Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  I’m just starting do drift when I hear the sudden jerk of door hinges, and then footfalls hitting the hallway. I open my eyes to moon-lit darkness, the skimpy curtains hanging open at the square window.

  “I’ll sleep out here.” West picks up the blankets and starts making himself comfortable.

  “Thought you were sleeping in my room?”

  “Not anymore. Big fucking spider in there.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “A spider?”

  “Huge,” West says. “And it hasn’t just got hair to go with its eight legs, it’s got bangs and a weave. Get in there and fry that motherfucker. Don’t come back, either.”

  Pulling in a deep sigh that has my ribs weeping, I stand up and swipe my shirt off the coffee table on my way to my bedroom. I don’t know about any spider, but I leave the light off, take off my socks, and pull back the cover to get into bed.

  Well, I would do that. But when I lift the quilt, there’s already someone in there. And it damn well isn’t me, because not once have I ever had an out-of-body astral projection while I’ve been sleeping. And if I did, no way would I just stand there and watch myself sleep.

  I hold the corner of the quilt and just look. The hair’s light, long, and there’s a loose wave running through it. It’s spread all over my pillow, and her back’s to me. The shirt she’s wearing’s white and black, and I know if she were to turn around now and face me, the teal Warriors logo, faded and cracked, would be printed across the front. I know because it’s my shirt.

  Her ass is pushed out, the high cut of her underwear curving around her cheeks. Her knees are bent toward my bedroom wall and the window, one hand pushed beneath her cheek on the pillow, the other between her thighs.

  A low rumble comes up from her chest, then she breathes in through her nose, a loud, nasally growl making me take a step back. I wasn’t prepared for that. For a sound so aggressive coming from a girl like her.

  Brooke can snore.

  I watch her sleeping, the noisiest sleep I’ve ever been present for, wondering why she’s in my bed. And now West’s reclaimed the couch, it looks like I’m spooning someone tonight.

  Turning around to let Brooke bellow like a beast without me standing over her, I hit my knee off the corner of the bedside table, grating out, “Fuck,” as the sharp pain holds its breath and then echoes through my bones. As if I wasn’t banged up enough.

  The raucous snoring stops, and Brooke groans.

  I look over my shoulder, nursing my kneecap, and the lump on the bed starts to move and stretch out. Her head turns on the pillow, eyes blinking open. She brings her fingers to her lips, her sleepy gaze sliding to me standing over her in the dark, and she wipes her hand over the corner of her mouth.

  Perfect. She drools, too. All over my pillow.

  Rolling onto one elbow, Brooke slowly wakes up. Lips pouty, eyes all doe-y from the disturbance, she stares up at me. Then she frowns and scoops all that mint hair back from her face, letting it fall to one side. She peers through the darkness, sooty lashes fanning over drowsy eyes.

  “It’s me. Roman,” I say, before tiredness departs and she freaks out. “You’re in my bed.” Then I rush to say, “Alone. I wasn’t in it with you.”

  She squints, blinking. “Roman?”

  “Yeah. Roman. The bet over the pool game?”

  “Roomaan.” Brooke’s lips part in a smile, her eyelids drooping because she’s either too tired, too drunk, or a heady fusion of both. She’s definitely been hitting the sauce, though. She’s cute as hell right now, and I can’t help smiling at her.

  “B, how’d you find your way into my bed? It’s one thing cruising by my window every day. But crashing my room? You’re over the bar.”

  She giggles. Yep, she’s loaded. I didn’t think Brooke knew how to giggle.

  “This is your bed?” she asks, finding her own question unreasonably funny. “Get. Out!”

  I laugh and frown. “No need to shout, B. Nothing wrong with my ears.” Yet.

  Sleep, or the fact she’s faded, must get the better of her. She lies on her side, stretching out one leg and bending the other. Yawning wide, the action’s contagious, and I do the same, the loud sound tearing from nowhere. Another one follows right after, and I rub my eyes with my fingers and thumb, swiping away the dampness.

  “Where are you going?” Brooke asks as I turn to leave, grasping the doorknob.

  “Living room.” I can crash on the armchair for one night.

  Putting her hand on the mattress, Brooke runs her palm over the bottom sheet. “You can stay here.” She rolls over, to the wall, giving me the view of her ass in her lace panties. Nice. “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

  If there’s any girl I can share a bed with and not worry about a full stash of condoms or putting her out with the sunrise, It’s Brooke.

  “Okay,” I say. I think about leaving my suit pants on, but if I’m going to do that, then I might as well go spend an uncomfortable night in my truck for how much it’ll wreck my sleep. So I undo the rest of the buttons and slide the pants down my legs one at a time. In just my boxers, I lift the quilt and climb into bed.

  With no practice in this no-strings, no expectations type of sleeping arrangement, I stay on my back, staring at the ceiling with my hand underneath my head until my eyelids refuse to stay open and the ache in my bones and my temples settles down.

  The unexpected, guttural snoring from Brooke wakes me up with a start two seconds later.

  My fingers tangle with hair. Silky strands of the stuff sifting between my knuckles like sand. From the chest down, I’m boiling, and my legs are as stiff and heavy as dead weights, stuck to the mattress.

  As I come round from sleep, my brain catching on that I’m waking up, I find out why I feel as though my body’s been imprisoned in my own bed.

  Brooke’s arm’s slung over my stomach, her fingers curled around my biceps as she sleeps. Her bare leg’s hooked across my thighs, head nestled under my jaw, and she’s lying on the hip that took the brunt of the check. There’s a damp patch on my chest, right where her mouth is. And I smile. What the hell am I supposed to make of that?

  Smiling because some chick whose snoring could bring the saber-tooth tiger out of extinction is drooling on me.

  Her breathing’s even and light, no noise coming from her in the gray, dismal morning rays slanting in through a gap in the wooden blinds. Dust motes bounce around in the light stream, and I lie for a minute in the silence, the feel of Brooke’s chest as it rises with a breath missing the tempo of my own by just a second. Her fingernails graze the skin on my upper arm, and I glance down at the top of her head, memorizing her profile, the small gap between her lips and the way her hair drapes behind her shoulder and covers the arm of my hand that’s stroking her hair.

  Weighing up the outcome, I carefully move my hand lower, slipping my fingers from her hair to her waist, where my training shirt’s ridden up, above her bellybutton.

  My pinky finger runs over the sharp protrusion of her ribcage, the harsh sensation drawing a reactive frown over my eyes. She feels like she hasn’t been fed in weeks.

  Out of curiosity, I follow the structure of her bones, to the dip at the top of her stomach. Drift over the dramatic curve of her waist to her hipbone. When her full, fleshy ass cheek’s in my hand, I think maybe I’ve gone far enough, and I should probably pull it back.

  But I like how she feels, and other than deciding she could do with a decent meal to fill her out and protect those bones, I kinda like how she looks too.

  I let the tips of my fingers float over her soft, warm skin. The back of her thigh, her hip. Her nipples strain against the fabric of my T-shirt, and I push my hand underneath, but I don’t touch her breasts. I’ve got some standards.

  Next time I glance down at her, she’s looking up at me, irises darkened to melting chocolate in the shaded room, nearly as black as the pupil.

  “Hey,” I say, unsure how she’ll react to waking up to me. In a bedroom that isn�
��t hers.

  She blinks, faint traces of a frown crimping her neat eyebrows. “Hi.”

  And then I realize why she’s so quiet and statuesque.

  My hand’s resting under her breasts, the way I’m holding her marginally possessive. Like I fucking own her.

  Brooke shifts on the bed, reawakening a sharp, sudden pain in my hip. I suck in a hiss through my teeth, strengthening my hand on a startled Brooke and pulling her back down. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Just lay still.”

  I relax my fingers and lift my arm off her, shoving my hand behind my head instead, giving her space to move. To bail out. Do whatever she wants now I’m not mauling her in her sleep.

  Brooke uses my sternum to push herself to half-sitting, blinking herself awake fully now and trying to incapacitate me in the process.

  I clamp my eyes shut and inwardly groan under the pressure. Brooke snatches her hand away, anchoring a worried look at where her hand just was.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m good,” I grate. The face-smashing into the plexi comes hurtling back, and my muscles tense like they’re also reliving the collision.

  Brooke’s fingers feather my ribs on the left side, that crease reappearing between her eyes. “You said you had no tattoos.”

  I look down, at her fingers airily dusting my skin. At the black ink beneath her clear, shiny nails. “Ah… that.”

  “Why did you say you didn’t have one?” Scooping her hair into her hand, she leans forward, tilting her head to one side so she can read the linear calligraphy. “Ten-fifty-three. September fifteenth.”

  I drop my head back to the pillow and listen to Brooke softly recite the numbers, her voice melodic. My chest tightens.

  Brooke leans back, her gaze on the same patch of skin. “A time and date.”

  I could have made the tat meatier and more sentimental—verbose and poetic—but I’m no writer, and this basically sums up why I got the ink in the first place. Life goes on—it has to—but for a tiny piece of the day, every day, it stops for a minute, jarring when it fucking happens. I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, or any of that nonsense, but as long as I never forget, then… yeah… as long as I never forget.

  Brooke’s perceptive gaze pierces my weakest points. “This is for someone you love?”

  Two someones. “Yeah.”

  Looming silence blankets the mood. The same enticing silence that slips through the hidden cracks whenever my parents are vocalized in any way. They’re a taboo subject I don’t like talking about. It’s in the past.

  The silence slinks back to the pits it escaped from, and Brooke responds with,” Your skin’s all banged up. Are these off your games this weekend?”

  Outlining the blooming purple patches mottling my side, I wince and brace for more twinges of pain, but Brooke’s gentle, and I barely feel her. It’s actually not as bad as I’d been expecting. Feels and looks a little swollen, but I’ve had worse. Good, means it’s all superficial and I can go to the gym soon.

  All these thoughts of Brooke and her body have got me anxious to do something with myself other than lie here with her in just a T-shirt and her underwear, and I’m trying not to dwell too much on all of the above unfolding in my bed.

  “You know what?” She drags her legs under her and crosses them. “We made a bet and you won. I’ll do what you asked me to. I’ll be seen with you and anything else included in your stipulations.”

  Brooke’s choice of words stretches my smile. “My stipulations?”

  “Yes.” She nods, and it’s all business. I’m guessing she’s still tanked. “You ask, I do. That girl shows up, I’m there.” She clicks her fingers. “As quick as that. You call, I come running.”

  I push the limits, finding out where they are, where they start, and where they end. “What if any girl shows up?”

  Brooke’s business mode loses formality. “Any girl?”

  “Part of my stipulations.”

  “Are you going to embarrass me? This isn’t me agreeing to full on make out sessions or anything else super cringy.”

  “No cringy make out sessions. You earned that much when you ate that gross Frito. I might ask you to hold my hand from time to time.” Brooke’s cheeks flame, and who the hell knew? that’s another thing I appreciate about her. “Or”—I shrug—“I’ll just take your hand. I won’t even ask first. You can’t be flinching, though. Or pushing me away. It’s gotta be real.” I hear back what I just said, prompted by the minute narrowing of Brooke’s eyes. “Look real, I mean. It has to look real. Otherwise, why bother?”

  Brooke pulls her lips between her teeth, her mind ticking over. She wears her emotions in every movement, every expression she makes. She’s so easy to read, I can’t not see it as a weakness.

  “Think I can handle that.” She sticks out her hand. I engulf it with mine, and we shake on it.

  The bedroom door opens. Roman’s warm hand stills over mine, both our gazes swinging to Kimberly, who bursts into the room. She’s wearing a Warriors men’s hockey jersey seven times too big for her, and her mascara and glittery eyeshadow’s smudged around her eyes. Like, everywhere.

  “Roman!” She sounds furious, drawing her features into an irate expression to match. “Brooke,” she says to me, her anger fading, “I am sooo sorry. I didn’t think he would actually dive into bed with you.”

  The pieces start coming together to build the puzzle, and now I’m not totally trashed—well, maybe not totally—I understand what’s going on.

  “That’s your sister?” I say to Roman. Kimberly had mentioned a brother, but all Maddie and I were interested in at the time was more drinking and then somewhere to lie down. If Roman thought he was settling in with a cold six-pack tonight, he’s in for serious disappointment.

  I’ll buy him more.

  “So I’m told.” Roman looks sideways at Kimberly. He’s still lying on his back, one hand behind his head on the pillow and the other hand loose around mine on the bed. “Where were you last night? I told you not to go out, so I take it you didn’t listen.”

  “Do I ever?” Kimberly returns smugly.

  “I could be to blame. I got her into Champ’s, otherwise she probably would have come home.” Roman meets my gaze, his giving nothing away. “I couldn’t just leave her alone, and she was having trouble with the bouncer from Stardust.” If I wasn’t sure Roman would ream her out for it, I’d tell him I had no idea she was so young before I slid on my good Samaritan sandals and offered a friendly, helping hand to his barely-seventeen-year-old sister.

  “You know how old she is?” he asks, and I still can’t read him. The look in his eyes is as flat as the tone he’s using.

  “I lied,” Kimberly steps in. “I lied about my age and told Brooke I was older.”

  “But then she told the truth.”

  “But it was already too late,” Kimberly bumbles. “We were in the bar and there was a drink in my hand. So it was all me, and I don’t want to hear it.”

  Roman’s silent, his level, neutral gaze centered on his sister. Then he says, “I don’t want you in bars or clubs while you’re here. It’s non-negotiable. Complain as much as you like, but it’s not happening. If you’re here, then I’m responsible for you.”

  “This is a college town. There are bars on every corner. And I can’t be responsible for myself?” Kimberly looks to me for more of that telepathic bonding we just had going on, but I focus on a tiny freckle on the inside of my thigh instead. I like the girl—a lot—but I can’t vouch for how responsible she is when I assisted in the very thing she’s now being carped over for.

  After saying nothing at all, Roman laughs. “If you’re done making jokes, you can get out. I gotta get ready for the gym in a little bit.”

  Kimberly drags her gaze over the top half of Roman’s body. “Yes, porky, you do.”

  Patting his flat, evenly tanned stomach, and let’s not forget the smooth definition of those abs, Roman snickers. “All muscle, Kim
berly. I’ll tell you what that is and how you can get your own someday.”

  Kimberly gives him the finger. “Brooke?” she says, reshaping my name into a question. “Let’s go into my room.”

  Tugging the pillow from under his head, Roman flings it across the room. Kimberly sidesteps, moving in front of the open door, but it smacks her in the side of her head, messing up her fluffy bedhead even more. “You haven’t got a room. That’s West’s room!”

  “Jeez, okay! Douche nozzle.” Kimberly pulls the door over, then grabs the corner of the pillow before she leaves and throws it back into the room. Roman blocks it with his forearm, and it drops to the floor. “I’ll be in the living room!” Kimberly calls back from the hallway.

  Roman and I share a look. “So, that’s your sister,” I say with a smile. “I don’t remember her telling me your name last night, or really anything about you, otherwise I wouldn’t have overstayed my welcome and gone to my own apartment instead.”

  “Who said you overstayed your welcome?” Roman’s fingers move against mine, and I can think of no reason why our friendly handshake’s ran so far over its course. We’re holding hands now. That’s what we’re doing.

  “I’ll go.” Why does it feel like that’s the last thing I want to do? “I haven’t touched any of my art assignments since Friday. It’s shaping up to be a long day.” My hand is still in his. Why am I overthinking this? Just move your frigging hand, Brooke. “And you need to get to the gym, so…”

  Roman’s light smile is a slow progression in his sleepy, hazel eyes that makes me want to hide back under the covers and stay here all day with him.

  Ugh. What the heck is up with me?

  “I should let you get dressed, then. Wouldn’t want you to not be able to do your homework.” He’s making a joke out of me, but it’s fine. If he thinks I’m making excuses to leave, then that’s what I’ll let him think.

  With one hand covering his ribs, and his tattoo that I have so many questions about but saw enough on his face not to go digging around where I don’t belong, Roman tentatively eases to sitting, his abs tight and tense under the slow, restricted movement. Once he’s upright, he gets out of bed easier.