Roommates (Soulmates #1)

by Hazel Kelly

  My mom had no idea how inexperienced I was. In fact, she was so concerned that my stepdad’s strictness stifled my willingness to be open with her that she’d hidden packs of birth control pills in my room at college every time she visited.

  And my friends at school all thought I had a long distance boyfriend because that’s what I told them so they would leave me alone.

  So it looked like I’d finally stumbled upon my acting kryptonite.

  Crying I could do. I had loads of experience with that. However, swapping crying for kissing would probably do the opposite of impress the director.

  Screaming, dancing, singing, laughing, and seizuring were some of the other things I was confident doing on cue.

  But kissing, well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little panicked.

  After all, having my picture in that program next to my bio was as close as I was going to get anytime soon to seeing my name in lights.

  So I either had to spend the rest of the day watching kissing montages, which seemed unnecessary considering how many times I’d seen The Notebook.

  Or I had to practice, and I was a little too old to make out with my own hand.

  I rolled onto my side on the couch, figuring the best I could do was get really attached to the idea of kissing someone specific so that when the time came, at least my acting- if not my kissing- would be convincing.

  A moment later, I heard the key in the door.

  And when I looked up, the first person I ever wanted to kiss walked through it.

  Chapter 10: Ethan

  I saw her curled up in one corner of the couch as soon as I walked in.

  She was the only feminine thing about the place and stuck out like a sore thumb.

  I pulled my headphones out and let them dangle over my shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she said. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”

  I unclipped the iPod from my sleeve, turned it off, and set it on the counter with my headphones. “I wouldn’t say I’m a runner.”

  She furrowed her brow. “But you run?”

  “Yeah.” I walked to the fridge, pulled a bottle of water out, and slammed as much as I could.

  “What’s the difference?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not addicted to it.”

  She set a stapled stack of papers on the coffee table in front of her. “I didn’t realize runners were addicts.”

  “They are,” I said. “Whereas I don’t do it all that often, and I could quit tomorrow.” Assuming I never got stressed the fuck out again by surprise houseguests who made me feel like I had to take extreme precautions just to manage my own goddamn hormones.

  “I see.”

  I lifted my shirt up and wiped the sweat off my brow. When I dropped it again, she was scrunching her face at me.

  “Does my sweat offend you?”

  “No,” she said. “It just makes me feel kind of bad about the gallon of milkshake I drank this afternoon.”

  I took my shirt off and used it like a washcloth to wipe my chest and the back of my neck. Then I slung it over one shoulder.

  “So,” she said, pulling the fallen strap of her black tank top up. “What did you do today?”

  I topped my water bottle up at the sink. “Bits and pieces, lunch with a friend, worked out.”

  She leaned up and crossed her legs. “Is that pretty typical for you?”

  “Yeah. Then I work at night.”

  “Not a bad routine,” she said. “Doing what you want all day.”

  “Beats the alternative,” I said, drinking some more water and catching a lose drop with the back of my hand. “How did your audition go?”

  She pursed her lips. “Sort of bittersweet.”

  I raised my eyebrows and walked around to sit on one of the barstools on the other side of the counter, trying to keep my distance out of respect for her comparative cleanliness. “Why? What happened?”

  “I got a callback.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t that mean they want to see you again?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, and for a decent part, too. I’d have lines and everything if I got it.”

  “So what’s the bad news? Who you have to blow to get the part?”

  “Very funny,” she said. “But you’re not totally off base.”

  I craned my neck forward. “What?”

  She raised a hand when she saw my face drop. “Whoa. I didn’t mean- I don’t really have to blow anybody. Obviously.”

  I felt my shoulders relax again.

  “I might have to kiss somebody, though.”

  Why didn’t I feel any better? “Who?”

  She raised her palms to the ceiling. “Don’t know. Suppose I won’t know until he’s standing there in front of me.”

  I scrunched my face.

  “At which point I’ll have to focus on the role I’m trying to play instead of whether he has herpes.”

  I felt a chill run up my neck.

  “Yeah. That’s sort of how I feel.”

  “I suppose this kind of thing was going to happen eventually if you want to go into this line of work.”

  “I know,” she said, casting her eyes down. “I was just hoping I’d have a lot more experience by then.”

  A hundred questions flashed through my mind like sparks. “What do you mean?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never had to kiss someone I wasn’t attracted to before.”

  “Right.”

  “You have any tips for me?”

  “Let me see,” I said, extending my hand towards the script on the table.

  She stood up and smoothed her jean skirt down.

  I looked away when she bent over to grab the script because I didn't trust myself not to look down her shirt.

  "Here," she said, bringing it to me. "The scene I'm talking about starts at the bottom of this page and goes on to the next one."

  I took it and skimmed the text while she slid onto the barstool beside me. "I take it you're Marilyn?"

  "Maybe," she said. "If I don't blow it on Thursday."

  I turned the page and kept reading. Sure enough, Brian and Marilyn kiss halfway down the page.

  "I assume it has to be more than a peck because they're married in the very next scene."

  "Yeah," I said, reading the part with the kiss again and doing everything I could not to hope she wouldn't get it. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  "So," she said. "Any advice?"

  "Act your ass off?"

  She rolled her eyes.

  "Seriously." I set the script on the counter and leaned back. "There's a good chance whatever thespian you have to kiss to get this part is going to have total dick breath."

  "Dick breath?"

  "Yeah. From eating-"

  "I got it," she said, raising her hand. "Thanks for your help anyway."

  I sighed. "You're right. That probably wasn't the support you were looking for."

  She cocked her head. "Ya think?"

  "So practice with me once."

  Her eyes grew wide. "Practice what with you?"

  "The scene. The kiss. Whatever."

  She swallowed.

  "I'm perfect." I slid off my chair and held my arms out. "Especially right now when I'm at my grossest."

  She looked me up and down, her face suddenly pale.

  "If you can pretend to be attracted to me right now, there's no question you can be convincing with anyone else. After all, who are you less attracted to than me?"

  A nervous smile cracked her face. "I suppose you have a point."

  "I thought so." I tossed my sweaty shirt on the counter. “Plus, I don’t have herpes.”

  "Are you sure?"

  I furrowed my brow. “Of course I’m fucking sure-”

  “No I mean-” She shook her head. "What about-"

  I squinted at her. "What about what?"

  "Our parents?"

  I ran a hand through my hair. "Jesus, Jenny. Who gives a shit? I wasn't going to call them up an
d tell them."

  "Right."

  "Do you want my help or not?" I asked, my eyes bouncing from her to the clock. "Cause I have to shower and eat and get to work in the next-"

  "Okay," she said, sliding off her stool and laying her hand on the script. "But only if you're really going to take it seriously because I can do crappy practice on my own.”

  "I'll do my best."

  "Okay," she said, handing the script to me. "You be Brian."

  I raised my eyebrows. "I thought you'd pick up more pointers if I was Marilyn."

  She groaned.

  "I'm kidding, okay. That was a joke."

  She shook her head.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she said, her arms hanging at her sides. "It's just that this is important to me, and your jokes aren't helping."

  "Okay. Sorry. Just give me two seconds to get into character.” I turned around, squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to ignore the alarm bells going off in my head.

  "Whenever you're ready," she said.

  I looked over my shoulder. "You know your lines?"

  She nodded. "Of course. I've been practicing them all day."

  Chapter 11: Jenny

  All I could think about was spin the bottle at Jesse Kandinsky's house.

  Did Ethan remember that?

  Did he remember completely ignoring me in front of everybody when the prospect of kissing me came up?

  I suppose it was better than if he'd laughed in my face.

  Of course, I couldn't shake the feeling that that was exactly what was about to go down here. In his kitchen. Seven years later.

  At the same time, his willingness to do a read through with me was a welcome surprise. If anything, it confirmed the idea that a little fake kiss was nothing to be worried about.

  And if he wasn't freaked out about it, I wasn't going to make a scene. After all, we were both adults. We weren't related. And he was pretty gross right now.

  Except I didn't mind the smell of his sweat, the way it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And I certainly wasn't disgusted by his chiseled abs or the way his shorts hung off his protruding hip bones.

  To be honest, I was more attracted to him than anyone else on the planet, but I couldn't say that. If I refused to kiss him he'd either think I was a prude, or worse, that I wasn’t repulsed by him.

  And surely that would cause a lot more problems for me than just letting him think he was helping me out.

  "You don't have to memorize your lines," I said. "It's fine if you just read them. I'm the one that has to be convincing."

  He nodded but didn't turn around.

  I wiped my clammy hands on my skirt and watched the muscles shift in his back as he turned the page.

  "Okay," he said, turning around. "I'm ready."

  My heart was racing.

  "Do you want me to talk like a surfer dude or-"

  I narrowed my eyes on his. "Your regular voice is fine."

  "Suit yourself," he said, squaring up to me.

  I took a deep breath.

  He stared at me.

  I glanced at his lips.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  I nodded at the script in his hand.

  "Oh right- me first…" He dragged his large finger across the paper and mumbled to himself. "Okay. I got it."

  I sighed.

  He read his line and I started reciting the ones I'd memorized.

  His turn.

  My turn.

  His turn.

  My turn.

  His turn.

  My turn.

  His turn.

  "I knew from the moment I heard your music that I wanted to meet you," I said.

  "Meet me?" Ethan asked, glancing between me and the script. "Is that all you wanted to do?"

  I clasped my hands in front of me. "Actually, I knew when I saw you perform that I'd never be happy just meeting you."

  Ethan stepped up to me and looked me in the eyes. "What would make you happy, Marilyn?"

  I cast my eyes down at his chest and tried to imagine a Hawaiian shirt in its place. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be very ladylike of me to say."

  "Then I'll have to read your lips," he said, dropping the script and putting his hands on my shoulders.

  My eyes bounced back and forth between his. "Well, that's music to my ear-"

  And then he laid one on me.

  I went limp as soon as his lips touched mine. At first, he just held them there, but a moment later, he opened his mouth and slipped his tongue in mine.

  He tasted like sweat and it made me thirsty, but I couldn't pull away as he swirled his tongue deeper and grabbed my face.

  I put my hands on his bare chest to brace myself as a curl of warmth rose through my center like a trail of smoke.

  Then he pulled away, and my breath hitched as I opened my eyes.

  He was staring at me with a funny look on his face, an uncertain look I’d never seen before.

  I pursed my lips.

  "See," he said. "No big deal."

  I let my eyes fall down to his lips for a moment before raising them back up to his dark eyes.

  "You got this," he said. Then he grabbed his sweaty shirt off the counter, walked in his room, and closed the door.

  I looked over my shoulder towards his bedroom and raised my fingers to my lips, knowing that if I could recreate that kiss, the part would be mine.

  But there was no way.

  Because I hadn't done any kissing there whatsoever.

  I had been kissed.

  And I had been kissed so good my mind went blank.

  Was my acting just so good that the kiss seemed real?

  Or had I actually just gotten butterflies from kissing my stepbrother?

  I leaned over, picked up the script, and turned to the part about the kiss. Sure, the stage direction said "Brian gives Marilyn a passionate kiss," which explained why Ethan sank his fingers into my soft arms and why he held my face.

  But I'm not sure it explained the tongue.

  Was tongue really called for?

  I suppose it was probably implied by the word "passionate."

  But while part of me thought Ethan had missed his true calling for how convincing his performance was, another part of me was skeptical.

  Because that kiss wasn't merely French. It was intense.

  And as much as his tongue had swirled around mine, I still felt like he was holding back, like I could feel an energy coming off his body that heated me from the inside out.

  I put the script on the counter and grabbed a glass from the cupboard.

  A moment later, I heard the shower go on.

  I filled my glass from the sink and tried not to think about Ethan stripping down on the other side of the wall, tried not to think about him washing himself moments after we'd just shared the most delicious, interesting, addictive kiss of my life.

  A kiss I would never mention again to anyone, least of all him.

  Cause it shouldn't have happened.

  I knew that now.

  Granted, if I'd felt nothing at all afterwards, I wouldn't have thought twice about it.

  But I didn't feel nothing.

  I felt everything.

  And all the good things I felt were butting heads with the shame and the guilt and the knowledge that how I felt about what just happened was even less okay than the fact that it did.

  I mean, was what we'd done even legal?

  He’d fled the scene so quickly I can only assume he thought it was wrong, too.

  Or at least that it felt wrong.

  Because it felt so right.

  And it wasn't supposed to feel like anything.

  I took a deep breath, gripped the edge of the counter, and wondered what kind of freak I was that I'd enjoyed his physical attention so much.

  Then I tilted the glass of water against my mouth and swallowed my stepbrother's kiss.

  Chapter 12: Ethan

  No big deal my ass.

  I knew w
hen a kiss wasn't a big deal.

  Kissing Naomi, for example, had been a lot like paint by numbers.

  I put my hands on her hips and my lips on her mouth and had every intention of kissing her for a polite amount of time before she felt I'd shown her enough respect that she would consider kissing me somewhere else.

  But there was nothing polite on my mind when my lips met Jen's.

  So much for the levelheaded calm I felt after my run.

  That all went out the window as soon as she was close enough for me to smell her candy scent.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I tilted my face under the showerhead and let the cold spray sober me up.

  I didn't normally take cold showers, but if the water had been even slightly warm, my hard on would’ve gotten the best of me, and rubbing one out to the thought of her kiss when she was on the other side of the wall was a line I wasn't ready to cross.

  Kind of like kissing her, but I'd blown through that red light without so much as a second glance, confirming my greatest fear.

  Not only did I want her because I couldn't have her, I wanted her because she was as delicious as she was beautiful.

  And she didn't even know it.

  Shit. I don’t even think she really expected me to kiss her.

  But I had to.

  Not going through with it would've made the whole thing a big deal. A big, awkward deal.

  And I didn't want that.

  Seeing as she was effectively going to be my roommate for at least a few more days, the last thing I wanted was to feel awkward in my own goddamn apartment.

  Fuck.

  I sighed and turned the nozzle just enough to take the iciness out. Then I poured some body wash in my palm and tried to guess what she was thinking.

  Probably nothing.

  Or she was questioning why I fled the room so abruptly after our read through. Not that she'd ever ask, which was good. Cause telling her I'd come down with the first unruly boner I'd had since I was fourteen probably wouldn't make things less awkward.

  I rinsed myself off and stepped out of the shower, doing my best to ignore the nagging ache in my balls as I wrapped a clean towel around my waist.

  I wondered if I was better or worse than she thought I'd be.