Bad Boy Roomie (The Bad Boy Roomie Romance Series Box Set)

by Claire Adams

  Once the rest of the students have left the classroom, the professor starts.

  “I don’t know if there was some confusion, but I just wanted to make sure I was receiving the right proposal here,” she says. “I only need one per group, and it’ll be the one with the outline that the two of you have agreed upon.”

  “We’re going to use mine,” Mia says.

  “Hold on a minute,” I object. “Mine is better written and offers a more meaningful approach to the study.”

  “In your dreams,” Mia scoffs, and I’m just surprised people are still saying that.

  “You two really can’t agree?” the professor asks.

  “I think we might be able to agree on something if he paid any attention when we’re supposed to be working,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

  “Please,” I scoff. “You’re the one that’s always crusading to make sure that your voice is the one that makes everyone go deaf.”

  “See, I don’t even know what that means,” Mia says. “I think you like to play smart every once in a while just to freak people out, but the problem is, you don’t have the goods to back it up.”

  “Will the two of you be quiet for just a minute?” the professor asks. “Jeez,” she exhales and sits on her desk. “If I’d known you were having so much trouble working together, I could have reassigned you, but we’re already a couple of weeks in, and it’s not fair to have people split off from each other. Is there any way I give these papers back to the two of you and you come back next class with a mutual decision?” she asks.

  Mia and I look at each other, then turn to the professor and answer almost simultaneously, “Nope.”

  The professor frowns and drops her head a little, looking down at the papers in her hands.

  “Give me a couple of minutes,” she says. “I’m going to read both of these and I’ll choose the one I think is going to give you the best shot at an A presentation, but I need total silence. The first one of you who speaks gets their paper thrown in the trash.”

  Mia and I each pick a seat on the front row, though Mia makes a point of making sure there’s an empty desk between us, and wait for the professor to read our work.

  The way Mia wants to do this whole thing is totally wrong. She wants to give a bunch of people pieces of paper and she expects them to come up with some sort of profound insight based off of generic questions that are, by their very nature, incapable of probing into a person’s psyche in any meaningful way.

  If we’re going to get any kind of decent data, we’re going to have to do interviews, and we’re going to have to throw in a couple of unexpected turns if we’re going to trick people into giving us something resembling a useful set of responses.

  The most important part of the project, according to the professor, is how we extrapolate our information from whatever data we collect. Basically, we’re supposed to take a big picture and pick out the psychological motivations for everyone it captures.

  That, and I think her whole focus was too general. I know what she’s doing, too, she’s trying to leave things open for now so that she can narrow down the road when she has a clearer idea which way’s going to be the most expedient. Well, that’s not how I like to do things.

  All right, that’s exactly how I like to do things, but princess needs to get knocked down a few pegs or there’s going to be no working with her.

  The professor sets the papers onto the desk in front of her, and gives one last glance at the top to make sure she knows whose is whose.

  “I think they’re both well written,” the professor says, “but I think Ian’s approach is more fleshed out. As surprising an admission as that is, I think he’s got the more compelling focus and the better procedure for obtaining results. That’s your project. Thanks for turning it in; now start getting along or you’re going to drive each other into blowing this whole thing, all right?”

  We both mutter something, but neither one of us is about to be the first to speak.

  I just humiliated her. She can try to hide it, but as her posture collapses and she tries to hide the redness in her face, I know how delicate this moment is.

  If I say anything right now, it’s going to come across as condescending, because the professor just shot down her paper in favor of mine. I can’t make it apparent that I’m trying to avoid saying something for that reason, though, otherwise, it’ll just come off as even more condescending, and I don’t know if we’d even be able to remain in the same room after something like that.

  Not that it’s particularly easy now.

  Mia finally gets up from her chair, and I wait a few seconds before I get out of mine, trying to walk the tightrope just right so I can get the hell out of here without having the whole situation explode in my face.

  Nietzsche said something about how it’s unwise to toy with someone whose pride has just been injured. I don’t remember the exact quote, but whatever it is, I get the point.

  At the first cross hall, I wait to see which direction Mia’s going to go, and I go the opposite way.

  Now I can start to smile.

  As soon as I come to an exterior door, my board’s on the ground and I’m riding the pavement. It’s only been a little over an hour since my feet have been on the grip, but yesterday’s schedule change still has me feeling a little unsure of myself.

  The skate park’s no busier than usual, but as I start to skate up, suddenly I’m not so desperate to start running drills.

  Maybe if Rob wasn’t standing there, nudging people and pointing at me from the moment he spotted me coming up to the park, I might feel a little better about things, but I’m a bit too self-conscious right now to consider trying to drop in.

  I know the way my brain works with this sort of thing, and if I go up there right now and I don’t come out of it flawlessly, I’m going to put up a huge mental barrier that’s going to make it that much more difficult to look like I know what the hell I’m doing when it’s time to do it for real.

  Rob’s still hoping for the best, though, and he makes his way over to the vert wall, motioning for me to follow him up there. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s laughing while he’s doing all of this, I might think it was a thoughtful gesture.

  I’m here, and I’m not just going to turn back because Rob’s being himself, so I take my eyes, and eventually my mind, off of Rob and just focus on possible runs for the street portion of the competition.

  At first, people are only nudging more people, telling all of their friends that the word on the street is that guy darksliding that rail falls on his face every time he tries to drop in. I can’t see their mouths move with enough clarity to read any lips, and I can’t hear any of the words that are being spoken, but I know that’s what’s going on.

  It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m feeling particularly conspicuous right now, and therefore everyone seems hostile.

  I’ve really got to learn how to drop in; otherwise, this could become a thing.

  Chapter Five

  The Garden

  Mia

  “So you really think we should waste our time doing another study to show a connection between racist, sexist, and classist views and a lack of decent education?” I ask Ian as he sits across the table from me.

  It’s only been a day since he ambushed me with his paper and talked Professor McAdams, though I’m not quite sure how yet, into going with his instead of mine, but the fact remains that we’ve got a lot of work to do and we’re still not working toward the same thing.

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he responds. “I’m saying that it’s specifically a lack of critical thinking skills that cause people to fall prey to the kind of hate-filled rhetoric that ends up defining such a large portion of their world view.”

  Sure, it sounds better when he says it.

  “And if, in the process, we do end up calling bigoted people idiots, I think I’m okay with that, too,” he says. “We’re going to have to get go
ing on this, though. I was hoping to have a lot more of the groundwork done on this by now, and the Midwest Championships are only getting closer, and—”

  “What made you pick up skating?” I interrupt.

  His lips part a little, and his fingers touch both sides of the gap. “What?” he asks.

  “The way you skate,” I say. “I don’t know what there is, but there’s something about the way you skate that just seems different. How long have you been doing it?”

  “About five years,” he says. “Before that, it was BMX. You couldn’t get me off a bike and on a skateboard.”

  “What changed?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Things change. We should probably get back to the—”

  “You take a more relaxed stance, that’s got to be it, right?” I ask.

  “I don’t get you,” he says. “You blew me off at the competition and you’ve been trying to blow me off ever since. Why are you so interested when you so clearly dislike the sight of me?”

  It’s a reasonable question.

  “You know what I love about skating—or watching people skate?” I ask.

  “What’s that?” he returns.

  “It’s like you can see how a person’s mind works, how their emotions work,” I tell him. “Every inch traveled requires an adjustment, and even if it’s a minor one, that’s still a lot of opportunity to see how someone processes information, you know?” I ask.

  “So it’s a window to the soul better than the eyes?” he asks.

  “Something like that,” I answer.

  “If that’s the case,” he says, “and you find the way I skate to be so enthralling, wouldn’t it stand to reason that I must be a particularly interesting guy?”

  “No,” I tell him. “It just means that you’re complicated, or at least that you deal with things in a complicated way. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Occam’s razor and all that, you know.”

  “Let’s see, that’s the one where you just assume that anything that can go wrong is going to go wrong, right?” he asks.

  “That’s Murphy’s Law,” I answer.

  “I thought Murphy’s Law was the one that stated that an object at motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by another force,” he says.

  “That’s the law of inertia,” I tell him, and it’s dawning on me that he’s having a little fun at my expense.

  “Really?” he asks. “Then what is the one that states that the entropy of a perfect crystal at absolute zero is zero?”

  I think about it for a moment. “I don’t know that I’m familiar with that one,” I tell him.

  “It’s the third law of thermodynamics,” he says. “Can we get back to the paper now?”

  “You have to have noticed that you skate differently,” I say, trying one last time to pry some sort of depth out of the guy. Maybe it’s something wrong in me that he can quote me the third law of thermodynamics, but I still think he’s shallow because he won’t delineate his skating style for me.

  I don’t know if Ian’s going to answer or not, because my dad’s coming in the room now with that familiar ridge between his eyebrows that tells me I’m going to have to explain again why I’m alone with a boy in his house.

  This is getting so old.

  “What are you kids up to?” Dad asks, and the merciful side of me is trying to communicate an apology to Ian for whatever embarrassment is about to happen, but he doesn’t seem to understand the random string of lip-parting, eye-darting and scratching of the back of my neck as the contrition it’s meant to convey.

  “We’re just trying to get things hammered out for our final project in psychology,” I tell my dad, nearly verbatim to the explanation I gave him before Ian showed up.

  “That’s quite the shirt you’re wearing,” Dad says, and I’m a kid again, watching my bungling old man place himself on a collision course with the kind of display that’s going to leave me scarred, unable to do a thing about it.

  Ian looks down at the plain black shirt he’s wearing.

  “Thanks?” Ian answers.

  “Colorful,” Dad says.

  “You know, Dad,” I say, “we really do have to get this thing laid out, otherwise, we’re both going to be playing catch up for the rest of the semester.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Dad says. “I’ll leave the two of you in—oh! Those are tattoos!”

  “Seriously, Dad, can we not—” I start, but the old man’s in full overprotective father mode right now and incapable of listening to reason.

  “I got a burger today that was handed to me by a guy with tattoos like that,” Dad says. As if the implication wasn’t enough on its own, he adds, “He didn’t seem very happy.”

  “I’m sure he’s not miserable because of his tattoos,” Ian says, and I can see this thing getting out of hand before the next exchange is over, so I stand up and move in front of my dad.

  “This is Ian, my partner for my final project in psychology,” I tell my dad. “If the two of you want to get together on your own time to discuss the perils of ink on skin, that’s up to you, but we’ve got work to do right now, okay?”

  Dad is a legend in the sport of child embarrassment, but he’ll usually calm down and listen to reason as long as he’s stopped before he’s done anything too left field. That’s usually.

  “So, how many tattoos do you have to get before they give you a free hepatitis vaccine?” Dad asks, and even I’m taken aback by that one.

  “Dad!” I scold.

  “Nah, tattoo shops are surprisingly clean these days,” Ian says.

  “Yeah,” Dad scoffs, “they’re totally clean except for the people that walk in there.”

  “Have I done something to offend you?” Ian asks, doing a better job of handling his temper than I would have expected.

  “Not at all,” Dad says, and I give him a gentle push on the shoulder to let him know it’s time for him to leave. “I’m just hoping you’re not going to drag my daughter down too far as you take the long way to figuring out that people like you aren’t meant for higher learning. People like you are evidence that our institutions of higher learning are fallible.”

  “You don’t even know me, but you seem to have made up your mind on exactly who I am,” Ian says.

  “Dad, could you please just let us do our schoolwork?” I ask. “We really don’t need to do this right now.”

  “Fine,” Dad says, but he’s not leaving. It’s good of him to have his mouth shut right now, but he’s not leaving the room.

  “You know, maybe it would be better if we got together another time,” Ian says. “I’ve got a lot of tattoos to plan out for when it’s time to apply to the fast food place.”

  “I’d like it if I didn’t see you in my house again,” Dad says. “How do we work that one out?”

  “What’s gotten into you?” I ask my father.

  Given the balled fists and the pulsing vein in his forehead, I’m almost expecting Ian to take a swing at my dad, but he takes a deep breath through his clenched teeth and slowly relaxes his hands.

  “Mia, give me a call when you can find another time to get together and we’ll finish hammering this thing out, all right?” Ian asks.

  “Sounds good, Ian,” I tell him. “I’m sorry things went—”

  “Oh, you’re not actually apologizing for me, are you?” Dad asks.

  “Ian, I’m sorry, but you should probably go if for no other reason than to give me the opportunity to kill my father without witnesses,” I say to Ian, but my eyes are still on my dad’s.

  The old man’s eyes catch the light a little as his crow’s feet stretch their toes with his smile. I’d love to be able to tell Ian that my dad’s not usually like this; that we’d just caught him by surprise and he thought he’d have a little fun with us, but nope. This is pretty much standard Dad.

  Ian does the tactful thing and simply leaves, but as soon as Ian’s out the front door, my dad is laying right back into it.

/>   “I don’t know what kind of professor you have that would pair a sweet little girl like you with a waster like that, but I think it’s shameful,” he says.

  “What is with you today?” I ask.

  “He’s wearing the uniform of the scumbag and you’re asking what’s wrong with me?” he asks.

  “He’s not a scumbag, Dad,” I tell him. “He’s just a guy from my psychology class.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not having him over here unless I’m in the room with you, is that understood?” he asks.

  “What? That’s ridiculous,” I tell him. “You’re not always going to be home when we need to work. I guess we can go somewhere else, but—”

  “No,” he says, “I think you should do it all here.”

  “I’m not going to,” I tell him. “Not with the way you’re acting. I know you think you get some sort of weird sixth sense when guys are around and you think you can sniff out the dirtbags, but have you considered the probability that you’re going to think every guy who wants to spend time with me at any time for any reason is a loser? It’s overprotectiveness,” I tell him. “It has nothing to do with anyone but you.”

  “Well, it’s my house, and as long as you’re living in my house, you’ll abide by my rules,” he says.

  “I don’t suppose that means you’re offering me the opportunity to move out of here and actually start to live my own life, does it?” I ask.

  His mouth comes out with a bit of a gasp, and he swallows a couple of times before answering, “It has never been my intention to prevent you from starting your own life.”

  “Then why do you freak out to such a radical degree when I make any move that could potentially take me out of this house?” I ask.

  “Are you in love with him?” Dad asks.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I tell him. “He’s just a skater guy from my—”

  “So he is a skater,” Dad interrupts, smirking as he crosses his arms. “I knew it wasn’t just some project.”

  “No, Dad,” I tell him. “It really is just some project. I didn’t choose my partner, Ian was assigned to me, and even if he wasn’t, you’re still going to have to stop treating me like a child. I’m 20 years old!”