Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Another violent-looking bruise peeks out from the waistband over his hip, and I swallow my breath when he stands up, leaning more on his right side. Even in a pair of snug black boxers, it’s like watching porn for women. That classy variety men just wouldn’t understand. Roman’s ass fills out the fabric, all pert muscle. And his thighs? Strong, athletic, defined. I could go on for days. Write poems about them.

  I look away because he’s too much, it’s too early, and my mouth’s drying up faster than the Los Angeles River.

  He leaves me in his bedroom to put my clothes on in private.

  My heart’s racing, though, pounding right into the palm of my hand as I cover it over the T-shirt I’m wearing. Then I do the craziest thing. Bunch the white cotton blend in my hands and bring it to my nose, inhaling the freshly washed scent. The fusion of cologne and fabric softener dances under my nostrils and makes my fingers tingle. Hands down, I would pocket his scent if I could. It’s magical.

  But because this isn’t some psycho obsessive television drama, I drag myself off the bed and route around on the floor, dragging in my clothes from, well, everywhere. My jeans are at the foot of the bed, my shirt on the desk. I’m wearing my underwear, so that’s one small grace. I feel gross, and the minute I’m in my own apartment, I’m taking a long, lukewarm shower, for my throbbing head as well as my icky-feeling skin.

  Dressed in my outfit from last night, I make Roman’s bed, even though he’ll probably want to wash and change the sheets, and I leave his T-shirt folded up on his pillow. I utilize the reverse camera on my phone to assess the physical damage. My makeup’s still mostly in place, and my hair’s a little bit wild on the top, but nothing smoothing my fingers through it won’t fix.

  Ugh. I’ve never completed the walk of shame. Knowing all Roman and I did was sleep makes little difference. I’m not a fan of opening myself up to misinterpretation, and I just hope I don’t run into anyone I know on my way home while I look like this. Which raises the other burning question I hadn’t considered until now. How am I getting home? And where’s Maddie? I haven’t heard a peep out of her, but I know she came back here with us. Whose room is she in?

  Opening Roman’s bedroom door, I peer into the hallway before walking out. Voices float from the living room, and I relax when I hear West’s. Right. Him and Roman are roommates. More pieces slot into their rightful place to recreate the incomplete picture.

  Maddie’s sitting on the edge of the couch, wearing the same dress I last saw her in. She’s got her head in her hands, her black, strappy heels dangling from her fingers.

  Roman strolls in from the kitchen, tossing two pain killers into his mouth and crunching them dry. He’s wearing clothes now too. Shorts, a Northvale Warriors T-shirt, and a black Adidas jacket, the white zip undone. He dips his head and flips up the hood. Gingerly swipes keys from the coffee table without leaning over too far and looks at me. “I’ll give you a ride. You’re on the way.”

  “Oh, we can Uber.” I’ve been enough of a nuisance. I don’t want to put him out any more. Or deprive the world of him fitting in one more gym session.

  Maddie’s head slowly lifts. Her eyes find mine, and she narrows hers in a fierce scowl. “Speak for yourself, Brooke. I need a ride.” She stands up. The straps of her shoes stay hooked around her fingers, and she walks to stand beside Roman in her bare feet. One dress strap slips over her shoulder, and she shoves it back up. She groans when it slips down again but leaves it where it lies.

  Looks like we’re riding with Roman. I’m not about to stand here and argue.

  “We should say bye to Kimberly, then.”

  “I’m coming!”

  She sprints from the kitchen in her too-big jersey. “Here.” She hands me a torn-off wedge of lined notebook paper with a phone number scrawled on it. “That’s mine. Text or ding it, and I’ll know it’s you, and then I’ll save yours. I would just call you now, but I can’t find my phone anywhere.”

  “If you ever took it off the silent setting, that wouldn’t happen,” Roman butts in.

  “Ho!” My gaze darts to the other side of the room. West walks out from the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in his hand, his other hand half-cupped around his mouth. “It’s Brooke. You look different in clothes.” He spoons in a mouthful of cereal, milk dripping back into the bowl.

  I glance at Roman, but he offers me nothing. West’s got no answers, either.

  “A spider?” Roman asks.

  West returns his questioning, amused look, then says, “I knew you’d know what to do with it.”

  “Can we go now?” Not caring whether we can or not, Maddie reaches for the door and opens it.

  “Don’t forget to text me,” Kimberly says.

  I hold up the piece of paper and smile. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home.” Pausing at the window, I frown at the curtains hanging there. “Hey… you don’t even have blackout blinds.”

  With a smirk and nothing at all to say for himself, Roman leaves behind Maddie, and I tail them out of the apartment and down the exterior staircase. Maddie hustles ahead, her shoulders hunched around her head, arms tightly crossed in front of her. Her flawless skin’s covered in goose bumps.

  There’s something about walking beside Roman. His power and confidence leaks into his surroundings, and even though I look like a troll who’s resurfaced to fetch supplies to take back to her lair under the bridge, next to Roman, I’m not so embarrassed. He’s so tall, I’m eye-level with his collarbone, and that rarely happens. He walks like he always knows where he’s going, and even if he took a wrong turn, it wouldn’t be an accident. Sure of himself in his purposeful strides, posture so straight and relaxed I catch my gaze wandering over to him for the second time, and for the second time, his gaze is on Maddie’s legs.

  I don’t mind, and he can look where he likes, but the deflation in my chest is certainly going to be a problem. I can already feel it.

  It’s been almost a week since I woke up in Roman King’s bed, and I’ve only seen in him in distant passing since. He did send me a text asking if I wanted tickets to one of his home games against UMass, but I’m working the entire weekend, so I had to turn his offer down.

  Kimberly’s hung out at our place, though, and the idea knocking around in my head has only strengthened since I first thought of it. Since it’s showing no signs of going anywhere, or turning sour, I go ahead and put it out there.

  “How would you feel about Kimberly staying in our spare room?”

  Maddie shoves a flyer into some guy’s hand who’s minding his own business. “That’s not up to us.” She smiles broadly at the irritation that crosses his expression.

  “I don’t mean officially. Student Housing doesn’t need a tip off. If they find someone else in the meantime, she can go back to Roman’s place.” I hand off a flyer from my huge pile, not as belligerently as Maddie.

  Standing on this street corner is like standing in a snow globe, and I’m so cold I’ve lost the feeling in my toes, my fingers—one side of my face. I’m not even sure I have a nose anymore. The sensation there disappeared around an hour ago. Only twenty minutes more of Preston’s promotion crap and we can go inside and warm up. I don’t particularly want to harass and take pictures of people, either, but milking a trip of goats with my mouth would be better than what I’m doing now.

  Maddie unzips her coat pocket and arranges what’s left of her flyers in there. As per Preston’s instructions: no dumping. He will check the trash cans. Apparently. So we’re under strict orders to take back whatever we can’t get rid of and use them again next time.

  “I don’t see why not. That hockey house is full. There’s no room for her there, and I know I would hate to share a bathroom with three guys.” Maddie’s eye twitches with her grimace. “I can only imagine what that might be like, and it isn’t a pretty picture.”

  “Okay, so I’ll ask her?”

  “Ask away.” Maddie turns to me, gripping my arms to shake. “Can we please start walking back now? I’
m suing for hypothermia, and I’m letting Preston know before he holes up in his office for the rest of the night and pretends to work.”

  I pocket my own flyers. I can just about pull the zipper back up. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

  Surprisingly, it doesn’t take long for warmth to come swimming back, and all my body parts are exactly where they should be. Now blood’s returned, I can actually feel them.

  Working outside does have its advantages among all the negatives. I get to wear black leggings now instead of shorts, because there’s no time to change, and it’s not a massive difference. My stomach’s still on display, so there’s always a part of me I’m incredibly conscious of and I can never switch off from it.

  And get this? People love having their picture taken. Maddie and I are wanted in all directions, and getting email addresses is easy-peasy lemon squeezy. Making sense of those email addresses isn’t so easy, and Maddie and I take charge of the pen where we can, making things smoother for ourselves when it comes to uploading the data into the computer.

  It’s as we’re making those rounds, snapping pictures that, honestly, really aren’t great, some people too sloshed to remember to keep both eyes open, that I see him.

  Luke Cole.

  Soon after, his group drags us into their atmosphere. It isn’t until I’m waiting on my third VIP membership card that something starts to smell… off.

  Narrowing my eyes on the card the football player’s writing on, I lean in a bit. According to this, his name’s Prince Gerhart, you can contact him on the email address: Sascrotch@TacoHole.com, and he lives at 69 Turkey Neck Road.

  I roll my eyes and move away from the table he’s leaning on.

  “They’re just writing shit,” I turn and say to Maddie.

  “No, kidding, genius.” She flips a VIP card over, showing me the written side.

  “Dudebrah Beef Curtains,” I read. And that’s pretty much all I need to know. I would have laughed if it didn’t mean spending extra time on signups to make up for this waste.

  I grab all the cards currently in mid-state of completion, ripping them from under the pens. Then I go round and take the pens too. “You’re all idiots,” I say as I tear up the cards. “Creative, but still idiots.”

  A hand curls around my elbow. As I glance behind me, Luke’s drawing me away from his friends. “Here.” His VIP card’s between the tips of two fingers, and I take it, pleased to see what looks like real information. “That’s for you.”

  “You mean the bar?”

  Luke’s smile warms me. “No. I mean, it’s for you.”

  Okay, Luke Cole is giving me his phone number, and I never even had to ask for it. Not that I would. I totally wouldn’t. I know one thing for sure as I glance over his phone number, this card is going with the rest, and I just hope he doesn’t wait by his cell phone to hear from me.

  Maddie and I take what we’ve managed to get and leave it all in Preston’s office. It’s worked out well that I’m off tomorrow because I’m beat.

  “What are you doing?” I frown as Maddie pulls her zebra print tote out from between coats and other shit that’s been left by customers and never collected or thrown away.

  “Refreshing my makeup. You can do yours, too.”

  “Are we staying?”

  “We were invited to a house blowout. Weren’t you paying any attention?”

  Paying attention to what? “I never heard that.”

  “Don’t you want to go?” Maddie sits cross-legged on the bristly carpet, in front of the long, rectangular mirror leaning against the wall in what’s meant to be the coat room. It’s filled mostly with junk. The reflection of her blue eyes in the mirror rises to meet mine as she dips her mascara wand into the tube.

  “I’ll come,” I say. “Whose house?”

  Maddie shrugs, coating her stupidly long lashes in the coal black mascara. “I don’t know, I forget their name. They’re waiting for us, though. Your amigo Booker’s there.”

  I’m not rocking up to wherever this party is dressed in this excuse for a shirt. There’s a pile of older Champ’s shirts that we don’t use anymore, and I tug one from the pile that will fit me. It’s orange, looks the same, but the hem goes to my hips, and the sleeves are long. Oh, how things around here have changed since the honest days of modesty.

  I change in the coat room, because hardly anyone comes in here. The shirt fits, but it’s tighter than my usual one, and I’m showing more cleavage. My stomach’s covered, though, and I can forget about it and enjoy myself.

  I let my hair down and swap my flats for heeled ankle booties I keep here for just in case instances like now.

  Luke’s gone when we walk back into the bar to meet whoever we’re supposed to be meeting.

  We pile into two taxis. Fifteen minutes later, we pull up outside of a detached two-story house in a nice, quiet neighborhood. It looks like every single light’s on inside the house when I open the rear door of the cab and step out, Maddie shuffling from the middle seat behind me. Her heels hit pavement, and she tugs at the hem of the leather mini skirt she changed into at Champ’s.

  What I wouldn’t give to wear something so nice without spending the entire time stressing and worrying over what I look like in it. I have no idea what that must feel like. Can’t relate at all. To pull anything out of your closet and just put it on. To show your legs and not give it a second thought. I haven’t lived a life that simple, with such a range of freedom, since I was a kid.

  The three guys we shared a taxi with stroll up the porch steps. The one in front, with the brown shaggy hair and short-sleeve button-down, opens the door.

  Guess we’re just walking in then.

  “How do you know him again?” I ask Maddie as we follow the boys’ lead and enter a complete stranger’s house.

  Maddie closes the front door, and the three guys have done a disappearing act. “Stephen’s in my English class.”

  That’s the guy who let himself in like he owns the place. For all I know, maybe he does.

  The living room’s just off the hallway and staircase, through a square arch with decorative white molding. There’s nowhere for us to sit, the couches and armchairs overflowing.

  I spot Booker in the dining room, standing against a bureau with a can of beer in his hand. He’s talking animatedly with two other guys, his hands shooting out as he recreates the actions to accompany the vivid story he’s performing. His voice carries above the music, his booming laugh even louder. The two guys he’s with crack up over it.

  That guy Stephen, with the messy brown hair from Maddie’s English class, walks into the dining room from the kitchen. His eyes sweep the room, then stop on us. A smile spills across his lips, and he sidesteps a couple talking, making his way over. He’s got eyes only for Maddie, and I’m starting to see why we were invited here.

  “Thirsty?” He doles out two cans of extra warm beer, and I take one because it would be rude not to. I haven’t decided yet whether I’ll open it. I probably won’t. The taste’s bad enough when it’s cold.

  “Yo, Torre!”

  How do I know that’s Booker without having to look?

  I wave back to let him know I’ve noticed him, too.

  “I’m gonna go say hi,” I tell Maddie. Stephen hardly looks at me.

  Maddie nods. “’Kay. I’ll be—”

  “With me,” Stephen answers for her. He grins as he slides his arm around her shoulders.

  I look at Maddie for confirmation on whether or not that’s true.

  “I’ll be around,” she says. “Look for me if I’m not in here.”

  I’m not sure I like Stephen, but I hold onto that for now, and leave the two of them alone. She seems comfortable with him, and I’ve only known him for half an hour, tops.

  Booker slips one arm around my waist and pulls me in, his Cheshire cat grin irresistible. I smile back at him.

  He starts another story, recounting the play late in the fourth quarter as he lifts the beer from my hand. He
pops open the top and returns the can without breaking eye contact or missing a single detail of his game-winning touchdown.

  I look into the beer like something died in there.

  “You see that touchdown, Torre?” Booker’s looking at me now.

  “I was working. I heard it, though. And I caught some of the replay, but not all of it.” I take a sip of the beer, and it’s as rancid as I imagined. “Do you want this?” I ask all of them. I don’t care who takes it. I can’t drink that.

  “Nah, I’m good.” The guy with the buzzed black hair holds up his own beer.

  Booker swipes it from my hands before the other guy can open his mouth. “I’ll take that.” He gulps what’s left in his can and dumps the empty behind him, on the bureau between the fine china plates and pretty vases.

  The football talk continues, and it sounds like they’re breaking down the entire four quarters, play by play. That’s how long it goes on for.

  “I’ll be back,” I say to Booker, seizing a window to speak as he pauses for breath, irritated over a holding call from the ref that he still doesn’t agree with.

  He hits me with a funny look as I peel myself away from him. “You better be back, Torre.”

  I smile in answer, backpedaling to the living room to find Maddie. I don’t see her or Stephen, and I don’t feel like going upstairs when I don’t know whose house this is. What am I going to do? Barge into bedrooms and cut short someone’s action? No thank you.

  There is another room downstairs, sort of a den type, and I try in there before calling Maddie on the phone.

  I approach the smaller room, walking under the high, square arch. “What’re you doing here?” Roman’s sitting on the two-seater couch, eyes on his phone.

  He looks up from the screen, a laid-back smile slipping onto his face. There are other people in the room with him, no one I know.

  “My teammate’s house.” He pockets his phone, discarding whatever he was just doing on there.