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

by Claire Adams

  “Yeah, that’s different,” I tell her. “This was just a spat—it doesn’t matter. Anyway, as screwed up as that might seem, I’m free. I don’t have to worry about what my dad wants from my life anymore, I can just start living it.”

  “That’s great?” she says, furrowing her brow. “I’m really happy for you?”

  “What happened, Mia?” I ask. “I know Rob talked to you, but that shouldn’t change what we have.”

  “What do we have?” she asks.

  I stepped in it there. Now I’ve got to make a quick decision between something trite, but possibly charming, or something more real, but also less inspiring.

  “Potential,” I tell her. “I don’t know about you, but I think we were pretty great together.”

  “Yeah, we weren’t really together long enough not to be,” she says. “Look, it wasn’t going to work out, so why drag it out? Talk to your dad, maybe he’ll let you go back home. Guy thing or not, it’s got to be a little awkward crashing with someone who made your face look like that.”

  “Yeah, I’m not particularly attractive at the moment, am I?” I ask.

  She looks away and doesn’t answer.

  “Whatever the problem is,” I tell her, “we can work it out. I know you were worried about my dad cutting me off, but he was going to do that anyway. I’m twenty-one, it’s time I was on my own anyway.”

  “Not really on your own, though, are you?” she asks.

  “It’s been less than a day,” I tell her. “Give me at least a week to buy a house and get a staff going.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for this,” she says. “We’re just too different. It’s not going to work.”

  “We’re not different, though,” I tell her. “The same things turn us on. We turn each other on, too. I don’t know where it’ll go, but I’d like to find out; wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe we’re too alike then,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry, Ian, but it’s just not going to happen. I don’t regret anything, but I think it’d be best for both of us if we just move on.”

  “Mia, come on, we can talk about…” I start, but she’s already walking away.

  I guess that’s that, then.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Giving up and Dropping In

  Mia

  The worst thing about sitting in front of someone you were very recently in an almost-relationship with is that it’s impossible to get the kind of space necessary to get past it.

  Right now, I’m charging Ian heavily for the fact that I can’t get away from him, and I don’t really care that it’s not his fault.

  Still, we have a project to do, and I’m not going to be able to get all of this work done by myself.

  So, I’m sitting here, waiting—as usual—for Ian to show up. Today, I thought it would be a good idea to go somewhere entirely neutral, somewhere we hadn’t been together.

  Also, I’m a big fan of frozen yogurt.

  Ian comes in, and I’m already halfway through my chocolate with cookie dough, but I get up and walk over to him so I can stand in line for a refill.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I respond.

  That’s pretty much it until we’re at the counter.

  The fact that I have to meet with Ian is like the fact that I have to sit in front of him, and so I decide to enact my own little bit of justice by ordering first.

  “Yeah, could I just get another one of these?” I ask. “Medium chocolate with cookie dough?”

  “Sure thing,” the woman behind the counter says and goes to reach for my cup, but I pull it back and produce a spoonful of brown, drippy goodness to show her I’m not quite done with my first.

  Ian doesn’t say anything.

  The woman comes back a minute later with a new cup of yogurt, overflowing with cookie dough to the point that I have to eat a few bits of it along the rim to make sure I’m not going to pull a Hansel and Gretel on the way back to my booth.

  I pay the woman and don’t wait for Ian.

  By the time he’s to the table, I’m starting on my second serving.

  “You just wanted a drink?” I ask.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” he says.

  “My, my, my,” I mock, “someone’s in a mood.”

  “If you were having a problem with something, why didn’t you just talk to me about it instead of breaking things off like that?” he asks. “I really liked you, you know?”

  “I told you, it just wasn’t going to work,” I respond.

  I had this dream of getting together with Ian and the topic of us as a sexual item not coming up once. It was a nice dream.

  “I don’t even know what did it,” he says. “You won’t tell me. You won’t talk to me. When I’m walking past you in class on my way to my seat, you won’t even look at me. I guess I just never took you for the manipulative, stuck-up type.”

  Even knowing full well that he’s just trying to get under my skin, I’m shaking with adrenaline and my face is so hot, it’s almost burning.

  “I get that you’re butt hurt that I dumped you or whatever,” I tell him, “but really? Name calling? Is that how you think we’re going to get through this with the least possible amount of bullshit?”

  “Hey,” he says, “we’re in public. Watch your language.”

  With that, I’m flat out pissed.

  “You don’t listen,” I tell him. “That’s your whole damn problem. You have open doors in every direction, and if you’d just open your ears and your mind, you’d be doing just the most amazing things, but all you can do is skate and hate on me. Well, you can be mad if you want, but I’m not going to tolerate this sort of behavior, even if we—”

  “Hold on,” he interrupts, “you’re not going to ‘tolerate this sort of behavior?’ Who are you, my mom?”

  “It’s kind of hard not to act like a mom when the person you’re talking to insists on acting like a child,” she says.

  “You know, maybe you were right back at the park,” he says. “Maybe we are too different. You’re trying to live like your life’s already most of the way over and I’m trying to live like I’ve got a little bit more of it in front of me.”

  I sigh and rub my temples.

  “Ian,” I start, “the problem is that you’ve got every opportunity and you just blow it. Have you figured out what you’re going to do in the vert competition? Have you even managed to drop in yet, or are you going to hope for a game-day miracle?”

  “Just get the hell out of my head,” he says.

  “What does that even mean?” I shout.

  It doesn’t really occur to me until the shout, but we’ve been pretty loud for a while, now. This appears to have drawn the attention of pretty much everyone in the frozen yogurt shop.

  Ian, however, doesn’t seem so aware of the shift in the room.

  “You tell me that you don’t want to be with me, then you sneak into my room and we have sex three times over the course of eight hours, and then you don’t want to be with me again,” he says. “Have you ever stopped to think that maybe the problem has nothing to do with me?”

  “I never said it was all your fault,” I tell him, shielding the half of my face closest to the open restaurant. “Let’s just talk about this later.”

  “Excuse me,” a strange voice says, and I look up.

  A tall man with a mustache and a tie is standing over the table.

  “This is a family-friendly establishment, so I’m going to have to ask the two of you to take it elsewhere,” he says.

  “You’re kicking us out?” I ask, more confused than anything.

  “I would like you both to leave,” the man says, putting his hands on his hips. “Right now.”

  “Whatever,” Ian says, getting up from the booth. “We’re leaving.”

  I get up, unable to close my mouth, though I do manage to grab what’s left of my yogurt, and I follow Ian out of the shop.

  It’s not entirely clear whether we�
�re still going to try to get the final bit of planning done tonight, or if the smart move is to just go home and start cold-calling people to ask them if they have any prejudices that might fit my study. That being the case, I walk more near Ian than by him, just waiting for him to tell me to get the hell away from him.

  I don’t know what caused me to curse like that in the yogurt shop, but it was actually kind of liberating to just forget about everyone else and lace into somebody.

  “I’ve got to tell you,” I say to him, “I’m still pretty pissed at you, but it was pretty bad ass, us getting kicked out like that.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “I know we both kind of flew off the handle back there, but I still think we can work together and get this project done if we just sit down and do it and, you know, maybe try a little extra hard not to piss each other off,” I say.

  Oh, come on. I’m being really conciliatory right now.

  Finally, I get to the point where I’m feeling really strange walking, and I ask, “Are we going to try to figure some stuff out, or should I just give up for the night?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “Hey, you’re talking to me,” I say, falling a little short of the cuteness I was hoping to inject as a diffuser. “That’s some progress.”

  For a while, we just walk.

  The awkwardness dies down after a while, and it’s actually a little cathartic walking. We’re not talking. That probably has something to do with the peace of the moment.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I’m picking up my board and heading to the skate park,” he says. “I don’t think I’m going to be bringing back the gold, but I at least want to try to make a good showing.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Is that something you wanted to do on your own, or—”

  “You can come if you want,” he says. “I’m just on a schedule these last two weeks, and I have to get my time in at the park every day.”

  “Doesn’t really seem like you scheduled much time for our little meeting of the minds,” I observe.

  “I kind of figured it’d go the way it went,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been kicked out of somewhere, though. It’s good to know I haven’t lost my chops.”

  “It doesn’t really seem that hard,” I say, faking a chortle. “All we had to do was sit down and try to talk to each other in a civil way.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Have you thought about maybe just backing out of the Midwest competition?” I ask. “I’m really not trying to be mean here, but if you can’t get a score out of vert, are you even going to be able to place?”

  “It’s really not an option,” he says. “I have to try for the sponsorship.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I know I’m not going to win,” he says. “I’m not stupid. Even with time on the board like I have, you can’t take up a whole new discipline and expect to have it down well enough in two weeks to pass up some of the best unknowns in the country. It’s just—I have to try.”

  “Why?” I ask. “It’s going to hurt you more than it’ll help you if you’re on ESPN, falling on your face.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’m not looking forward to that part.”

  We come up to a house and Ian says, “Wait here,” before going inside.

  It’s funny, even being so uncomfortable around Ian right now, while he was walking with me I didn’t even notice that we’d ended up in a really bad part of town. There aren’t really any parts of town where you’ll get shot just for going there, but when we’re on the news for something violent, the vans and the cameras they bring are almost always parked in this four-or-five-block radius.

  Ian comes back out after a minute and we start walking in the direction of the skate park.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but what are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I know I’m not your favorite person right now,” he says. “Why do you still want to walk with me?”

  “It’s something to do,” I tell him. “I blocked out a couple of hours for us to work on getting this thing finalized before we start doing interviews next week. Really, we should have had that done a while ago. Now we’re not going to have a lot of time to extrapolate from the data.”

  “Have you ever noticed how scientists really love saying ‘these data?’” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Data is both the singular and plural form of the word, right?” he asks. “Whenever any scientist is giving a lecture or an interview or speaking casually with someone, at some point, the phrase, ‘these data’ is bound to come out of their mouth. Do you think it’s a status thing, like people who aren’t scientists don’t really use it, therefore it’s a sign that you’re in the club if you do sort of thing?”

  “Why am I still walking with you?” I laugh.

  “Hey, I know we haven’t really been getting together as often as we were going to and all that, but I was wondering if you’d still be all right handling most of those interviews,” he says. “With the competition coming up and everything—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I’m not going to let you capitalize on how weird our situation is by making me do your work for you. How about you do about half and I’ll do about half?”

  “It’s just, this competition’s different, you know,” he says. “There’s a lot more on the line. I mean, you enter any amateur competition, there’s always a chance someone’s in the crows that can do something for your career, but they’re flat out offering a killer sponsorship here. That could be the boost I need to push me into pro status.”

  “I know that’s a big deal and everything, but you’re acting like this is your last shot,” I tell him. “Why not skip this competition and wait for one that’s not going to make you do vert in order to get what you want?”

  “I don’t know how much time I have,” he blurts. Before I can respond or even fully process the statement, though, he’s on his board and skating off ahead of me.

  The park’s still about half a mile from here, but I just keep walking after him.

  I told my dad about Ian and I breaking up. He was so thrilled that he took me out for a nice, fancy dinner at the local fast food establishment.

  There’s no good reason for me to keep walking after Ian—he’s not turning around—but I just keep going.

  I didn’t tell my dad that I cried the night I broke it off with Ian.

  Maybe it should change things that his dad pulled the trigger and cut him off, but I’ve got to believe there’s some way for the two of them to mend fences. Yeah, his dad’s a prick, but he’s still family. That’s how it goes.

  About ten minutes pass in the cool evening air, and I can hear the sound of Ian’s wheels on cement before the skate park comes into view.

  Ian’s there, doing grab tricks down the six-stair set, and I just watch him as I come closer, trying to organize things in my head enough to at least be able to say something when I get over to him.

  He’s rolling back up to the stair set when I get close.

  “You left me there,” I tell him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry about that. I just—I have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Well, what’s going on?” I ask.

  He glares at me before a smirk creeps up one side of his face. “You’re really something, you know that?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “It’s all about the back and forth with you,” he says. “As soon as I’m convinced you want nothing to do with me, you start acting all sweet and caring and then when I invariably let my guard down and something starts to happen with us, all of the sudden you don’t want to have anything to do with me again. I think I’ve already been on this particular rollercoaster.”

  “Something’s obviously bothering you,” I tell him, “and I don’t think it’s just that you’re pissed at me.”

  “Why do you care?” he as
ks. “Seriously, I want to know. That’s not an idle question or just my attempt at making you feel shitty. I really want to know why you care.”

  “Because I do,” I tell him, my voice wavering. He looks away, but I continue. “I never said I didn’t want to be your friend. I just don’t want you to blow up your life because you’re with me.”

  “We’ve already been over this,” he says. “Besides, it wasn’t even you that got me kicked out, it was the work Rob did on my face. The old man was not pleased.”

  I try to explain, saying, “We’ve been over this, but I don’t think we’ve taken the complications as seriously as—”

  “Is there any way we can just drop it?” he asks. “It doesn’t look like either of us has any new information to share or a new position to take, so why don’t we just call it a day?”

  “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” I tell him. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  “Then why is this competition so important?” I jump back in. I know what button to press, it’s just a matter of pressing it. “Why are you willing to risk humiliating yourself in front of a live television audience just for an outside shot at a sponsorship? Why does it have to be this competition?”

  “Because she’s getting worse,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, blinking.

  He puts his hand to his forehead like he’s going to run it through his hair, but the hand comes back down a moment later.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s not your problem and it’s not your responsibility.”

  “I’d like to help if I could,” I tell him.

  “Okay, seriously,” he says. “You’ve got to stop bouncing between accusations and comforting. It’s making it even more difficult to know where we actually stand, and it’s really starting to bug the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”’

  “Just pick a personality and stick with it,” he snaps.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head. “You know, sometimes people can feel more than one way about something,” I tell him, letting that tone from the fro-yo shop return to my voice. “You make me very angry sometimes,” I tell him, “but at the same time, I still care about you. You can be really thick-headed, but that doesn’t mean that I want to stop trying to get through to you.”