Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

“I’m not trying to sound ungrateful or anything.”

  As hard as I fight to resist, I roll my eyes. “Heaven forbid.”

  “You think I’m arrogant, don’t you?” Yeah, he’s not flustered anymore.

  “I actually don’t,” I say. I’m more aware of the rain now, my skin chilling beneath my wet hoodie and jersey. The layered fabric’s heavy across my shoulders, like I’m being dragged down by it. “I can’t relate to your hot jock problems at all, though. You’ve alienated me on that one. Maddie can probably sympathize.” Seriously, why has he got me out here?

  Roman makes a smug sound, the confidence he has in himself rolling off him in waves. “I’m not looking for anything deeper than physical. I prefer surface-level, where it doesn’t get messy. Where there’s no drama.”

  “Was Jen drama?” I hear myself asking.

  “And a time suck,” he says coolly. “She started asking for something I couldn’t give her.”

  “Is that what I am to you now? A time suck?” Does every girl he treads on eventually get slapped with that label?

  Roman’s taken away a patch of space without me noticing, bringing the shadows with him as he annihilates another piece of my breathing room. I feel as though I’m drowning in this rain. “No. You’re interesting. Funny. And it might have taken me a minute, but I’ve noticed you, and now I don’t know what I want from you, just… more. I want more than what I’ve already had.”

  “Why, though?” I look into his eyes, black lashes congealed with rainwater, and hold my ground. “What could possibly change with us? You want nothing meaningful, not from any girl. And you dump this on me and make me believe what we have is real. This feels real. You’ve got no business confusing me like this!”

  And now I’m angry. Perfect. Literally no control over my overly sensitive emotions.

  “Then you feel this, too?” Roman’s gaze slides over my face, bouncing between my eyes and my mouth, and the reckless, unashamed way he’s looking at me hits me like a wall. I run hot inside my hoodie, the chill from the rain chased away with Roman’s hands curving around my waist, his face above mine. He sucks me into his gaze, heavy lidded and impossible to resist. Drops of rain cling desperately to his hair, dripping onto me in the lost battle.

  My pulse rockets, the air thins, and then I’m reaching up on my tiptoes, lifting my face to his, my palms curving over his big shoulders, slick with rain on the waterproof fabric. Roman’s hands coast to my back, and I’m flush against him, both of us soaked.

  I haven’t had many kisses worth remembering, but this is definitely one of them. We’re in sync with each other, trying not to take too much or give it all away, our restraint still tethered until the threads begin to fray and then snap apart and both of us forget we’re outside, and anyone could look out their window and see us.

  Roman’s lips slow against mine, and when I open my eyes, he’s looking back at me in drugged laziness.

  Keeping us pressed together, he breaks the kiss. “What now?” he asks, full lips slick and wet with rain. “I’ve told you where I stand on relationships.”

  His reminding admission pierces me with knifepoint precision, but he did tell me his boundaries. He was completely honest with me from the jump, and I was already aware of his restrictions. At the end of the day, I still lost a bet. Roman keeps offering me an out, but I’m stronger than that.

  “We keep being seen together until Jen gets that we aren’t playing around.”

  “And when we’re both at some frat party on Greek Row, it’s getting late, and I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all night? Can barely keep my hands to myself. What’s your answer to that?” Roman’s gaze drifts back to my mouth, like he’s having trouble with the theoretical design.

  I thread my fingers into the short hair at the back of his head, my skin tingling with the icy-cold burn. I’m sure if it wasn’t for Roman and his body heat, I’d be entering into the first stages of hypothermia. “Then I guess you don’t keep your hands to yourself.”

  “You can do casual?”

  “I’m not diving into bed with you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I’m quick to assure. “But since we’re together anyway, it doesn’t have to be all fake, does it?”

  “None of it’s fake,” Roman says against my lips. I open my mouth for him, squealing in frigid shock when his fingers push under my hoodie at my back and ice my skin. I bend into him, escaping the frosty breach. He swallows my laughter, shutting me up with his tongue as his fingers work and numb my skin. “Do I still have to take you home?” he asks, dejection creeping its way into his voice. “My place is closer, and you’re wet.”

  I know it’s a bad decision as soon as I make it. I’ve gone from balancing on the edge to Roman pushing me clear off it. There’s no coming back now, no viable return. The most I can hope for is a cushioned landing and someone waiting to slot the broken pieces back together when I hit the ground.

  I use Roman’s shower and change out of my wet clothes into his warm, dry ones. Pulling the drawstrings tighter on the sweatpants I’ve borrowed, I walk into the living room and the hub of the noise, smiling when I see West crashed in front of a paused NHL game on the PlayStation, stretched out on the beanbag chair with the controller between his hands on his lap.

  “Hello,” I say. “Where’s Maddie?”

  “Still at the Barrel when I left. New outfit?” West’s gray eyes stray over my T-shirt and slightly loose pants. Not by much, though. There’s no spare skin on Roman’s defined body, every inch serves a purpose, and his clothes aren’t overly huge or swampy on me.

  “My clothes were wet,” I clarify.

  West smirks, flicking his gaze over his shoulder. “Were they now?”

  “From the rain. Get your mind out of the gutter.” Sitting on the wood floor beside West, I cross my legs underneath me. I watch his game with heavy eyelids, barely able to keep myself awake. I wish I had my art supplies with me, so I could carry on with Black Pearla instead of sitting here doing nothing with my limited spare time other than waste it.

  “Your best friend’s boyfriend’s online,” West says, his eyes and concentration on the television screen.

  “Colin?”

  “The one and only. Wanna get on the mic and make kissy noises at him?”

  I deliver an unimpressed look West doesn’t see because he’s too engrossed in the game. “Sounds like a dream come true.”

  My stomach growls and then cramps. I place a hand over it, hoping West didn’t just hear the miserable, demanding monster in my belly.

  West raises an eyebrow, carrying on his game while also throwing me inquisitive looks. “Need some privacy for a minute?”

  I muster up an embarrassed smile. “It’s my belly.” And now West thinks I’ve got bowel problems. Other than an apple and some Diet Coke, I haven’t eaten all day, and I should be asleep by now.

  “King!” West leans back in the beanbag and hollers. “Brooke’s hungry. Feed her.”

  “No,” I say, putting my hand on West’s thigh. “It’s too late, and it’s… I’m fine. Don’t do that!” I call out to Roman, who’s in the kitchen.

  “You’re hungry, though,” West says, matter of fact. “Why won’t you eat?” He pauses his game and sets the controller on the floor. Then he pushes out of the beanbag, the tiny polystyrene balls crunching under his weight, and tips his head toward the kitchen for me to go with him. “I could eat now I’ve heard your battle cry for dinner.”

  Roman’s at the kitchen table, slouched in one of the chairs with his phone in his hands and a concentrated look on his face. He’s so absorbed in whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t notice us walking in at first.

  “Pornhub?” West asks plainly, sneaking a look over Roman’s shoulder as he cuts to the refrigerator.

  “Yeah.” Roman blackens his phone screen and slides it into his shorts pocket, raising his gaze to me. “You hungry?”

  “Where’ve you been, King.” West shoots him a darkly humorous look. �
��She’s starving. Perished. I’m starting a collection for a Feed Brooke Campaign.”

  “I’m not that hungry,” I say.

  “See?” West pulls out a carton of eggs, opens the lid, and checks inside. “She’s delirious from malnutrition.”

  “You really don’t have to cook anything for me,” I say when West starts counting eggs. He takes out a pack of chicken fillets instead.

  “Then how about I give you what you need and you cook it yourself? Cook me something while you’re in here, too.”

  “She’s not cooking for you.” Roman stands and takes the chicken from West, shoving it back in the fridge.

  “I can make something for all of us,” I reason. I don’t trust anyone else with that responsibility anyway. Considering the time, there’s only certain foods I can digest without feeling like I want to purge myself of the raging devil that’s festering inside of me. Anything too heavy and I’ll be surfing a guilt trip all night.

  “Do you have any salad?” I ask Roman.

  Before he leaves the kitchen, West implores me with a bulging-eyed look of distaste. “That’s just the side dish, right? I’ma need some actual food to accompany that.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’ll look after you, West.”

  I’m in the kitchen for what feels like ages, sizzling turkey breasts on the griddle pan to serve with the dressed salad leaves. I put out a plate at the table for Roman and West and serve myself a small bowl of salad only. Now I’ve cooked, as strange as it sounds, my hunger’s reduced to simmering embers, and it’s no longer bothering me.

  “You aren’t eating?” West questions, ripping apart the yogurt flatbread I made.

  I point my fork at my salad. “What do you think this is?”

  “A bowl of rabbit leaves,” he deadpans. “How is that enough?”

  “When I’m around food, especially if I’m the one cooking it, it takes my hunger away. Really, this is perfect for me.”

  Roman’s scrutiny from across the table forces my eyes to my salad and away from him. His silence is heavy with insinuation, like he knows I’m talking out of my ass but he hasn’t figured out why. It makes chewing more of a chore than usual, and I don’t relax until their plates are clear and I can distract myself with the dishes. There’s food leftover, and I suggest they keep a plate for their other roommate.

  “He’s a freakshow,” West comments. “Kempy could probably smell this while it was cooking and he’s already on his way back here.” We stand side by side, and I dry the plates while he washes, putting them away in the correct cupboards as West points them out. “He’s boning an astronaut’s wife, that’s why there’s actual food in the fridge now and not just crumbs.”

  I look at West, open my mouth, then think better of it. Whatever he means by that, it probably won’t hurt me not knowing.

  When we’re done in the kitchen, I call Maddie. She tells me she’s home with Kimberly and then rushes me off the phone. She’s going to want to talk about this tomorrow, making more out of why I’m here than there is to explore. Because that’s what we always do. We find the deeper meaning to everything, even when there’s no deeper meaning to be found. Oh, that guy blinked at you? Must want to have your babies. Obvs. Brushed your shoulder on his way to the bar? Better get that ring finger ready.

  But before anything’s really happened with Roman, I know this situation’s different. There’s no deeper analysis, he’s laid it out bare for me. Chalked-out exactly what he wants from me and what he’s willing to give. There isn’t anything to overcomplicate. I’m in the perfect non-relationship.

  Wordlessly, Roman tips his head a barely discernable inch toward the hallway. Nerves get the better of me as I go with him to his bedroom. I’ve slept in here once, so there are no surprises waiting to scare me off, but his room feels all different now. Or I feel all different. There’s a distinct change, humming softly below my calm exterior. In my knees, in my fingertips. I’ve been plucked out of my element and dropped into the wild unknown, and now I’m overthinking every microscopic detail.

  Roman asked me to stay, not strip and perform a titillating lap dance.

  Pull it together, Brooke.

  There wasn’t anything to get so concerned over, though. Roman treats me like he would any other time we’re together, and it feels like the most natural place in the world lying next to him in his queen-size bed, tucked under his arm while he watches The Sports Network on TV. The blue-white hue from the television screen casts the darkened room in flickering shadow, elongating the corners. There’s one lamp in Roman’s bedroom, but he hasn’t switched it on.

  “Have you made plans to go home for Thanksgiving break?” Roman broaches the question with the lightweight of an afterthought. I’d forgotten Thanksgiving’s only days away.

  “I’m not going home. Work’s too busy.” I got to spend last Thanksgiving at home, and I knew going into this job that might not be possible every year, but I still took it.

  “Are you working Friday?” Roman asks just as casually.

  “I’ve got the Saturday day shift, and Sunday evening.” Maddie’s been lumped with one of the other girls slinging flyers all weekend, and our paths will only mildly cross. Not something either of us are happy about, but what can you do? We’re in no position to go turning down money.

  I know fine well why Preston’s rearranged the roster. He thinks Maddie and I do more talking than work. Aren’t bringing enough people into the bar when we’re together. What he fails to understand is, people don’t like shit being shoved in their faces. If they want to go in the bar, they’ll go in the bar. Besides, Preston’s trying to turn it into a nightclub, and the regulars aren’t as on board with his ideas. I hope they come at him with flaming pitchforks and chase him out of Maine. Maybe I’ll write that on this year’s Christmas list.

  “Since you’ll still be on campus, you can come to the game Friday?” Roman asks. “It’s on home ice, so no traveling. And I’ll get you the tickets.”

  “Okay,” I agree easily. I did enjoy myself last time. “Who else will be there?” Maddie’s out, since she’s working.

  “I’m sure Kimberly will want to hang off you. I’m taking her home on Sunday.” Roman drops that last bomb like it’s nothing, but it explodes all over me.

  I tilt my head up to look at him. “Does she know that?”

  “I’ll tell her.” Roman’s delivery’s dismissive, and I can see the entire scene playing out in my head before it’s happened.

  “Yeah, but, when?”

  His chest rises with his lazy shrug, never breaking his gaze from the TV screen. “I don’t know. Tomorrow? She can’t stay here, B. That’s all there is to it. She’s going back to Berlin.”

  “I guess she does have school,” I mumble to myself, settling my head back onto Roman’s chest. I’ll miss her around the apartment. It doesn’t feel like we’ve had her long enough and now she has to leave.

  “Let me talk to her,” I say. Knowing Roman, and his fragile relationship with his sister, he’ll go in all guns blazing and make Kimberly less cooperative than she’s already being. “I’ll bring it up at the game.” I could see no reason to completely ruin Thanksgiving.

  Roman doesn’t answer right away. But then he says on a deep sigh, “Fine.”

  I suppose that’s the most I can ask of him. I’m lucky I even got that.

  My limbs loosen across him, the dull drone of the sports anchor’s smooth, conventional voice lulling me to sleep. I bolt to consciousness as my eyelids flutter, and the room stretches back into focus.

  My arm tightens across Roman, like I caught myself falling over an unseen bottomless edge. His hand moves to my ribs, over my T-shirt, his inebriating gaze seeking out mine.

  I’m unsure who moves first, who initiates the kiss. I’m too swept away in it, in the cushiony softness of Roman’s lips and how well he knows how to use them.

  I run the palm of my hand between his pectoral muscles, my fingers feathering the pronounced angle of his colla
rbone. I want to touch him everywhere, find out where else he feels this incredible.

  My leg’s tangle with his, and his growing erection presses into my thigh, a hard reminder I may be, at some point, expected to go further. Venture into unfamiliar areas with someone I couldn’t face messing up with.

  Roman’s no joke, and neither is the way he flips my stomach in looping somersaults. I love being around him, but I think I might love kissing him even more.

  His hand coasts to my hip, fingers splayed to grab my upper thigh, and he squeezes a palm full of skin there, dragging my leg further across him.

  I’m slipping out of my own mind, oversighted by lust, and where else this kiss could lead. But kissing’s as far it goes. Even lapsing in and out of sleep, his breathing deepening before turning shallow again, Romans’ lips find mine, and he kisses me back to awareness, my body sparking to life at his languid command. As though realizing all over again I’m there for the taking and he can touch me if he wants to, so he does, as much and as often as he can.

  We’re both fighting sleep, allowing ourselves to fall into it but refusing to stay there. After hours of drugged searching and finding each other, I turn away from Roman, away from the temptation to keep myself up all night only to suffer for it in the morning. My whole body sighs against his chest as he wraps his arm around me, his hand flattening possessively under my sternum.

  There’s an unexpected visitor in my bedroom waiting for me when I get back from dropping Brooke at her apartment. I hesitate on the threshold, put off by Jen sitting on my bed. I wasn’t expecting her, and she hadn’t called or texted ahead to say she would be here.

  “You said we would talk,” she overpronounces, like I’m dumb, sending me a look to match.

  “I did?”

  “Yes, at the Barrel. You said ‘we’ll talk about this later’ and now’s later. So, let’s talk.”

  The Drunken Barrel? Jesus, was that only yesterday?

  Jen tugs at the blond bun sitting neatly on top of her head. Her face is bare of makeup, her skin creamy smooth. I prefer her like this, without all that mess she covers up with.