Ridorkulous (Dorky Duet Book 1)

by Mary Frame

  “Listen. Babies.” Jude winces and rubs his head. “You can both sleep in the bed together. It will be tight quarters but as long as there’s no drama—”

  “No!” Our voices tangle in the air, his indignant, mine disgusted.

  “You have to choose one of us,” Fitz says.

  “I can cook,” I say.

  Fitz glares at me. “I give killer back rubs.”

  “I give killer foot rubs.”

  “You can’t copy me.”

  “I just did.”

  Jude frowns at us. “This is too much tension. I’ll find someone else for the room. Y’all can see yourselves out.” He waves a dismissive hand in our general direction.

  “Well, hold on now,” Fitz says. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Jude taps a finger on the arm of the chair and regards us with sharp eyes. “I can only give one of you the room, and you both seem to want it real bad.” He leans his head back with a sigh and sticks the pipe in his mouth, blowing out some more bubbles. Mr. Bojangles swipes at one with a lazy paw.

  “Wait.” The pipe leaves his mouth. “Beast!” I jump at the shout.

  A large man emerges from the hallway. He has dark hair and shoulders so broad he has to turn sideways through the arched doorway into the living room. Where did he come from? He stands there staring at us with his broad face and nearly black eyes. He has to be nearly seven feet tall and wide as a firehouse.

  “Write this down,” Jude tells him. “These two are fighting for the right to live in my kingdom. It’s a battle . . . to the death!”

  Fitz and I exchange a startled glance.

  “I’m not fighting a girl,” Fitz says.

  I cross my arms and throw his earlier words back at him. “That’s sexist.”

  Jude groans. “This ain’t the Hunger Games, you boob. You won’t really be fighting to the death. That was for dramatic effect. We’ll keep it safe and legal. Well, except for the betting part, but no one ever gives no never mind about that. It’s gonna be a test of wills. A battle of the minds. Various challenges set up by yours truly. And Beast, we can take bets on who will win each competition. The rest of the babies will love this.” His eyes are gleaming as he rubs his bearded chin in thought. “I can come up with something extra special for Begonia Day. Are you writing this down?”

  Sure enough, the giant that is Beast has a notebook in his hands, a normal eight by eleven spiral, but in his hands, it looks like it was made for a doll.

  “This is genius,” Jude continues. “I’m going to make so much money.”

  “Wait.” Fitz glances over at Beast and then back at Jude. “That’s all well and good for you, but I’m not sure I want to engage in any kind of illegal activity.”

  “You won’t be doing anything of the sort. I will. And if you don’t like it, the door’s over yonder.” He gestures in the direction we came in with his pipe.

  There’s a tense silence during which I hold my breath and hope Fitz decides to get up and leave.

  But no such luck.

  Instead, he sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Where would we sleep in the meantime? While all this . . . competition is going on?”

  Jude sits back in the recliner with his hands behind his head, crossing his feet. Mr. Bojangles jumps up into his lap and settles. “You can take turns. One in the room, one out here on the couch.” He gestures to the rose-patterned sofa. “It’s not good. Kinda small. There’s some lumps. Plus people are always here late at night so you might not actually sleep much.” His eyes brighten with an idea. “Whoever wins the game of the day can get the room until the next competition. A little added incentive.”

  I glance around the living room. This sounds like a terrible idea. A party house? Me? People? All the time?

  But then Jude continues, “And if you both agree, I won’t even charge rent until the whole competition is over.” He grins around the pipe. “I’ll make so much money off you two, I won’t even need it. One week. Two challengers. Seven games. Endless possibilities.” His eyes are gleaming.

  Beast clears his throat with a loud rumble and Jude nods, like he can interpret the sound.

  “Right, right.” He tilts his head. “Two weeks. Every other day. I’ll need time to plan and execute each challenge.”

  My mind, reeling from this whole conversation, picks up his words and thinks them through. “So . . . if I win the first four games, will the room be mine?” I ask slowly.

  “Nope.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Fitz says.

  “My house, my rules.” His brows lift. “You don’t like it? There are at least twenty other people who would die to live here.”

  Fitz answers for us. “No, no, it’s fine.”

  Jude’s hands clap together, startling me. “Great. We begin tonight.”

  4

  I’ve never been one to run from a challenge.

  —Patrick Swayze

  Fitz

  “Kitchen.” Jude flourishes one arm, like we’re on a TV show about fancy multimillion-dollar cribs instead of a small kitchen with ancient cabinets and worn linoleum. “We take turns cooking supper. Rotation is on the fridge.” He points to a white board calendar. “Nothing too fancy. Beast makes a mean jambalaya. Hope you like it hot. For all your other meals and snacks, buy and label your own. Ask before borrowing items that don’t belong to you. Kindergarten rules apply. Questions?”

  “No,” I answer.

  Reese says nothing, just gives a quick shake of her head.

  Before the tour, Jude had us sign liability waivers, documents he procured from a drawer in the living room. I peeked at hers while we were filling them out. It was the only way I could figure out her name, since she hasn’t uttered a peep since we agreed to this whole thing, let alone taken the time to introduce herself.

  It should be concerning Jude had such a thing on hand for us to sign, but I can’t find it in me to question or complain. At least I’m not sleeping in my truck tonight.

  We follow Jude out the kitchen and down the hall toward the back of the house. “Here’s the bathroom.” He pushes open a door and flicks on the light. “Beast and I share the one at the back of the house. The one for public consumption is off to the side of the dining room, next to the laundering area. Y’all get this one, but people will probably still use it when it gets busy around here. Keep it clean, babies.”

  One small sink, more warped linoleum. An old white claw-foot tub with a low showerhead.

  Across the hall, he opens another door. “And here it is. The room you’ve all been waiting for.” He flicks the switch and Christmas lights come on, strung around the top of the room.

  I stick a head in the door and peer around. “But it’s October.”

  Jude shrugs. “Ran out of lamps.”

  He wasn’t kidding about the room being tiny. There’s a narrow bed shoved in one corner, a three-drawer dresser that would be insufficient for a toddler, and a closet that doesn’t even span the length of my forearm. It’s all topped off with a murky smell of dust and disuse. Like it was recently a storage closet before being converted.

  And somehow, we have to cram all of our crap in here while we compete for the “opportunity” to live here indefinitely.

  “I’ve got only one key. I recommend keeping the room locked up at night when things get social. Whoever wins the challenge will get to be guardian of the key till the next challenge, but you can keep it unlocked during the day for general use and access to personal belongings. The rest of the babies—the ones who don’t live here—aren’t allowed in until after five every day, so your items will be secure.”

  “Storage?” I ask.

  He nods toward the closet.

  “Right.”

  So basically, I’ll be keeping everything but clothes and necessities stuffed in the cab of my truck. Great.

  “I’ll leave you two to get settled in. We’ll be meeting in the backyard
after supper—access available via the slider in the living room or the door through the garage. It’s Beast’s night for cooking and I’ll take care of it tomorrow night to give y’all a chance to get used to the routine.”

  “Mighty kind of you.” The words come out a bit more sarcastic than I intended, but it doesn’t seem to faze Jude.

  He gives us a lazy smile. “I aim to please. Later, babies.”

  He disappears down the hall.

  I turn toward Reese, but she’s already gone, walking down the hall toward the front door without a word.

  A couple hours later, I’ve parked my truck on the street, eaten a surprisingly decent bowl of jambalaya, and suffered through some awkward-as-hell conversation.

  “No drama in this household, babies. I know there’s some tension here, but I don’t want any theatrics unless they’ve been specifically orchestrated by yours truly.” He looks over at me. “I heard about you and Abby Summers. I don’t want that kind of crazy affecting my house or my business. She’s the kinda lady who’d put a hole in your tire and whack off your member.”

  I grit my teeth and agree to keep his house drama-free.

  Reese doesn’t say anything.

  In fact, she doesn’t speak at all the entire time we eat.

  After the terrible time that is dinner, I bring in some of my clothes and other necessities—things I’ll need to keep inside—and try to avoid Reese.

  A thump pulls me from my thoughts as she attempts to heft a box into the closet.

  It’s not a large box, but she struggles to lift it up above her head.

  “Here.” The word is clipped. I reach over her, shoving it onto the shelf. It’s heavier than I thought. “What’s in this thing?” I give it one last push and it slides into place.

  “Books.” Her voice is quiet.

  “You can’t keep those somewhere else? There’s barely any room in here as it is.”

  Her back is to me, the line of her shoulders tense. I’m suddenly aware I’m blocking her in. I step back.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I focus on putting clothes into the top drawer of the dresser but my eyes are drawn back over. She’s hasn’t moved. Still staring into the small closet like it has all the answers to our problems. Or maybe she’s trying to determine if she can use it to flee into Narnia. I know the feeling.

  Her hair is pulled from her face and for the first time I stop and look at her. Really look at her, in her cutoff shorts and plain red T-shirt, brown locks tied back into braids. Her features are small, dainty, delicate. Her jawline is fragile and yet somehow strong and determined even though her eyes are weary. And wary.

  Said eyes lock with mine—a deep, dark blue that lures me in—and I yank my gaze away, heat creeping up my neck.

  I clear my throat and fumble with getting the drawer shut. “Don’t touch my stuff and I won’t touch yours, got it?” Embarrassment makes my tone unnecessarily harsh. Again.

  And now shame makes my stomach churn. The room constricts and the temperature in the cramped space increases ten degrees.

  She’s so weird. She hasn’t spoken more than a few words since the whole agreement went down and she barely makes eye contact and something about her throws me off-balance, making everything I say sharp as a dagger.

  She was witness to one of the worst moments of my life. It’s like she can see every horrible thing about me and I can’t do anything about it. Maybe I shouldn’t take it out on her but it’s like I can’t control it.

  She just turns away to reach into another box.

  It irks, that she doesn’t even respond to my harsh tone. Doesn’t fight back. I could use a good row.

  Abby would have my ass if I talked to her like that, and I would deserve it. Since we were kids, she’s had no problem taking me to task, standing up for herself.

  Reese is nothing like Abby.

  Abby is brash, confident, tall, athletic. More likely to punch you in the face than hug you.

  Reese is a little wisp of a thing, a mouse. More likely to run and hide than speak up.

  Although . . . she didn’t do so bad earlier. She didn’t actually say much, but she’s still here. She followed me despite my harsh words, she didn’t leave when Jude issued his ridiculous terms, and she’s still not cowed by me, even though I’m being a total dick. Momma would kill me if she could see me now.

  “I’ll . . . see you out there,” I mumble, leaving the room and confusing thoughts about my new competitor behind.

  Heading down the hall, I have to step out of the way of some guys wheeling a couple of kegs in through the front door on a dolly.

  The house is filling with random people.

  “Jude won’t say what it is, man, just that it’s going to be a moneymaker,” a guy in a fraternity shirt says to someone on his cell as I pass by the living room.

  Beast is at the counter in the kitchen, writing in his notebook. I stop next to him. “They don’t even know why they’re here?”

  Beast stares at me but says nothing.

  Does he ever speak? Or have a real name?

  Voices and laughter and a strange humming filter in through the open window from the backyard.

  I step out onto a recently stained wooden patio. The yard is larger than it looks like it would be from the front, stretching straight back for nearly an acre. Oak trees and giant bushes line the surrounding fence. There’s a pad of dirt in the way, way back and a swath of grass in the middle—covering almost the entire space.

  On the patio directly in front of me sits an inflatable kiddie pool, about ten feet long and five feet wide, bright blue and covered in red cartoon dinosaurs.

  The strange humming sound is whipped cream cans. People are lining up around the pool, filling it up. A pallet full of cans waits off to one side.

  “No huffing the cans, babies!” Jude yells, overseeing the project.

  I head in his direction. “What’s going on?”

  “The first round of House Gladiators!” he proclaims, arms outstretched. Then he scratches his chin on a wince. “No, that’s not it. Room Tournament!” His arms lift again with the pronouncement.

  I shake my head. “That’s terrible.”

  “You’re right.” He sighs. “The Special Victors Squad!”

  “Too much like special victims unit.” Although the most accurate of the choices so far.

  He shrugs. “Probably.”

  “Are you going to explain what’s up with the whipped cream?”

  “You shall see, my friend.” He claps me on the back.

  A throat clears.

  Behind us, Reese stands silent and pale, her jaw firm. She does not look happy. She looks a little green, actually, if determined.

  “I’m not getting naked.” Her voice wavers slightly.

  “No worries, babies. This ain’t that kinda house. We are all about consent here. You keep your clothes on, put more on, take them all off, whatever you want. But you might want to put on something you don’t mind getting sticky. And you might consider having a beer. All drinks on the house for our . . . Roommate Death Battle Heroes of Doom!” The arms rise again.

  Reese considers Jude with a frown. “You know, you don’t have to come up with something relating to a competition or event, necessarily. A name or title is effective enough if it describes the mood of what you’re attempting to produce. One good word can evoke the desired result.”

  I blink at her. Is this the same person who followed me here like an awkward puppy? I didn’t know she could string so many words together.

  Jude smiles at her, mustache twitching. “Oh yeah, smarty-pants? What would you suggest?”

  “What about something like . . .” She thinks for a moment, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “Mischief, mayhem, chaos, pandemonium . . .” She murmurs a few more words, then stops, lifts her eyes. “Bedlam. Since we’re fighting over an actual bed. And the term bedlam is derived from an actual historic asylum, Saint Mary Bethlehem in London.”

  “Huh.” Jude tilts h
is head at her. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  She flushes and glances over at me, as if just realizing who she’s talking to and what she’s doing. “I have to go . . . clothes,” she mumbles before disappearing inside.

  I watch her leave. I can’t figure her out. One minute as gawky as a newborn foal, the next spouting SAT words like a walking thesaurus.

  “Drink?” Jude asks, pulling my focus away from the open sliding door where Reese disappeared.

  “No. Gotta stay focused for,” I glance down at the cream-filled kiddie pool, “whatever this is.”

  “Good call.” Jude nods at me, then jogs over to the keg.

  My eyes track him and stop on a familiar blonde head that matches my own.

  “Annabel?” What the hell is my sister doing here?

  We lock eyes and then move toward each other, weaving through the crowd.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’m here because I have nowhere to live and now I’ve gotten sucked into some kind of competition for housing.”

  She clucks in sympathy. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay, just tired and of course I’m still upset about . . . Wait a minute. Don’t try and change the subject. What are you doing here? You graduated, remember? And college parties have never exactly been in your wheelhouse.”

  She glances around and then takes my arm, pulling me over to the side of the yard, away from where most of the people are congregating. “I’m here for a story.”

  “A story about what?”

  “Not at liberty to say at the moment.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a reporter for the Daily Blue, not the New York Times.”

  “So? I have some integrity, you know. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here tonight?”

  “I don’t know much. Just that I’ve got to compete with someone for a room here.” I nod toward the house.

  “How much do you know about the owner of the house?”

  “Jude?”

  She nods.

  I search the yard and find him over by the keg, cat robe swaying while he gesticulates wildly to a few people. Beast looms behind him, setting up some kind of stage-lighting tower. “I never met him until today. Why? What do you know about him?”