eager, I grab it and don’t let go. The shake seems to go on forever until I reluctantly pull away. Liam walks out the door, allowing me a few minutes to pull myself together. Why am I letting this guy go again? Shake it off, Zoey. Eyes on the prize, not on his pants.
I call the next person to come in. The door creaks open and a young guy pops his head round the corner. I’m surprised by how young he looks—maybe twentyish—but it could be the SpongeBob T-shirt and old Chucks he’s wearing. He is slightly on the chubby side, appearing self-conscious while he fans his body by airing the bottom of his shirt. He looks pretty ordinary with his dark hair and brown eyes hiding behind thick black glasses.
Placing his hand in his pocket, he pulls out his inhaler and takes a puff while I wait for him to get himself together.
Just admit it, he screams geek.
Perfect!
I motion for him to take a seat, and he sits down on the brown leather armchair and looks around the room uncomfortably, struggling to make eye contact.
“So, Andrew,” I start, reading the details on his form. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Uh, okay,” he stutters nervously. “I’m twenty-four. Currently studying medicine. I work at a video store down at the mall while I finish my degree.”
There is something unique about his accent. Not quite American, a hint of British or Australian if I’m not mistaken. I want to ask him, but he seems to be nervous and intimidated by this process. It isn’t like a job interview. It’s odd that a grown man would be nervous around me.
“Studying to be a doctor? Impressive,” I tell him. “And your surname is Baldwin. Are you related to Alec, Stephen, Daniel, and what’s the other one that starred in that movie as a stalker?”
He appears to relax a little, then releases a soft chuckle. “Can’t say we’re related but I think you’re referring to Billy.”
Of course he knows that. Sharon Stone is the epitome of sex goddess and every jerk-off fantasy. If you’re a guy and haven’t seen Sliver, you might as well be gay.
“Well, Andrew. Your application looks good and so far, you’re the best applicant.”
Just get this over and done with. Get Liam and his perfect everything out of your head. You didn’t work your ass off so you could throw it away beca
use of some guy that would make such beautiful babies. Andrew ticked all the boxes. He looked intelligent in a geeky kinda way, not a womanizer that would attract ladies to the apartment, and most of all, I am not attracted to him one bit.
I give him my best welcoming smile. “When can you move in?”
Adjusting his glasses above the bridge of his nose, he manages a small smile, extending his hand as we shake on our new agreement.
It would be the first time I lived with a man besides my dad and brothers, and the first time Andrew ever lived with a woman. After much deliberation, we agreed we needed to establish rules. And so, Zoey Richards and Andrew Baldwin vowed never to break the five cardinal rules of the roommate agreement:
Rule number 1: Neither of us have ‘maid’ listed on our resume. It’s every man/woman to clean up after themselves.
Rule number 2: The toilet seat should always be left down.
Rule number 3: No partners or lovers are to stay more than one night in a row. Otherwise rent is payable.
Rule number 4: All disputes are to be settled old-school: rock, paper, scissors.
Rule number 5: Nudity is not acceptable. In the event of any mishaps, it must never, ever, be spoken of again.
Just five simple rules we needed to stick to, and yes, I added the last one since I had a bad habit of getting drunk and sleeping naked on the couch.
A week later, Andrew Baldwin moved in, and I officially had a roomie.
