[English] Roomies

Roomies
Roomies Page 20



“Hi!” She frantically waves her hand in front of his face.

“Hey, trouble. What’s new?”

She glows under his attentive eyes. “Oh, well, I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really? Where?”

What did he mean by that—that I look different?

“There’s this new place in Platteville a friend of mine went to. I think I’m gonna go there.”

A faint smile crosses his lips. “I meant on your body.”

What’s wrong with my clothes?

“Oh!” Phoebe tosses her head and smiles coyly as she juts out a bony hip. With a finger pointing to her rump, she says, “I’m thinking just above here. What do you think?”

Nathan hands me a drink, momentarily distracting me. “Thanks,” I murmur, taking a healthy swallow.

“You’re welcome.” He nods at Graham in greeting. “Graham.”

“Nathan.” He gives a singular nod back. Am I imagining it or is he tight-lipped and Nathan’s grin slightly mocking? Doubtful.

I go back to my silent fuming. At least Nathan appreciates the effort I made to look good.

“Kennedy!” Phoebe smacks me on the back and I choke on the beer I was attempting to swallow. “We should go together. That would be so much fun.”

“Go where?” Nathan wonders.

I’m coughing too hard to answer. Nathan thumps me on the back. “Thanks,” I croak.

“To get a tattoo!” she practically shouts.

Graham laughs. “Kennedy’s not into that kind of thing.”

He gives me a knowing look, and I decide, in this moment, that maybe I am into that kind of thing. And plus he pissed me off with his comment about my wardrobe choice. What is up with that? So maybe I am exactly the kind of person that would get a tattoo. I halfway listen to the conversation going on around me, surprised to find my bottle is empty.

“I’ve got three of them,” Nathan’s telling Phoebe.

“What about you, Graham?” she purrs.

Gag me.

“Nah. None for me,” he responds.

A beer magically appears at my elbow. I look up. Blake gives me a fleeting smile. I take the bottle. “Thank you,” I say somewhat stiffly.

He shrugs, setting my empty bottle on a nearby table. “You owe me.” I’m pretty sure my eyes are flashing as I give him a glare. He just grins and it has a sardonic twist to it. “Looks like everyone’s having a blast,” he murmurs close to my ear.

I take a sip from my beer. “It sure does.”

“Except for you,” he adds.

I pause with the bottle to my lips. “One way to rectify that.” Then I chug about half of it.

His eyes narrow. “Never drink to feel better; drink to feel even better,” he says, taking the bottle from me.

“Hey,” I protest halfheartedly.

“Let’s go.”

I stare at him. “Go where?”

“Anywhere. You game?” There’s a challenge in the stormy depths of his eyes.

I find myself responding. I’ve never been one to back down. Call it stubbornness, call it stupi***y. Butterflies go through my stomach. I glance at Graham, Nathan, and Phoebe. None of them are paying the slightest bit of attention to Blake and me. They’re still engrossed in their tattoo conversation.

“Sure.”

He grabs my hand; his is firm and dry, and pulls me from the room and into the dark and quiet of the night, immediately releasing his hold on me. “What's there to do for fun in this town?”

“You're looking at it,” I respond, not realizing how that sounds until I glance at him.

He's staring at me with one eyebrow raised.

I open my mouth, close it, open it again, and then shake my head. Not even going to try to correct that.

With a smirk, he lights a cigarette, the hard planes and angles of his face momentarily illuminated. It’s an intriguing face. He inhales deeply, the smoke curling around him. “Want one?”

I open my mouth to decline, then shrug. “Okay.”

I catch a glimpse of one of those half smiles he must be famous for. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” I say, crossing my arms.

He squints his eyes at me. “You sure?”

“Positive.” I even nod my head to show how positive I am. “I need to try new things. I think I’m going to start smoking, maybe get a dozen tattoos, try out a pink Mohawk.”

Blake laughs. The sound is raspy, like his funny bone is rusty from disuse, or he hasn’t had much to be amused about in his life. “You think you’re going to start smoking, huh?” He hands me a cigarette. “Well, then, don't let me stop you.”

I take it and stare at it. I put it between my lips. “How do I look?” I mumble around it.

“Like you shouldn’t have that in your mouth.”

“Nonsense. I'm a professional.”

“Have you ever smoked a cigarette before?”

“Of course.”

“Would you like me to light it for you?” He is close, the warmth of his body radiating over to me. He raises an eyebrow when I don't immediately respond.

“Yes, please.”

He cups the side of my face with one hand and lights the cigarette with the other. “Inhale,” he commands softly.

I look up, the cancer stick forgotten. His eyes…they’re so…something.

“You going to inhale that thing or just keep it hanging out of your mouth all night?”

I quickly inhale, cough, and exhale.

“Atta girl.” He chuckles.

I inhale again, this time not managing to scorch my throat. I still cough though—a hacking, totally unattractive sound.

“I thought you’ve smoked before?”

“I have, but I’ve never been any good at it,” I tell him, disappointed.

He laughs again. “Here. Give it here.” He motions with his hand. I reluctantly give up my nicotine. So much for that.

“What made you decide to stay with Graham for the summer?”

He doesn’t answer; just flicks the cigarette to the ground and starts walking. I have no option but to follow or be left behind, all alone. I follow.

“I’m moving after I finish college,” he finally answers.

“Okay.” Don’t get it.

Blake hops on one foot, removing his boot and sock.

“What are you doing?”

He goes to the other foot and does the same. “I’m taking my socks and shoes off.” He rolls up his pants legs.

I decide not to ask him the obvious question of why. “Where are you moving to?”

“Out of the country. Australia. Maybe for a year, maybe longer, maybe forever.”

“Oh.”

He looks at me. “Ah, don’t be sad.” He gives me one of his mocking smiles. “We’ll always have the summer.”

I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious, so I say nothing.

“I figure I won’t be seeing too much of Graham after that. And I haven’t seen much of him in the past ten years anyway.” He shrugs. “We can bond for the next few months and say our goodbyes and all of that mushy stuff.” If I wasn't paying attention, I would miss the sadness in his eyes.

“Why Australia?”

His eyes meet mine. “Why not? You might want to take your shoes off.”

“Why?” He doesn’t answer, so I go about removing my high heels. I sigh in relief once they’re off my feet. Stylish shoes are not always comfortable shoes—something we tend to forget when the pretty ones call to us.

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“You’re dressed up tonight.”

I stiffen. “Yeah, so?”

“Any reason why?”

“Nope.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks,” I say softly, surprised.

“In a slutty kind of way.” He smirks.

I laugh.

Blake grabs my hand. “Come on.” He pulls me along, into the dewy grass.

“Where are we going? Blake?” I have to trot to keep up with him or be dragged behind him. “What are we doing?”

On and on we go, until there’s nothing visible around us but grass. The country club and its occupants are just a blip on the sunset, the sound of music a faint pulse on the night air. I twirl in a circle, feeling exhilarated. It’s like we’re all alone in the world and it is ours.

“Look up there.” He points to the sky. I tip my head back and stare. The moon is full, partially covered in clouds, and twinkles of light seep through the wispy clouds filling it.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I sigh at the cosmic wonder of it.

“Yes.” His tone is deep and husky. I look over at him and find him staring at me. He leans into me, the hardness of his body just barely touching mine. My pulse is racing and for some reason my brain is not working properly with him so close to me.

He lowers his head, his lips inches from mine. Something cold hits me and I’m instantly wet from head to toe. I shriek. Blake rears back, blinks, and then laughs. I look around at the sprinklers saturating the ground (and us) with water. I give him an accusing look, but he just shrugs.

“Might as well enjoy it,” he says and proceeds to run through the sprinklers, whooping as he goes.

I watch him for a moment, biting my lip. Then I do the same.

THE RIDE BACK to the apartment is interesting, to say the least. First of all, because Blake has a motorcycle. Visualize a woman in a skintight spandex-like dress trying to straddle the body of a motorcycle without flashing the world a view of her nether regions. Yes. That’s presently me.

He removes my helmet, his dark eyes set on me. I shake wet hair out of my eyes and grin at him. He pauses with a cigarette almost to his lips. I wonder what he finds so interesting about me all the time, why he's always watching me. Then I think, why wouldn't he?

“That was awesome!” I exclaim, allowing him to help me off the bike. I pull my dress down and attempt to stay upright. My legs are wobbly, especially with my non-practical shoes supporting me. The ride partially dried me off, but I’m still uncomfortably damp and chilled. I really want to take a shower and put on warm, fuzzy pajamas. But first the adrenaline rushing through my veins has to abate.

He chuckles. “First time?”

I nod, too exuberant to be my usual cynical self. “No one ever told me a bike ride could be so much fun.”

“It’s better during the day, going on a day trip.” He lights the cigarette. “You wanna go sometime this week?”

My first inclination is to say no, just because I typically would. But I want to go. Not sure why. “Sure.”

“Tomorrow?”

Sunday is reserved Graham and me time. Every Sunday we go out for breakfast, go for a walk if the weather is nice, and cook supper together, or something along those lines.

“Or not? Is Sunday no good?” He watches me, a strange look on his face. Like he wants to be hopeful, but is scared to be. “You probably got plans with Graham, right?” He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “I should have known.”

He needs someone to care about him. I go still. Where did that unlikely thought come from? I mull it over, deciding it’s probably true. And furthermore, Graham will survive one Sunday without me. And maybe then he’ll realize how much Sundays and I mean to him.

He looks down. “Some other time then?”

I draw in a noisy breath and give myself a mental shake. “Tomorrow would work.”

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. “Really?” Pleasure makes a fleeting appearance in his expression.

I nod, smiling. “Really.”

“Okay. But you gotta wear that dress again.” He gives me a lopsided smile and it is so freaking adorable and so unlike the Blake I’ve so far seen that my customary acerbic tone thaws.

I laugh. “We’ll see.”

He nudges my shoulder as we enter the apartment building. The first thing I notice is that Phoebe is sitting on the couch, gnawing on a fingernail. Then I take in Graham, pacing back and forth before the couch, his hair sticking up like he’s run his fingers through it repeatedly. Blake gives me a push from behind and I stumble into the room, glaring at him over my shoulder. He stares innocently back.

The soft click of the door behind him is the only sound for a moment.

Phoebe looks up.

Graham stops moving.

I cease breathing.

He is pissed to the point that the features of his face are twisted with it and his body is wound tightly enough I suspect the least provocation will make him explode. I've never seen him look this enraged in all the time I've known him. Okay, so it's only been a year and some months since we've been roommates, but that's over three hundred and sixty-five days for him to be out of control with anger. And it’s never happened.

“Where the hell were you?” he says quietly, evenly. He’s not looking at me, but beyond me.

Blake pushes my shoulder, propelling me farther into the room. “Why don’t you go change, get into some dry clothes?”

Graham's face darkens. “Don’t tell her what to do.”

I look at Blake in confusion, not really sure what to do in a situation like this. Probably 'cause I’ve never been in one before.

He raises his hands, eyes on his brother. “Relax. We got wet and Kennedy needs to change.”

Graham finally looks at me and I wish he hadn’t. There is disappointment in his eyes. Like I let him down; like he doesn’t know me. It hurts, seeing that look on his usually untroubled face. But I didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, screw him. I can do what I want with whomever I want. This revelation doesn’t make me feel any better.

He looks away, as though dismissing me. “Why are you wet? Where were you and what were you doing?” he asks his brother.

“What business is it of yours?” Blake replies.

Graham clenches his jaw. “Because it’s late, you two just took off without letting anyone know where you were going or what you were doing, and I was worried. So was Phoebe.”

She vehemently nods her head, but doesn’t speak.

The younger Malone crosses his arms. “Kennedy, go change.”

Graham stares at his brother. “Stay where you are, Kennedy.”

My eyes go from one Malone to the other; it’s almost comical how similar their stances are in their misguided showdown. But I don’t really find it funny how they both act like they can just boss me around.

“I think I’ll go outside and you two can throw your testosterone around without me as a witness.” I look at Phoebe. “Want to come with me?”

She wordlessly jumps to her feet and follows me from the room.

I stomp through the kitchen with gritted teeth, fling open the patio door so hard I’m lucky it doesn’t slide right apart, and throw myself into a chair on the deck.

Phoebe slowly slides the door shut and looks at me.

“What?” I snap, and then feel bad. It’s not her fault I live with an idiot and have another visiting.

She briefly chews on her lower lip before sashaying toward a chair and siting down. “What’s going on?”

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I throw my hands in the air. “Nothing! Why does everyone think something is going on?”

A pack of cigarettes and lighter magically appear out of some part of her skimpy clothing. “Well, it’s odd that you took off with a guy you met, like, one day ago. Right?” She looks undecided about this.

I shift in my seat. “Maybe.”

“And you were gone, for, like, hours, and…” She motions toward me. “You’re wet.”

I look down at the dress clinging to my skin. “It’s mostly dried,” I grumble.

“We were just worried, that’s all.”

“Really? Graham looks more than worried.”

She exhales smoke from her lungs. “Yeah, I thought he was going to smash something or have a heart attack when we couldn’t find you guys. He was seriously upset. I offered to come back here with him to wait, to make sure you made it home okay. He tried calling your cell, but then I remembered you left it in my car. I put your purse in your room, by the way.” She flicks ashes from her cigarette. “Graham was about ready to call the cops. If you weren't back within ten more minutes, he said he was.”

I straighten my spine. “That’s ridiculous! He knew I was with his brother. Why would he call the cops?”

Blake = former problems with drugs.

I push the needless reminder away. It’s not fair to judge someone now on how they used to be. I blink. Did that thought just come from my brain?

“I guess to make sure you weren’t in a wreck or anything. You’ll have to ask him.”

Not flipping likely.

“So what happened?” she asks. Is there a spark of excitement in her eyes? Yes, yes, there is.

I shrug, laughing self-consciously. “Nothing. We went for a walk out on the green and the sprinklers came on, then he gave me a ride home on his motorcycle.”

She watches me through her cigarette smoke. It’s unnerving. I mean, doesn't that sting her eyes? “He’s definitely hot. I personally wouldn’t say no to him.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”

She leans forward in her chair, saying excitedly, and much too loudly, “You totally had ***, didn’t you?”

I open my mouth.

“You did! How was it? I bet it was amazing. You can just tell it would be with someone like him.”

Okay, so, she doesn’t know I’m a virgin. If she did, she wouldn’t assume I’d just have *** with someone I just met (I think). Also, Graham is standing in the doorway, his stance one of granite.

She looks up and sees him. “Oooooh.” She winces and mouths, “Sorry,” to me as she gets to her feet. “I better go. Promise you’ll call me tomorrow?” She winks at me. “Details!” Then she sways her hips from side to side as she makes her way past Graham. Harlot.

He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and looks out into the darkened night. I shiver, suddenly chilled. “You want to explain to me what happened tonight?” His voice is quiet, clipped.

My shackles instantly rise. I tell myself to be calm and rational, neither of which I am very often. “I didn’t have *** with him, if that’s what you’re asking. Not that it's any of your business.”

His back stiffens even more, if that’s possible. “I know—” Graham takes a shuddering breath and begins again. “I know you didn’t have ***.”

“How do you know?”

“You wouldn't do something like that with someone you barely know.”

I purse my lips. He’s right, of course. I feel like I’m a doll on a shelf tagged under the name Kennedy and every little detail about me is bottled up neat and nice, easily readable with just a glance from Graham. Of course, I’m not going to have *** with someone just to prove to him wrong either.

“So? You gonna talk?”

I sigh. “We just weren’t into the whole tattoo conversation like the rest of you. So we went for a walk, got wet from the sprinklers at the golf course, and rode home on Blake’s motorcycle. That's it.”

“We, huh? Not you and Blake, but we?”

“Yeah. So? What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is,” he says roughly. “I was out of my mind with worry. I didn’t know where you went, what happened to you, if you were okay, if you were hurt, if something had happened with Blake. I didn’t know anything. And suddenly you're a we with a guy you just met?”

I don’t understand his problem with the whole “we” thing. It‘s just easier to talk that way.

“My brother and I—we’re two different people, who’ve dealt with problems differently, and frankly, I don’t know him that well, not as an adult—not enough to feel comfortable with him being responsible for your well-being. I was frantic, practically going insane wondering what was going on.”

Okay, now I feel guilty. I didn’t want him to worry about me. But really, why would he? I’m an adult. I'm nothing more than a friend to him—maybe his best friend—but a friend nonetheless.

“You’re not my keeper.” Slick.

He whirls around, fury etched into his features and stance. He stalks toward me with menace in his eyes. I jump up from the chair and race behind it even though it is flimsy and plastic and doesn’t offer much protection.

“What…did you…say?”

“You’re a keeper?” I reply meekly.

“How long have we known each other?” His voice is soft, but not even close to being gentle. It’s constructed out of steel—sharp; and when wielded just right—deadly.

“I’m not really sure the exact—”

“Kennedy.”

I sigh, releasing my grip on the poor excuse for a shield, and straighten. “Over a year. Which you know.”

“Have you ever acted so irresponsibly in all that time?”

“Really? You’re asking me this? Must I count the ways?”

“I always knew—” He bites off, clenching his jaw. “I always knew you were safe, no matter what stupid, outrageous thing you were doing.”

“Thanks.”

“Tonight…tonight I didn’t know you were safe.” He swallows, averting his gaze. When he lifts his head, there is fire in his gaze. “I don’t want you around my brother.”

“Why?” I demand.

“I don’t trust him.”

I cross my arms, shivering in the cool air. “Well, you don’t get to tell me what to do. Sorry. And you're sort of acting like a jerk, in case you feel like apologizing. Go ahead, I won't stop you.”

His head snaps up and my mouth goes dry at the expression on his face. It’s menacing and...freaking hot. Graham’s brows are swooped low and his jaw is tight, his mouth a slash of displeasure. I almost want him to do bad, bad things to me. No, really, I do. Show me what a wicked boy you can be. Is it strange that I’m thinking ***ual things about him when he most likely is thinking of all the many ways to dispose of my body without getting caught?

He kicks the patio chair out of his way to close the distance between us. So much for that barrier. Those ten dollars were a waste.

Before I know it, my butt is against the railing and Graham’s got an arm on either side of me, barricading me in. There is no escape and I’m okay with that. The air between us is a live spark, ready to flare up and cinder us both. I have to be imagining this. Only there is scalding heat in the space between us and I swear I can hear his heart thundering. My whole body is liquid fire and aching. His mouth is near my forehead, and I feel it graze my temple. I am having a hard time breathing; the air leaving my lungs is gaspy and unattractive, and my heartbeats are in overdrive. If he took me now I would so be a willing participant. Only, sadly, he won’t.

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“You’re mine, not his.”

My head falls back so fast I fear I have whiplash as I stare wide-eyed and confused at Graham. Did he really just say that? And what did he mean by it? Green eyes, steady with conviction, watch me.

“What?” I croak.

Shutters fall over his face as he backs away, running an unsteady hand through his hair and mussing it up. His muscled back is taut as he turns around and my fingers itch to touch him, to soothe the agitation from his bearing. “You’re my friend, not his. That’s all I meant.”

Grinding my teeth, I fist my hands. “I’m only allowed to have you as a friend, is that it?”

“No, of course not.” He faces me, looking weary. “Just…not him. Okay?”

“I’m not promising that and you’re stupid for thinking I ever would.”

“Wow, don’t be so gentle with my emotions, please.”

“You’re being ridiculously lame right now. I hope you realize that.”

“No, really, tell me how you really feel.”

I snap my lips together, but not before, “You’re being annoying,” escapes.

“Again with the coddling.”

“Good night, Graham,” I say stiffly, moving toward the sliding glass doors.

A hand, warm and firm, catches my wrist. “Don’t make me compete.”

“Why would I ever make you do that?” Okay, so maybe I would, if it meant knowing where I stand with him. If it meant maybe having a chance with him.

“Because I will,” he adds. “Only you might not like it.”

I have no idea what he is talking about and yet I am strangely turned on. He's being insane and mildly unlike my roommate. I like it. Every girl wants a guy who’s willing to fight for her. But Graham? Psssh. Like that would ever happen. I tug my wrist from his grip and he releases me. I leave him alone on the deck to brood or whatever it is he is going to do—maybe plot his brother’s death.

Blake is in the kitchen, standing against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes bore a hole into me, seeing things I probably don’t want him to see. “Maybe he’s not as clueless as I thought,” is all he says.

SNARKY MUCH, IS my first thought as I enter the kitchen the next morning. I pulled my hair up in a messy ponytail upon leaving the bedroom and didn’t change from my blue and white shorts and red tank top I wore to bed the night before (Go, USA!). The shirt is tight and the shorts are short, but I'm completely comfortable. Graham is presently glaring at me like he doesn’t like me too much, so I'm thinking he is not comfortable with my outfit—or he still isn't over last night.

I don't think he's ever been so angry with me before—well, except for maybe that time I accidentally put salt in his girlfriend's coffee instead of sugar.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, showing him my back. And I wait. He doesn't make me wait long.

His voice is brittle as he snaps, “Do you have to dress like that?”

“I always dress like this. You never seemed to care before.” I give my behind an extra wiggle just to irritate him. I know I've succeeded when something thumps loudly against the tabletop.

“I think you should dress like that more often,” Blake immediately replies.

“Did anyone ask you?” is Graham's hotheaded comeback.

“In fact, I think you’re wearing too many clothes. You should remove some.”

A low growl leaves Graham.

When I finally face the Malone boys, it is to find them staring one another down from across the small table. Graham’s wearing a white t-shirt and black shorts; his brother is in jeans and a brown shirt. Their coloring is so different, as are their features, but they are both striking in appearance, and their expressions currently mimic one another’s.

“Graham, you're being an ass,” I calmly inform him.

He grabs a piece of toast off his plate and whips it at me. I duck and it lands in the sink. To say I’m surprised would be an understatement. Toast throwing now? This is what our friendship has resorted to?

“I will not live with someone who throws toast at me in anger,” I announce, setting my untouched cup of coffee on the counter.

Blake snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he turns his attention to the world beyond the sliding glass patio doors. Graham blinks at me, like he doesn’t understand what I just said or maybe he doesn’t understand what he just did. Either way, I grab my mug and stride out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom. I’ll drink my coffee in peace, away from the toast throwing.

Only peace is not to be mine.

The door immediately opens after I close it, and there is Graham, staring at me, his head ****ed, his expression unnamable.

“This coffee is hot,” I warn, holding the white mug out. “You wanna be a toast thrower then I can be a coffee thrower. Just saying.”

“Put the coffee down.”

“No.”

He takes a step toward me. “Come on. Please.”

“You threw toast at me,” I point out, in case he forgot.

“I don’t know why I did that,” he mumbles, looking down. When he lifts his eyes to me, they are pleading. “Please?”

With a sigh, I comply. I am putty in his hands—or I could be. I keep the mug within reach on the dresser, should I need it as backup. As soon as I let the cup go, I’m pulled against his hard chest, his strong arms wrapping around me, his chin on the crown of my head. His scent cocoons me; a mixture of soap and Graham, and I inwardly sigh.

He should throw toast more often if this is the end result.

“I’m sorry—for last night, for the toast. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His arms tighten.

“You act like you’re my parent,” I mumble into his armpit.

He pulls away. “I do not.” He looks insulted. The guy is so dense at times. It’s adorable. Well, sometimes it's adorable. Other times it is just really annoying. “I just—” He turns and rubs his neck, his back tense. “You’re sort of my best friend—”

“Sort of?” This is not what I want to be. I mean, I do, but that’s not all I want to be.

“You are. For a girl. Anyway, I care about you. And I worry about you. That's all.” Yep. That's all—dismally.

“Okay.” It is so not okay.

He blinks. “Okay? That's it? Okay?”

“Yeah. Now leave. I need to get dressed.” I don't look at him as I say this. And I may be pouting, but I am not sure. I glance in the mirror above my dresser. I try to school my features into blankness, but instead my face takes on this garish, totally unattractive look instead. I become aware of how quiet it is and look up. Graham's staring at me with his usual quizzical expression he reserves just for me.

I am an enigma.

“What are you doing?” He sounds like he really wants to know. That's the thing about Graham; he is always interested in why I do the things I do. He's extremely thoughtful toward me, or maybe it's just concern for my unstable mental state. Either way...

“Don't ask such difficult questions.”

Frowning, he says, “You're acting strange. Stranger than usual.”

“And you're acting grumpier than usual.”

“I'm sorry. I'll stop. What do you want to do today?”

I freeze and unconsciously make that garish, unattractive look again. I wonder how often I do that without even knowing it. “I have plans.”

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It's his turn to go still, only his face darkens along with the whole freezing thing. He tries to straighten his expression and I don't feel quite so bad as I watch him struggle to appear nonchalant when he is anything but. Clearly I am not the only one who has an out of control face. Maybe some muscle relaxers would help with that. An image of a drooling, moaning zombie flutters through my mind. Then again, maybe not.

“Oh. With who?” His voice is even, but roughness underlies it.

“Some...one. Don't ask such difficult questions,” I snap again in a really ingenious way.

“Blake?” he asks incredulously.

“Maybe. I mean, I think that's his name. I could be wrong. It's all a blur.”

“You just met him Friday.”

I pat his cheek. “You're so observant.”

His jaw clenches. “Sunday is our day. We've spent almost every Sunday together since you moved in.”

I ignore the little stab of guilt in my chest. “So? Blake asked me to go for a bike ride and I agreed. We'll always have next Sunday.”

It's amazing how fast he moves. One minute he is in front of me and the next he has the door slammed shut with his back leaning against it. “You are not going on a bike ride with him. You just met him and you know nothing about him.”

“I'll get to know him today.”

“I don't understand. Who are you? This just...what is going on?” he asks with furrowed brows. He looks so confused, like he is looking at a version of me he didn't realize existed

“This is me—all real Kennedy and whatnot. Move away from the door.”

He crosses his arms, looking belligerent.

“Are you seriously trying to keep me barricaded in?”

“I...no...yes. I don't know!” His face is comically frustrated and I feel bad for him at the same time I feel exasperated and irritated. It's amazing all the many emotions I can feel within a span of seconds in his presence.

“Then you better plan on entertaining me,” slips out in a totally pre-Blake Kennedy way.

The strangest look passes over his face. It's surprise and ferocity and something I can't name all spun into one. He moves for me and I brace myself, trying not to appear too wanton, although the way I immediately melt might contradict that. “You know what I like best about you?”

“Aside from my amazing sense of humor and fabulous good looks?”

Half of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. Aside from that.”

I shrug, feeling like I'm going to hyperventilate if he doesn't move away soon. I strive for cool and collected as I answer, “I make all your secret fantasies come true with just one glance?”

“You're deceptive.”

“Um...not exactly what I was going for.”

“Look at you.” He slowly walks around me, the air between us warming as he moves, yet I feel chilled. He stops before me once more.

“I can't. You're blocking the mirror.”

Green eyes pierce me, locking me in place. “You look like this sweet, angelic girl. I mean, you've got the pretty brown eyes and the pretty blond hair. You're amazing to look at—and then you talk.”

“And you realize how much more than that I am, right?” My face feels uncomfortably warm. I don't know if he's ever alluded to my looks in a positive way before. And—should I be offended about the talking bit?

His head tilts. “Yes, actually. Your voice is still sweet, I'll give you that. But the words...the words that come out of your mouth don't fit your exterior at all. You're completely improper and unladylike. Rude, even. Blunt. Self-centered at times. Sarcastic. Tactless. Possibly—no, you are immature.”

“Stop. I'm blushing.”

“Funny. Honest.” He touches a lock of my hair, his fingers sliding down the length of it and causing tingles all the way up to my scalp. “Loyal. Unique. There is no way to like you in spite of all that you are, because all of those traits make you who you are. I never know what you will say or do next and...even so, you are innocent in a way. You are naïve.” He steps away. “And because of all of that, I will not let my brother take advantage of you or hurt you, no matter what.”

“Well.” I cross my arms because I don't know what else to do. And really? Talk about awesome comeback right there. I also don't know whether to feel insulted or...whatever. Graham and I don't really do the baring of souls bit. I'm shockingly speechless from what he just told me.

I recover quickly enough with, “It's a good thing you're not spending the day with your brother and me then. You won't be around to try to save me every time I do something you don't approve of. I'd hate to put that burden on you. Now leave before I get naked in front of you.”

I swear he considers staying, but then he leaves with an unhappy glare aimed my way. “We're not done talking about this.”

“Yes, we are, because in case you didn't notice, you just walked out of the room, hence the ending of the conversation!”

He comes back to say, “It will be resumed at a later date.”

“I'm calling in sick that day.”

And once more he returns to gift me with a steely-eyed scowl. “I'm just trying to look out for you.”

“Now, if you said you were just trying to look at me, well, that would be an entirely different matter altogether.”

“You never stop, do you?”

“Why stop when I am overflowing with coolness?”

His lips tighten into a thin line. “One day, Kennedy, one day all your little quips will come back to bite you.”

“Don't promise something you can't deliver.”

He leaves without another word, which is just as well as I can barely stand from the shaking of my legs. Wouldn't want to fall to the floor before him. He'd think I was worshiping him or something. I do enough of that in my head—he doesn't need to see it. My heart is racing and I feel sick. I put my hand against the door and lean forward until it softly clicks shut. Then I rest my head against it and take deep breaths. Am I dying? It feels like I'm going to have a heart attack. No, that's just the aftereffect of my roommate.

I turn around so that the back of my head is resting against the door and try to figure out Graham's bizarre behavior. I wonder if it's a territorial thing? Like, I'm Graham's friend and roommate. He knew me first. Blah, blah, blah. Kind of ****man-ish, but also kind of...not Graham. I like not Graham. He's way more interesting than regular Graham. I mean, I love regular Graham, don't get me wrong. But regular Graham doesn't seem like at any minute he could toss me over his shoulder, throw me down on his bed (or mine, I'm not picky), and ravish me. Not Graham has a combustible element to him that is super attractive.

A banging commences behind my head and I shriek, lunging away from the door. That didn't really help with the whole 'feeling like I'm going to have a heart attack' moment.

“Kennedy? You indecent?”

I open the door.

Blake's eyes rove up and down the length of me. “What a shame. You still have pajamas on.”

“Yeah. I haven't gotten dressed yet.”

“Which means you haven't gotten undressed yet.”

I tilt my head as I digest his words.

“Are you going to bail on me?” Something flashes in his eyes, like he knows I am going to tell him I've changed my mind and he is steeling himself with an air of indifference to hide how my words truly affect him. Yes, I got all that from one glance at his face. What can I say? I’m abnormally observant.

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Roomies Page 25



“Are you going to make me wear a dress?”

His stance relaxes. “Not if you wear something tight and revealing. Either will do.”

“Hmm. I'll see what I can whip up.” I mime cracking a whip.

Leaning forward, he purrs into my ear, “I like rough, dominant women. Don't hold back on my account.”

I laugh shakily and pull back. Maybe I'm out of my league with Blake. Although, inspiration strikes and has me saying, “I don't think you can handle me.”

“I'd sure like to try.”

Oh no, he didn't.

“You need to get out,” I say abruptly and point a trembling finger at the door.

His lips lift in a slow, seductive smile. “Don't make me wait too long.”

When the door is once again closed, I stumble to my bed and plop face-down on it. My whole body is tingling and I feel like I just ran twenty miles, or rather, how I think I would feel after running twenty miles, as I've never actually done that before. Running that far would mean death for me and I kind of like myself.

I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. What am I doing? What are they doing? Is this some sibling rivalry bit and I am the one they decided to be stupid over? Although, I know Graham loves me in a totally platonic, aggravatingly innocent way, so whatever he does or says, at least he has concern for me spurring him on—or jealousy. (I can only hope.)

His brother, on the other hand, could have some devious plot formulated for the ultimate revenge against Graham. Blake I know nothing about, other than he is cynical, has a troubled past, and likes to flirt. So maybe I know a lot about him, but all of that is surface stuff. I don't really know him. Maybe if I, like, spent a day or something with him, I could get to know him better. Hmm. If only I had made plans with him. Hmm.

I jump from the bed and hurriedly fling clothes on.

“I'M GOING TO puke!” I scream, but I think my laugh takes away the seriousness of that comment.

“Face away from the bike!” he yells over his shoulder.

I laugh even harder, squeezing my legs and arms tighter around his hard body. Maybe it is the combination of cigarettes and his deodorant, but Blake smells like cloves. I like the smell of cloves, hence I like the smell of him.

I don't want to know how fast the bike is going. In the daylight, I noticed it was black, close to the ground, and said Harley Davidson on its side, which was enough information for me. The bike is loud and my whole body is continually jarred from the power of the engine, but I love it. I've never done anything like this before. The most exciting thing I can recall participating in is going on a week-long RV trip with my mom and dad when I was fourteen, and yeah, that was pretty lame—especially in comparison to this.

Speed is ***y, I have determined.

I let go of his waist and hold my arms out at my sides with my head back. The sun is warm on my face, the air around us cool and strong. I close my eyes and let my mind go blank, simply enjoying the moment of freedom. Oh yeah. I am a rebel. I should totally get a shirt saying that. Then everyone would know with just a glance at my chest how badass I really am—and how small my breasts are, I guess. Maybe I should rethink that.

The hours merge and seem endless on the bike at the same time they are over too quickly. He pulls the motorcycle into the parking lot of a diner, the engine abruptly cutting off. It is unnaturally quiet after listening to it roar for the past how many hours. I slowly get off the bike and remove my helmet.

I brush tangled wisps of blond hair from my mouth and grin at Blake. “I like how you're more concerned with the bike getting vomit on it than you.”

“I got my priorities straight.” He lights a cigarette, looking like a hot biker dude with his dark hair, sunglasses, and black jacket, which—I suppose he is. His hair is windswept and chaotic, which is alluring as heck.

“Have you heard of this place?” I ask, taking in the red building with a wall of windows and a worn-looking metal sign that reads 'Betsy's'. A lone forest green car sits in the parking lot.

Blake squints as he takes in the run-down restaurant. “Nah. But, ya know, gotta take risks and all that.”

“Not with your food,” I point out.

He flashes a grin. “I'll eat the food if you do.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“Are you scared?” The smoke from his cigarette curls over to me, its wispy tendrils connecting us in a smoke-infused haze. Usually turned off by the smell of cigarettes, I am strangely not by his. Although, it could just be him.

“No. Only clowns scare me. What kind of cigarettes are those?”

“The bad kind. Why? You gonna give it a go again? Reactivate the bad habit?”

“You just never know. I wasn't born a quitter.” I begin to walk toward the building, deciding today is a day about living on the edge, even if that edge is covered in unknown food substances.

“You're scared of clowns?” he asks as he joins me.

I scowl. “Don't you dare tell anyone.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

A bell chimes as the door opens and I am instantly covered in the scent of fried food. “How far are we from Lancaster anyway?”

I wasn't paying attention to the direction we were going or the towns along the way, too wrapped up in feeling like a swashbuckler (I love that word) to note such insignificant details. But now, as I take in the scary-looking man sitting at the table across the room, I am thinking maybe I should have. If we need to run, it would be nice to know how far. The man's face is grisly, like he has dirt caked into the wrinkles of it. Greasy brown hair and an unwavering gaze completes his panic-inducing persona.

Blake gives me a small shove when my footsteps falter.

“You need to stop with the excessive force,” I grumble at him as we slide into the booth farthest away from the other occupant in this fine establishment.

“You need to not stare.”

The waitress appears, sporting a purple shirt and black pants. Her curly hair is dyed fire engine red and the nametag on her shirt reads 'Marsha'. Her blue eyes are outlined in black and there is a sardonic twist to her lips.

I jump when she slaps two black and white menus on the table, averting my eyes from Blake's grinning face.

“What can I get you to drink?” she sort of demands in a rough voice.

“Lemonade?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” she says as her eyes shift to me.

“Uh...telling?” She’s scary. I think it's her unflinching eyes more than anything. How can someone stare that long without blinking?

Blake says, “She'll have lemonade and I'll take a strawberry soda.”

Marsha, if her nametag is correct, leaves without another word.

“I think we should go,” I say, my gaze going back to the man across the room. Of course he is watching me. I jerk my eyes away and return them to Blake. “This place is giving me the creeps,” I whisper loudly.

“Do you see any clowns?”

“No.” I sit back and cross my arms, totally knowing where he is going with this.

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“I also fear murderers.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, when someone comes at us with a hatchet, I'll cue you.”

“What if it's a knife? Or a gun?”

“I'll still cue you.” He produces a pack of cigarettes from a pocket and lights one up.

“You can't smoke in here!” I hiss.

He nods his head and I follow his gaze. Marsha has her back to us as she prepares our drinks, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, smoke swirling up from it. I really hope she doesn't ash in our drinks. Well, mine anyway. Blake is on his own.

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Roomies Page 26



“What's with you and clowns anyway?”

I stiffen. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Come on. I'll tell you something I'm scared of if you tell me why you're terrified of clowns.”

“I didn't say I was terrified.” I am.

He patiently waits.

With a sigh, I say, “My mom and dad took me to the circus when I was five. I wasn't feeling well, but I didn't want to tell them because I really wanted to go to the circus and I knew my mom would make me stay home if I told her.” I pause—even now my stomach is getting knotted up thinking about it. “We went into this tent where all of these clowns were performing. They did this bit where they picked a kid out of the audience to help with something—I don't remember what. They picked me.

“So there I was, standing in the middle of the ring, with all of these clowns smiling at me with their painted faces, weird hair, and crazy outfits. I remember they were trying to talk to me to get me to do something, but I was starting to feel worse and worse the longer I stood there.

“Everything started to spin and their laughter took on this maniacal quality and then I threw up. Everywhere. Not just once. Repeatedly. I could tell they were angry, because, I mean, who wants to be puked on? Not even clowns, apparently. The crowd got really loud, in a really bad way. I was mortified. My mom rushed out to get me and they took me home. My dad was upset that I didn't tell them I felt sick. I think he was embarrassed because his kid puked all over the circus clowns. It was horrible. I've never gone to a circus since then and I never, ever want to see a clown again.”

“So you associate clowns with a humiliating part of your childhood. You aren't necessarily scared of them. They’re just connected to a bad moment and that's why they repel you.”

“Wow. You're smart.” I sound disbelieving, but luckily he just laughs.

“I never said I wasn't.”

“Like, brain study person smart.”

He shrugs, looking uncomfortable.

I straighten. “Okay. Your turn. Tell me something you're scared of.”

His expression tightens. He looks down, sighs, and says, “All right. I'm scared I am not worthy of anyone's faith.”

Whoa. Talk about deep and meaningful. I talked about clowns and he talks about that.

He looks up.

“What do you mean?” I ask cautiously.

He puts the cigarette out in the ashtray and takes a sip of his drink. I test the lemonade. It is good—equal parts sweet and tart. I didn't even know she'd brought our drinks. It must have been during my traumatizing confession.

“My life is one screw up after another. I just wonder if anyone should keep thinking someday I'll be okay.”

Oh no. I go soft. Like, everything melts inside me with those words. Of course, he can't know that, so I hope my voice is even as I say, “That isn't really for you to decide.”

He tilts his head.

“Whether or not people should continue to hold out hope for you or not. That's their choice, not yours. You just have to deal with it.”

“If you knew the circumstances, you might think differently.”

I do know the circumstances, or at least a variation of them, and it doesn't make me think less of him—only I can't tell him that. So I say, “I don't think that matters. If people care about you, they won't give up on you, no matter what you've done in the past or what you do in the future. We aren't programmed that way. We're made to find hope in the most hopeless of places and in the people that seem the least likely to deserve it, because they really need it the most, and something in us knows that, at least subconsciously. It's what makes us human. No one is unworthy. Not even you. If people want to have faith in you, let them. And really, you can't stop them. It's not up to you.” I totally pulled those words from my basket of awesomeness.

His expression shifts as he stares at me. Blake doesn't speak, but in his gaze he says so much. I watch him, sweaty-palmed and feeling asthmatic. Never taking his eyes from mine, he leans over the table and softly presses his lips to mine. It is a feather light kiss, a gentle caress of lips against one another—a thank you. Neither of us closes our eyes, and really, it happens so fast there is no time for that. Our open-eyed kiss has a sweet poignancy to it, and when he sits back, I cannot seem to look away from him.

“Ready to order?”

I jump at the sound of Marsha's voice, hastily ordering a grilled cheese sandwich and French fries. I don't even know if those are on the menu, but she doesn't say anything, so they must be. Blake gets a cheeseburger and onion rings. Once again, she departs.

“How long have you known Graham?” he asks. His manner suggests we didn't just kiss, and even though I am reeling from the fact that we did just kiss, I decide to act like it never happened as well.

“Over a year. He was looking for a roommate and I answered the ad in the paper. Apparently he thought I was qualified enough to live with him.” I smirk. It seems like I just met him at the same time it seems like I have known him forever. I suddenly miss Graham and take a large gulp of my drink to hide it.

“You two seem pretty close.”

“We are. He's probably my best friend, even if he is a guy. For some reason, I don't have a lot of friends that are girls. Actually, I think Phoebe is the only girl I really consider a friend and I don't know if we would be if we didn't work together.” I frown. I'd never really thought about my lack of girlfriends before.

“That makes perfect sense to me.”

“What's that mean?”

“Nothing bad. You're just unconventional.”

I squint my eyes at him. “So?”

He shrugs. “So nothing.”

Our food arrives.

I chew on a French fry, probably overthinking his words, but I don't think I am because Graham said something kind of the same earlier. Apparently today is the day I get to learn about all of my flaws.

“Do you think I'm likable?” Why am I asking him this? I answer myself immediately—because he won't lie.

His lips curve up. “I like you. Does that make you feel better?”

“No. Not really.” I shove another fry into my mouth.

Chuckling, he says, “Do you really care if people like you or not? You don't seem the type.”

I tilt my head, considering his words. “Generally, no. But if it's someone I like, I want them to like me back.”

“Well, we both know you like me and I just told you I like you, so I don't know what else you need to worry about.” He takes a large bite of his cheeseburger, leaving residual ketchup on his upper lip. I don't tell him 'cause it's good for his arrogance to be taken down a notch, even if he is unaware of it.

Marsha later ruins it for me when she brings the bill, immediately telling him about the ketchup on his mouth. He gives me a long look, but doesn't comment, paying the bill and leaving a tip even though I try to pay for my half. We leave the restaurant and the creepy guy behind, the thought of wrapping my body around his for the return trip making me feel not completely grossed out.

BLAKE DROPS ME off at the apartment, saying he has errands to run. I don't know what kind of errands he would have to run in a town he is only temporarily living in, but I don't ask 'cause it isn't any of my business. Maybe he needs to pick up mouthwash or something.

As I head for the door to my apartment, I am besieged with apprehension. I feel guilty that I ***ched Graham for Blake and it's annoying that I feel guilty. Since when do I feel wimpy emotions like regret? I'm also nervous. How will Graham act when he sees me? We were gone a long time. We left before eleven and it is now almost six in the evening. I am also irritated with myself for everything recently thought or felt. We're just friends—roommates even. Right? Right.

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Roomies Page 27



He is reading a book in the living room. My heart melts. Even him reading is attractive to me. Although, reading is pretty hot. I check the cover of the book to see if it is one of my smut books, but alas, it is John Saul. I shiver. I read one of his books once—'The Right Hand of Evil'. Never even thought about reading another one. I had nightmares for weeks. I even slept with Graham the first few nights afterward. Of course, it was totally unproductive. All we did was sleep.

I feel like a rebellious teen trying to sneak in after curfew and instead caught by their parent. He doesn't look up. He doesn't acknowledge me in any way. I should probably leave him alone. Instead I plop down on the couch and rest my head in his lap. I feel him stiffen, but otherwise he acts like I am not even here. So I grab the book from his hands and chuck it toward the end of the couch.

“If you get scared tonight, you can sleep with me. Or even if you don't.”

Lowering his head so that our gazes collide and hold, he stares down at me. The expression on his face isn't necessarily unfriendly, but it isn't exactly loving either. If I was smart, I'd get up and walk from the room without further antagonism toward him. It is obvious he is not happy with me. As I watch, a lock of golden hair falls onto his forehead and I gently brush it aside. It feels like satin. His eyes darken, but otherwise there is no indication my touch affected him in any way.

“You're offering your bed to me?” he murmurs quietly.

Something about the way he says this—a dangerous vibe to his deep voice—makes me rethink my choice of words, but I am not one to dwell too heavily on what I say or should have said instead, so I move on. “Are you saying you want to be in it?” My heartbeat quickens as I wait for his response.

Seconds turn into minutes as we silently watch one another, and all the while, I am struggling to breathe. Why do I feel scared, like something monumental and irreversible, is about to happen? Why do I feel like if we do not connect in some cosmic way, I will not recover from the disappointment that will follow? Why am I asking myself questions when a superbly good-looking guy is staring down at me?

His fingertip trails down my cheek. “Not this way.”

And the spell is broken.

I abruptly sit up. “I was kidding.” Wasn't I? Where is my snappy comeback? And since when do I have to tell him when I am kidding—or even feel the need to? What does he mean, not this way? The moment is too serious, too full of unspoken wants, for me to sling back one of my retorts like I normally do.

“Did you have fun?” The words seem innocent enough, but there is discord imbedded in them.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, feeling confused and angry and even confused that I am angry. “Yep. Best time ever. I've never had so much fun in my life.” There is a taint of wrongness on my tongue at the words. I've had more fun lots of times—all aforementioned fun times spent doing anything at all with Graham; even doing nothing at all, but with Graham.

“Good. That's good. Glad you and Blake are getting along so well.” He pauses. “Can I have my book back?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I take the paperback and throw it at him, jumping to my feet as he catches it against his chest. “I hope you have horrible dreams, and just so you know, the invitation has been retracted.” I huff off to my room before he can say anything, not that he probably wants to anyway. Maybe that was immature, but according to Graham, I am immature, so that was in character for me.

Two minutes later I am back in the living room. “I'm sorry,” I say as I gaze at him sitting on the couch. “I don't really want you to have bad dreams.”

He hasn't opened the book yet; it is resting undisturbed on his lap. There is a bemused look on his face as he studies me. “You know what?”

“What?” I ask worriedly. What if he announces he is sick of my lack of maturity and kicks me out? He can totally do that. He has that right.

Graham stands up, tossing the book to the couch. The air around us warms as the space between us closes. One side of his mouth lifts. “Let's do something for supper. What sounds good?”

“You?” I blink, the word totally spewing forth of its own admission. But he just laughs, which makes me relax. I blow out a breath. “I mean, whatever you want to do is okay with me.”

He gives me a look, like he isn't sure what to make of my amendment. “Let's go somewhere. Forever Blue okay?”

Forever Blue is a small diner with blue and cream as the color theme, a limited menu of sandwiches, soups, and salads, and Oldies music. They have delicious homemade pies and always-fresh coffee. It's kind of our place.

“Yes.” I smile. “I would love to go to Forever Blue with you.”

Graham smiles back and it is like the sun gracing me with its presence after years of being without—stunning, warm, and thoroughly missed. “You want to walk or take a vehicle?”

“Walk. But I need to change quick.”

His eyes rove over my black form-fitting jacket and dark skinny jeans, landing on my knee-high black boots and finally stopping on my eyes. “You look good.” He sounds surprised, like he never noticed my apparel until now.

“Yeah, I know, the casual frumpy look is usually my thing, but I had to dress appropriately.”

“You have dressed in many unusual variations of clothing, but never have you been frumpy,” he denies immediately.

I pause, not sure what is going on. “Are you feeling okay?”

The smile that grazes his lips is anything but cheery. In fact, it looks sort of sickly. “Yeah. Never better.”

“Okay. So I'll go—”

“Don't change. I mean, change if you want to, but...you don't have to. Unless you want to.”

Graham is stumbling over his words in a non-polished sequence that befuddles me. I openly stare at him. I can't help it. Although, even if I could help it, I'd still be staring, 'cause, ya know, he's nice to look at. But since when does he blush and act like he is nervous around me? Since Blake showed up, that's when. Everything has been twisted into an unknown mass of disorder and I am not really sure why. I hate not knowing things. It makes me feel incompetent.

“What is with you?”

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “Nothing is with me,” he answers as his eyes open. “Were you going to change?”

“No.” I unzip my jacket and throw it onto the couch, revealing a tight hot pink shirt with a silvery star on my designated boobage area. “I'm fine like this. If you're fine with me like this?”

Again with the eye closing. “Don't ask me that,” he says with difficulty.

I shrug. “Okay. Let's go.”

The sun decides to be evil and blinds me as soon as I step outside, so it really isn't my fault I don't notice anything is amiss until I hear Blake's rough voice. I guess maybe the stiffening of Graham beside me could have been a clue, had I chosen to acknowledge it.

“Out for a moonlit stroll?”

I squint at him through the glaring rays of sunshine. “That doesn't even make sense. It's daytime.”

He shrugs, lifting a cigarette to his lips and lighting it. Smoke forms a blurry shield between him and us. He's still got his aviator sunglasses on and his black hair is messy from the wind continually running its fingers through it, which totally works in his favor. “I couldn't very well call it a sunlit walk, could I? I think you'll agree it doesn't have the same clandestine punch.”

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Roomies Page 28



“What do you care what we do or don't do?” Graham demands.

Blake turns to his brother. I think he's looking at him, but it's hard to tell with his sunglasses on. He could have his eyes closed and no one would know. That would show us. “I don't. Just making conversation.” He pauses to inhale nicotine and chemicals. “I decided I won't be staying with you for the summer.”

“Oh? When did you decide that?” Graham's tone of voice is pleasant enough, for a snarly tone.

“About thirty minutes ago.” He turns his head in my direction. I'm about ready to snatch those sunglasses from his face. “That was the errand I had to do.”

“Are your eyes open?”

“What?”

“Are you looking at me right now?” I wave my hand in front of his face.

His brows lower.

“I think you should take your sunglasses off.” I laugh, but it sounds sort of scary. “Take them off!” I snap when he doesn't move.

Blake shoves the sunglasses to the top of his head. “Better?” No, because now I can see how strangely he is looking at me. “Maybe you should add sunglasses to your list of fears.”

Graham turns to me. “He knows about the clowns?” He looks hurt, like I told a fatal secret and now the end of his life is inevitable.

“Maybe. The details are hazy. What was your errand?” I ask to distract the Malone men from my odd behavior. I move into the shade of a tree to better see my surroundings, since we don't appear to be leaving them anytime soon. And why are they looking at me like that?

Blake recovers first. “I found a room to rent while I'm in Lancaster.”

“Why did you do that?” Graham asks slowly, staring the younger Malone down.

His eyes remain locked on me as he answers, “I came to the conclusion it would be for the best.”

My breath hiccups as his heated gaze continues to sear me.

“Meaning?” Graham prods.

He finally drags his gaze from me to gift his brother with a sardonic grin. “Meaning I intend to date your roommate. You don't mind, do you?”

The fist flies forward before I can blink, clipping Blake's jaw hard enough to snap his head to the side. I haven't even digested his words or Graham's reaction before he is fighting back. His features twist and he rams into his brother's gut head-first, propelling them into a tree. A grunt leaves Graham at the contact, but it doesn't take him long to land another punch to his brother's shoulder. At first I just stare with my mouth open, but as they continue to pummel one another, I feel it is only necessary to intervene, especially 'cause cops could be called at any point. And, ya know, awkward.

“Stop!” I shout, running for the pair. “Stop it. Both of you!” I grab for Blake's arm and his elbow jabs back, right into my collarbone. The pain is instantaneous, sharp and hot, and a gasp leaves me as I stumble back. I trip over something and fall onto my rear, the impact jostling me. Gritting my teeth, I carefully move to my knees, glaring at the large rock that just kicked my butt.

Somehow Graham is paying enough attention to notice what just happened, and with an animalistic snarl, he shoves his brother back hard, immediately storming for me. The fierceness in his face clears as he stares down at me, his eyes lowering to my shoulder I am gingerly touching.

Dropping to his knees beside me, he gently moves my hand aside. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, strained.

I can tell he is fighting to steady his breathing by the way his chest heaves up and down. Sweat trickles down the side of his face and a lock of hair is sticking up. His lip is bleeding and my stomach not only turns queasy at the sight of blood, but also that he is hurting in any way, however small it may be. I want to fall into his arms, but I can't because he is stupid and I don't hug stupid people.

I slowly stand, shaking my head when he reaches for me. With a confused look, he drops his hand and stands up, backing away. I glance toward where Blake is standing by the tree, his features drawn with regret. Anger wraps around me as I eye the testosterone-ravaged men. I have never had men physically throw punches over me before, and I am sickened by it. I am also slightly stunned by this revelation, wondering what is wrong with me that I can't appreciate two of the male species turning into imbeciles on my behalf.

“Kennedy, I didn't mean to—” Blake begins, but I shut him up when I slice my hand through the air.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” I demand in a low voice, splitting my gaze between the two men. “I am not some possession. I am not here merely for you two to be Neanderthals over. I don't know what is going on with you, or whatever games you're playing at, but I will not be a part of them. You just made me respect you, like, not at all, and I never would have thought that was possible, especially with you.” I turn my disillusioned eyes on Graham.

He looks down, swallowing.

Gazing at Blake, I say, “And I don't even know you. You don't just announce you're going to date me without even seeing if I want to date you. And just so you know, I don't. Not after this. Maybe I would have considered it, but you just messed that up.”

He looks properly chastised. Good.

I can be serious. And pissed. The combination is not good. I leave the brothers, feeling like an unknown layer is covering me and I can't shake it off, no matter how much I want it gone. It is uncomfortable and heavy.

This, I have decided, is sensibility.

MOODILY SPLASHING TEAL nail polish on my toenails, I fluctuate between seething at what happened and remembering the look on Graham's face—before he struck his brother and after Blake accidentally elbowed me—and I don't know how to feel about it. I swallow thickly as the memory of the possessiveness, the rage, and the protectiveness I saw in his eyes and stance pummels my senses. I recap the bottle of nail polish and draw my knees up to my chin, wrapping my arms around my legs. Sunshine streams in through the lone window of the bedroom, somehow knowing exactly where I am sitting on the floor to blast me with its rays. I think it has something against me personally. The sun always reminds me of Graham, and even now, when I am irate with him, a part of me still needs him. I need his warmth.

The text I got two minutes ago from Phoebe should have annoyed me, and somewhat did, but only because of my bad mood. Otherwise I am suspiciously not concerned about the fact that she and Nathan are going out this weekend. She sounded apologetic and I assured her, about three times, that it is absolutely okay. Maybe it's the visual I get of his toes wiggling at me from the top of his neck every time I think of him, or maybe it's because I simply don't care about him like I do Graham. Whatever it is, good luck to them and all that.

There is a soft knock on the door and then it is slowly opening. A familiar voice, simultaneously rough and lyrical, asks, “Is there toast or coffee in the room?”

“No.” I pause. “But there's me. And that's even more terrifying.”

The door opens all the way and Graham enters, carrying a Styrofoam container and a serious look. “Hi.” His upper lip is split and swollen and I soften at seeing the battle wound, regardless of how unnecessary it is.

“Hi.”

His eyes study me, finally dropping to my newly painted toenails and back up. A faint smile touches his lips before quickly fading away. “I brought you supper.” He raises the white box in an apparent peace offering. I don't say anything. “I figured since I ruined our dinner plans at Forever Blue I should at least get you something from there.”

Roomies
Roomies Page 29



“How thoughtful of you. Maybe you could have thought of that before you decided to punch your brother in the face. You could have been like, if I punch Blake, that means Kennedy and I won't get to go to Forever Blue for supper, only no, you didn't think of that, did you? And now look. I'm painting my toenails and you're trying to win back my love with bribery. Since when do you punch people?”

“It's turkey and Swiss on cranberry rice bread.”

I jump to my feet and snatch the box from him. “Your tricks won't work on me.”

“Then why did you just grab the box out of my hands?”

“I'm keeping it safe.”

“I also got you cheesy broccoli soup, but I didn't think I should bring anything hot into the room.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to respond with, Then why are you here? But I refrain. I have to remind myself I am mad at him. So I say, “Good thinking on your part.”

But cheesy broccoli soup? Yum. It is hard to stay upset with him when he brought me some of my favorite foods. Of course, I could be enjoying them at the diner with catchy Oldies music playing in the background, so there is that to keep my anger going.

Again a hint of a smile curves his lips before dissipating. “Kennedy,” he says in a somber voice. “I'm sorry for acting that way. I'm usually able to stay in control, no matter what. I don't like that I lost it like that, or that you saw it. I feel like an ass.”

“Well, you should. And I don't understand you two. Do you hate each other or something? I was under the impression you liked each other, but you haven't really acted like it since Blake showed up.”

He shows me his back as he says, “It's complicated.”

Grabbing his arm, I feel his muscles tense as I tug him back to me. “It's not, really. You and I have known each other for a while, and I have never seen you behave like that before. Tell me what's going on.”

He silently regards me, something tight in his expression.

“Graham, answer me.” The air has shifted around us, full of secrets and warm with what-ifs. What if I kiss him? What if I tell him I love him? What if I finally tell him everything he is to me?

“I don't think you're ready to hear what I have to say.”

My brows lower. “Meaning?”

A short laugh leaves him as he shakes his head. “Never mind. It's not—I always thought I'd have more time.”

“More time?” I am seriously confused, hence my parrot talk.

He shakes his head again, not answering. His fingers gently touch my collarbone, his eyes cast down as he brushes the strap of my green tank top away from the already bruised flesh. A grimace steals over his features. “Does it hurt?”

Air has abandoned me and the breath I inhale is stolen, sounding loud in the quiet of the moment. “Only when you stop touching it.” His eyes lift to mine. It wasn't meant to be ***ual or flirtatious. It was honest. As his fingers graze the wound, the ache goes away and is replaced with a warmth that pools and grows within me. It flows down my limbs and into my fingertips. Although, that could merely be my reaction to him.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs. Without waiting for a response, he continues, “What is it about him that makes him so interesting?”

I blink, the warmth leaving me and coldness taking its place. I step back, setting the container holding my sandwich on the bed. “What?”

He appears to be searching for words. “Like you said, we've known each other for a while. You've known Blake for two days. You've already been with him more than you haven't since he showed up. What is it about him that you find so interesting? Why do you want to be with him?”

I fiddle with the drawstring of my black sweatpants. “The truth?”

“Please.”

I don't think I can tell him the truth—not the full truth anyway. I hung out with Blake because I thought it might irritate Graham. That's part of it. The other part isn't so clear. Blake looked like he needed a friend and there are glimpses of vulnerability in him that make me think maybe he isn't as tough and arrogant as he wants everyone to think he is.

I settle with, “He's fun.”

“He's fun,” he repeats slowly, like I talked in a foreign language. Which, I don't know any so that is a non-issue. I barely passed my two years of required Spanish and have forgotten just about every single word of it.

“Anyway, isn't he here so you two can spend time together before he goes to wherever it is he's going to after he’s done with college? Why don't you go kiss and make up and hang out together or something?”

“I don't think that's possible.”

“Why?”

“He left. But even if he hadn't, things are tense between us.”

“Because of me.” And probably because they just tried to kill each other—which, I guess, is also because of me. “Where did he go?” He didn't even tell me goodbye, although, if he had tried, I would have ignored him anyway. That's beside the point. It's about effort.

“Wherever he got a temporary residence at, I'm guessing. And our inability to get along is not just because of you. Things have been strained between us for a long time. I told you about that.”

“Since you stopped visiting during the summers and he had all his issues.”

“Yeah. We just haven't been close since all of that. I mean, we really don't have anything in common. Or, we didn't,” he adds.

I frown, not sure what he means by that. “I don't want to be the cause of any problems between you two. I know you're trying to protect me and you think his intentions toward me are whatever, but I can handle myself. Really. Blake is harmless. You don't have to punch guys on my behalf. You don't have to be all brotherly toward me and—”

“You think I'm being brotherly toward you?” he interrupts, his voice incredulous.

I nervously reach for the drawstring of my pants again. “Well, yeah—”

“Would you stop doing that?” He sounds like he is in pain.

My hands still. “Stop doing what?” Again with the parrot talk, but really, Graham is being extremely perplexing.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back as he inhales slowly and deeply. Somehow I find the act to be exceptionally erotic. I dig my nails into my palms to keep them from roaming over all parts of him.

“I'm going to go now. We'll...we'll talk later, okay?” And then he just leaves me.

“Yeah. Okay,” I tell an empty room. I turn my gaze to the bed. Well, I guess I'm not completely alone. I have my sandwich.

I'M SITTING IN the living room, staring at the television. It isn't on, because it would take more energy than I presently have to pick up the remote, aim it at the TV, and push the button. Graham went to the gym to work out, as he does almost every day. There's a pile of unfolded clothes on the couch beside me and a bag of cheese puffs in my lap. I love it when he goes to the gym, if only because I can be the massive sloth I naturally am in peace. If he were here, he'd be eyeing up my laundry and staring at the edible garbage in my lap and on my fingers, internally freaking out over the possibility of powdery cheese getting on the furniture.

One hand in the bag, one hand wrapped around the stem of my wine glass—this is my idea of perfection. 'Girls Chase Boys' by Ingrid Michaelson is presently keeping me company from the stereo system. When my phone rings from where it resides on the back of the couch, I jump and send the bag flying. Orange confetti falls to the floor and I swallow, knowing I am so dead if Graham walks in the door right now.