by D. R. Graham
His eyebrows angle comically as we cross the street. “Thank you. It runs in my family.”
Really? Gah. Complimenting him on his skin. How is that any less awkward? Ask him something normal. “Where are you from?”
“Here in California.” He stops on the curb to wait for a light—fortunately—since I’m completely oblivious right now and would have definitely stepped out into on-coming traffic. “Mojave,” he adds.
“Mojave? Like the desert?”
“Like the people.”
“Ah.” When the light changes, we cross and then cut through a small park. “So, you’re a bull riding, Mojave Native American, super model, studying for his MBA.”
“Bareback bronc rider, actually. And I haven’t modeled in ages. The rest is true, though. And I’m also a rancher.”
“Wow.” I follow him along a path that shortcuts through another neighborhood. “You’re very unusual.”
He glances at me with an expression that’s impossible to decipher. Hopefully he didn’t take it the wrong way. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t?
“In a good way,” I blurt out. “Unusual. Not the bad unusual. I didn’t mean weird. Diverse. The opposite of everyday run of the mill. Interesting. Not dull like me.” I’m an idiot. One second, I’m drooling over him, the next I’m putting my foot in my mouth. Just stop talking, Della. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll never run into him again.
He slides his index finger over his eyebrow in an uncomfortable gesture. “The guys don’t know I used to model. Maybe we could keep that between you and me.”
“Sure.” Ugh. Now that I know it’s a secret I have an impulse to whisper it to the first person I see.
We walk in silence the rest of the way to campus, then he stops in front of a building. He stares at me for a second before he says, “You seem unusual too.”
As I’m wondering if he means the good kind of unusual or the bad, he hands me a key.
“The guys and I are leaving on a road trip tonight. We’ll be gone two days for a training clinic. Stuart gave me your number. I’ll message you mine. Think about renting the room. If you decide yes, then just move in and make yourself at home. If you decide no, drop the key in the mail slot. Cool?”
I nod. Yeah, cool, not really. Wait. What? I should just give the key back now. My hand isn’t moving. Why can’t I speak? He smiles and turns to bound up the stone stairs. He moves like an Olympian. Everyone in the vicinity watches as he waves back at me and then disappears through the front doors. A few of the females size me up, apparently because I was seen talking to the Mojave god. He must have Stanford celebrity status. Obviously he would. I mean look at him. And listen to him. And bask in his presence.
Okay, I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my hand out and a key on my upturned palm. Move, Della. Carry on. At least pretend to be a normal human being. In a less than convincing attempt to appear cool, I slide the key in my pocket and pull out my class schedule to figure out where I’m supposed to be. What time is it?
Chapter 2
Easton
Chuck and BJ are already seated at the back of the lecture hall when I sneak in. Professor Cavendish isn’t cool with students being late and, unfortunately, she just made eye contact with me. I wave apologetically and shoot her a sheepish smile. She’s strict. It might not work. I pause halfway to my seat, waiting to see if she’s going to kick me out or let me stay. Her left eyebrow raises in a cautionary way, but then she carries on with the lecture without giving me the boot.
“Impressive,” BJ says around the toothpick that is perpetually propped at the corner of his mouth.
Chuck nods to agree with the impressiveness and pops an ice pack to apply to his injured shoulder. “Future generations will gather at the foot of your bronze statue as they recall the legend of Havie the Mojave: The only person in the history of the school to get away with being late to Cavendish’s class.”
Chuck is quintessentially redneck—mullet and lame-assed hunting tattoos to prove it. BJ’s more sophisticated, and he’s black, so the other cowboys call us the Village People when we show up on the circuit together. I don’t really care what they call us as long as we’re taking home the money. And we usually do.
BJ waits until Cavendish turns around before he asks, “How’d it go with the new roomie? What’s she like?”
I shrug, purposely evasive. I don’t want him getting any bright ideas about dating or sleeping with her. “She seemed all right, but she’s undecided. She’ll let us know.”
“Come on, Havie.” BJ lowers his voice to a whisper after Cavendish shoots us a glare, “We need the money by Friday. If she’s not in, we have to ask someone we know.”
I shake my head. “No way. The last two guys were slobs, and I’m not letting a woman either of you guys have slept with or want to sleep with rent the room. You’ll piss her off. She’ll move out. And we’ll be right back in this same position in a month. Or worse, you’ll end up some buckle bunny’s baby daddy and need to come up with child support too.”
“Does that mean the chick you’ve picked is someone none of us would want to sleep with?” Chuck asks.
BJ’s face freezes in a brace-for-bad-news grimace. “Is she hideous?”
“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. All you should care about is whether she can pay the rent. And she’s skittish about living with three cowboys, so don’t scare her off if she does decide to move in.”
“Gentlemen,” Cavendish raises her voice to reach the back of the room loud and clear. “Since you’re going to be missing my next lecture for your little bronc riding adventures may I suggest that you listen during today’s lecture?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all say in unison.
After an extended silence to drive home her point, she returns to lecturing and writing on the whiteboard.
BJ leans over and covers his mouth with his hand. “What color’s her hair?”
“Brown,” I say under my breath.
“Good brown or the ugly kind?”
“Shut up. Assuming that she’s straight, you’re not sleeping with her.”
“You can’t either then.”
Chuck leans in. “Can I?”
“No,” we both snap at him.
The woman sitting in front of me turns and shushes us.
BJ listens to Cavendish for a while, but the lecture is boring, so he swings his head over closer to me. “Does she have a nice body?”
“I have no idea. She was wearing dress pants and a blazer.”
“Like a professor?”
“More like a Catholic schoolgirl. You won’t like her. She’s too conservative for you.”
“Black? White? Asian? Latina? Or a Mojave princess?”
“She’s white. Like fresh snow. Now, shut it before you get us kicked out.”
Both BJ and Chuck swivel in their seats, staring at me with amused expressions.
“What?” I mumble.
“Why did you just describe her in a poetic way?”
I shake my head, annoyed. “It wasn’t poetic. It was descriptive. In a factual way. She literally has the palest skin I’ve ever seen. And for all we know she wouldn’t be interested in any of us anyway.”
They both sink back into their seats, grinning. Like they know something I don’t know.
After class, the guys and I walk to the deli for lunch. The freshman working the counter likes Chuck, so she gives us fifty percent off our sandwiches, which is cheaper than making them ourselves at home. I’m tired of the same thing every day, but money is going to be tight until we hit some rodeos. A half-priced turkey on rye is better than nothing.
We sit at a table by the window and BJ says, “Since we’ve never had a female roommate before, let’s make a rule. What’s her name again?”
“Della. But she hasn’t agreed yet.” I bite into my sandwich.
BJ pauses to give a woman walking by the eye, then continues, “Okay, if any of us sleeps with Della we owe the other two
five-hundred bucks each.”
Chuck laughs. “I don’t even have a hundred bucks. I can’t come up with a thousand bucks.”
“Then don’t sleep with her, dummy.” BJ extends his hand towards me. “Are you in, Havie?”
He’s got a scheming look in his eyes. Probably because he thinks the snowy skin comment means I have a thing for her. I don’t. I barely know her. “Yeah, I’m in.” I shake his hand. “All I want from her is her rent money.”
Chuck looks confused. “Have we determined whether she’s good looking or not?”
“It doesn’t matter. Either you keep your hands off her or you owe us a grand.”
Chuck squints into the sun as his brain wheels tick. You’d think he’d been kicked in the head by one too many broncs, but he’s naturally like that. Book smart and life dumb. It’s actually painful to watch him figure things out. “What qualifies as sleeping with her? Just so I’m clear on the parameters.”
BJ checks with me, “Kissing? Heavy petting? Penetration? What should the line be?”
I shake my head to end the stupid conversation. “No touching. Period.”
Chuck gestures in protest. “No way, man. We need to be able to shake her hand or give her a hug if she’s crying or something. Penetration is the line.”
“Fine,” BJ says. “If any part of your body enters any part of her body you have to pay up.”
“What if she initiates the sexual contact?” Chuck asks.
“Still counts,” BJ says as he gets up to order a milkshake at the counter.
Chuck leans his elbows on the table, processing the situation. “What if she decides not to room with us? Is she still off-limits then?”
I don’t answer because Della just walked in. She grabs a tray and loads it with a carton of milk and a salad. Her hair is the good kind of brown—long, thick and wavy. It’s held back with a thin navy ribbon headband and she has dark-rimmed glasses on now, so she looks even more like a library monitor. Despite the modest outfit it’s obvious she’s fit. Probably a runner or tennis player. BJ has already spotted her and is checking out her ass. Chuck is about to notice her, too. He’s not into good girls, but her big brown doe eyes, heart-shaped face, and the way she smells, like a mixture of vanilla and peppermint, will mesmerize him into giving it his best shot. One of them is going to spook her. Guaranteed.
Della steps up to the cashier where BJ is waiting for his milkshake. He says something to her that makes her cheeks flush. She responds quietly without looking directly at him and passes the cashier a twenty. When BJ points over at our table, Della turns and our eyes meet. I smile. Not in the ‘trying to wheel her’ way, but in the ‘her looking at me actually made me smile’ way. Uh oh. Maybe I do have a thing for her already. This is potentially not good.
She attempts to wave at me and tips her tray in the process. The salad bowl flies through the air and lettuce floats to the floor. The milk carton hits the ground hard and explodes, which makes her wince as the spray douses her and BJ in white droplets. “Shoot. I’m sorry,” she says to him as she leans across the counter to grab serviettes. “It soaked your boots. I’m sorry. Let me wipe them off for you.” She crouches down to clean up the milk.
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. Boots are made for getting dirty,” BJ says as he makes eye contact with me. He points down at her and mouths, “Is this the new roomie?”
I don’t want to answer because I don’t know what he’s going to do with that information. He can obviously tell from my non-reaction that she is, which makes him grin in a way that is only going to mean trouble. He helps her pick up the salad remnants and orders another one for her. He pays for it with what is likely his last ten bucks and then escorts her over to our table.
I stand to slide over a chair from the table next to us and offer her mine. “Della, that’s BJ,” I say. “This is Chuck.” I shoot them both glares, intended to warn them to be on their best behavior, which they both ignore.
“Ah, Della,” Chuck says. “We’ve heard all about you. Welcome to Stanford. Have a seat.”
She sits cautiously and places the tray with the fresh salad and milk on the table. “Hi. Nice to meet you both.” She glances at me and presses her lips together as if she’s forcing herself not to say more.
“If you need help with anything, I’m happy to show you around,” BJ offers before he raises his eyebrows at me.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
With all of us watching, she takes a sip of milk. She doesn’t touch the salad, though, as if she’s uncomfortable eating in front of people. Maybe I should get the key back from her. If I don’t, I’ll be leading a lamb to the wolves.
BJ leans back in his chair, sipping his milkshake, sizing her up, and literally licking his chops. “You have an interesting accent, Della. Where you from?”
“Vancouver, but I was born in Russia. We moved to Canada when I was eight. Then I moved to California yesterday, so here I am. How about you guys? I know Easton is from here. Where are you both from?”
“Chuckie’s from Oregon. I’m a Texan born and raised.” BJ watches as she finally picks up her fork and eats a small bite of lettuce.
“Do you prefer to be called Bailey and Taylor or BJ and Chuck?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” BJ says. “Rodeo nickname. Real name. I answer to both.”
She nods and glances at Chuck, waiting for him to answer.
With a straight face he says, “You can call me Big Poppa.”
Her eyebrows angle together as she attempts to read him. I’m pretty sure he’s joking, but honestly, it’s not always easy to tell with Chuck. Either way, I shake my head to let her know that she shouldn’t take him seriously.
“Are you going to eat this pickle?” He asks me after he’s already taken it off my plate and bitten into it. “You know anything about Rodeo, Della?”
Her head swivels side to side. “No. Only that there are bulls and horses. And animal rights activists who claim it’s cruel.” She opens the package of salad dressing and it squirts onto the table. “Shoot,” she mutters under her breath as she wipes it up.
BJ sits forward, defensive. “You think the animals are mistreated?”
“Oh. No. I don’t know.” Her cheeks flush from his confrontational tone. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never even been to a rodeo.” She clenches her eyes shut for a second as if she’s trying to reset the conversation, then she glances at Chuck’s wrapped shoulder and BJ’s swollen eye. “It does appear to be cruel to cowboys, though.”
I laugh. Chuck nods to agree and BJ relaxes back in his seat.
I like her. I don’t know why. She’s not the type I normally go for—awkward, eyes that are so innocent it makes me worry about her safety in the world, and really conservative. We probably have nothing in common. Then again, dating woman I have a lot in common with hasn’t really worked out for me so far.
BJ pokes Della’s arm to tease her. “Is shoot the worst cuss word you’ve ever said?”
She frowns and glances at me before she answers him. “I guess. Why?”
“Do you drink?”
“Like alcohol?” She immediately cringes and points at the milk carton as if she can’t believe she didn’t realize that was implied. “Obviously that’s what you meant. Everyone drinks. Liquids. Milk. Water. I’ve had a glass of champagne. Once.”
Chuck and BJ both laugh at her lack of experience. This is bad. She’s a lamb. A cute, defenseless little lamb. They’re going to eat her alive. And we definitely have nothing in common.
“Why’d you choose engineering?” I ask to prevent them from grilling her on anything that might embarrass her.
She pauses mid-bite and retracts the fork. “Um, honestly?”
I nod.
“Because my dad thinks women aren’t smart enough to be engineers. I’m here to prove him wrong.”
“Good on ya,” Chuck says and gives her a fist bump.
“Hell yeah,” BJ adds.
> I nod again. Okay. I definitely have a thing for her. She can’t live with us. I don’t have an extra thousand dollars to give the guys.
Chapter 3
Della
Ew. What was that? Something just crawled across my face. I reach over and flip the lamp on. It’s a cockroach. On my pillow. Gah! Disgusting. Get it off. No, no. They’re everywhere. I hop up to stand on the mattress as a wave of giant shells scurry, like an insect army, across the floor to the bathroom and closet where it’s dark.
And I’m done sleeping. Maybe forever.
Yuck. The hotel manager moved me to this room after I mentioned that last night’s room didn’t have hot water. Cold water is better than bugs. Why am I so itchy? I rub my palms over my arms vigorously. Do cockroaches bite? Do they carry disease? I’m going to catch the plague. Maybe I should call my dad and ask him what to do. No. Don’t be a baby. Figure it out. Think. Well, one thing I know for sure, I can’t stay at this disgusting motel. What time is it? Four in the morning. I don’t care. I would rather be a homeless person.
I jump off the bed to zip up my suitcases and don’t even bother to change out of my pajama shorts or brush my teeth, which would horrify my mother. She doesn’t even come downstairs for breakfast until she is fully showered and dressed for the day. I don’t care right now. Well, maybe a little. It only takes a second to throw a sweatshirt over my tank-top before I leave.
My car is parked right in front of the door, so I toss my luggage into the trunk and pop the hood. I don’t know anything about car engines. My dad always serviced it for me. But I’m going to be an engineer. I should be able to figure out why it wouldn’t start yesterday. The engine wouldn’t turn over at all, so that must be the battery, right? It might be a little tricky to get a new battery at four o’clock in the morning, if that’s even what the problem is.
I could sleep in the car. Slightly uncomfortable, but infestation-free. Or, maybe that’s not a good idea. The woman on the sidewalk who looks like a prostitute—not judging—is talking to a guy who could be a drug dealer—not judging. I sort of am judging. My guess is that this is not the safest place in the world for sleeping in a disabled vehicle.
