[English] Roomies

Roomies
Roomies Page 40



Confused. I feel confused.

And like I need to blurt everything out to him and deal with the consequences, but fudge—what if I lose him? What if I ask him how he feels about me, tell him I'm madly in love with him, and he looks at me with pity? Ugh. I would die. Seriously. I never thought of myself as a coward, but clearly that was an inaccurate assessment.

With a sigh, I determine I have pruned myself long enough and slowly stand, the water sluicing off me as I get to my feet. Dried and concealed in a fluffy pink towel, I open the door and freeze. Graham is standing across the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes locked on me.

I give a weak wave and say hello.

“I've been waiting for you,” he says, which isn't really all that significant, but his voice is rough, which makes me think maybe he is talking about more than just needing to use the bathroom I've been hogging for an undetermined amount of time.

“Yeah. Sorry. Rough day. I needed—”

He moves abruptly, reaching for me like a predator snatching up its prey. His fingers slide up the back of my neck and his lips latch onto mine. Holy ****, is the first thought that forms from the jumbled up letters in my head, and then I don't think anymore. My whole being sighs, lights up, burns, and sinks into him. The only setback to this amazing kiss is the fact that I am juggling my hold on the towel while attempting to touch him. And then, that is no longer an issue because the pink confection falls from my body. I should feel self-conscious or something, but his lips are still tormenting mine, so I can't even pretend to care.

Graham stiffens, only his body pressing to mine keeping the towel from landing on the floor in a pile. He ends the kiss, his forehead to my cheek as he murmurs, “I know I should act concerned about your nakedness, but I don't have it in me to tell you this shouldn't be happening.” He takes a deep breath, continuing with, “You should probably retrieve it while I can still think clearly, and the ability is leaving me even as I am saying this.”

“So you're saying I should put my towel back on?”

His face is pained as he nods, meeting my gaze. “Yes. Before I look down. And believe me, I really want to look down.”

“Just so I understand this right...you kissed me. I mean, you didn't just, like, accidentally fall on me and manage to stay upright by attaching your lips to mine. You actually kissed me. On purpose.” I stare at him. “You liked kissing me. You're attracted to me. The thought of seeing me naked turns you on.”

I watch his eyelids slide shut as he takes a shuddering breath, and a huge smile forms to my lips. “I turn you on.” Graham groans and my body jerks in response. This is a high like I never knew was legal. Knowing all of these little details gives me a sense of empowerment. I almost want to walk around with nothing on at all times just to see how he'll react.

My view on my body is this: it is what it is. I am not embarrassed of the curves or lack of curves I have, nor ashamed, and really, my body isn't going *****bstantially change no matter what I do or don't, so I might as well be confident about it. Shyness has no role in my world.

“Yeah.” His voice is weak. “Yes. It's true. All of it.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” I whisper. Not a fair question, really. Why didn't I ever tell him?

“Like I said, I was waiting for you.” His smile is faint, sadness shining through the beauty of it.

He locks eyes with me as he leans down and carefully, without so much as grazing my skin, retrieves the towel. His mouth—his mouth is so close to my woman parts that I squeeze my legs together and tightly clasp my hands to keep from accidentally on purpose having my lower half fall on his face. His eyes never leave mine, which is either admirable or disappointing, depending on which way you want to look at it. My skin is burning and my heart is thundering and—did his breath just flutter across my thighs?

He slowly stands, moving the towel up with him and around my body. I let him. I mean, if I made a big deal out of this and refused to put the towel back on, it might get strange. I stare at him, noting the way his hands are trembling, and take the towel from him as he continues to fumble with closing it while simultaneously trying not to touch me. Tenderness weaves through me at his chivalry, frustration that he is so decent, and longing so intense my chest hurts with it.

*****mmarize, I'm in agony.

“What were we talking about?” I blurt out, trying to get my thoughts and emotions in some kind of order. “You were waiting for me? I don't understand.” I hate admitting such a thing, but, well, sometimes you just have to.

He rests his forehead against mine and exhales slowly. “I don't know how to say this, but I can't continue to not say it. I should have told you long before now—I care about you. A lot. The timing never seemed right and I didn't think you were ready to know how I felt about you. I didn't know if you felt the same or ever would. I mean, yeah, you joke about stuff all the time, but I figured that's all it was.”

He steps away, looking down the hallway as he talks. “Blake's arrival showed me I waited too long. This is all my fault. I was stupid. And now...now it's too late. I feel like I already lost you to him and I didn't even get a chance to try.” Graham's jaw tightens. “He told me you kissed.”

Ugh. Blake is so dead. It was, like, a grazing of lips, not even really technically a kiss. “It was a peck. Not a kiss. It lasted all of two seconds.”

The look on his face has me hurrying to move on, as does the burning sensation in my face. “Anyway, who said it was too late? Was it in the paper or something? Did you write something up and have it notarized by a judge saying that by such and such date, it was too late for Graham Malone and Kennedy Somers to be anything other than roommates? I mean, who's in charge of determining this?”

Regret twists the smile he aims my way. “I see the way you look at him, the way you respond to him. I had my chance and I blew it. Granted—I didn't realize it was my only chance. Things are different now. If you won't admit to anything else, you at least have to admit that. I know you're attracted to Blake.”

Like a microscopic amount, that's all. I don't think saying this will really help my case. I look down so that I am no longer witness to the lines of pain in his face, but it doesn't matter because I still see them. Discontent rolls off him in invisible tendrils of remorse. Maybe it is too late for us. Maybe he waited too long. Why did he wait so long? Why did I?

Maybe now isn't our time. What if it never is? I swallow, pinpricks of discomfort abrading my skin.

He's right. Something has changed, but I still want him. I also want more of him, more than he is giving me. No matter what, I know I will always want him—just like that song where the chick licks the sledgehammer or whatever it is in the music video. Totally don't understand that, but whatever.

“I don't know what to say,” I admit.

He widens his eyes. “Kennedy Jacqueline Somers—speechless. Never thought the day would come,” he gently mocks. He turns to walk away, my eyes trailing after him because they can't stand not having some part of him within their view. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to keep him from leaving, but he is already turning around to face me once more.

He tilts his head. “Can I know one thing?”

I slowly nod.

“How long have you known?”

Roomies
Roomies Page 41



“Known what?”

“That we should have been more than roommates.”

I tighten my hold on the towel as I say with complete honesty, “There was something about you, even that first day we met. The way your eyes saw into me—saw more than my embarrassing rambling and awkward joking. You really saw me, ya know? And you were okay with everything about me that usually repels people. That makes you really strange, but it's okay, because I'm pretty strange too.”

“Why didn't you ever say anything?”

I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I didn't want to lose you and I was scared I would.”

“And I didn't want to push you away.”

“We both suck.”

“Yeah.” His eyes darken and brackets form around his full lips. “Just so you know...I've always been okay with you, Kennedy, any way you are or decide not to be.” He begins to walk away again, shaking his head as he goes.

He pauses to say, “Here's to the ****ed up world of waiting for the right moment and then realizing you waited too long.”

A moment later the door to the apartment closes and eerie silence becomes my companion. My grip relaxes on the towel as my shoulders slump. My first instinct is to charge after him, but I'm wearing a towel, and also, I sort of feel like this had to happen. I may later regret letting him leave, but right now, it seems like a necessity. Things are all crazy and we both need to think.

A small part of me thinks, Why didn't he tell me all of this before his brother showed up? It leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth and the flavor is resentment.

THIS IS WHAT I have to decide: Do I want the short-term thrill ride or do I want the long-term commitment? Why is this even a question? Shouldn't I just know? I blame my indecisiveness on my inexperience with men. How can I know what I want when I haven't really ever had anything?

But you want Graham. You do know that. I do know that. And if I dabble in the sensuality of Blake, I lose Graham. Even if he says I wouldn't—I would. He would never get over it and I would never stop feeling guilty and it would be the end of us. We'd be a 'might have been' and that is it. Am I willing to chance it?

I suppose maybe I should have decided all of this before Blake showed up to take me to the fair. Because here he is, standing outside the apartment door, looking at me like I should invite him in. I am so not inviting him in. In fact, I feel sick, like I'm betraying Graham. Why did I agree to this? One weak moment and here I am. Damn the intoxicating pull of cotton candy.

I scowl at him in greeting, crossing my arms. “You told Graham we kissed.”

He pauses, then shrugs. “I alluded to it.”

“I'll give you something to allude to,” I mutter.

A smirk makes a brief appearance on his naturally surly face. It should look wrong there, but instead it looks at home. “Come on, I'm helping you out. I'm being a team player. Go team Grennedy.”

I lean close, thoroughly irritated. “It did not help me out. In fact, I think it did the opposite of that. Graham says it's too late, that he waited too long, and now he's giving up.”

“Then he's stupid. And you don't need stupid people in your life.”

My look tells him I'm not amused.

Sighing, Blake steps forward, making me step back. “I know Graham. He's processing. When he decides to use his brain again, he'll figure out what he needs to do.”

“Right. Which will probably not be what I want him to do.”

“Have faith in your womanly wiles.”

“Who talks like that? Also, how do you know how he thinks? It isn't like you two are close.”

“We might not be close, but that doesn't mean I don't know my brother. I remember what he was like as a kid. He's a thinker.” He pauses. “Actually, he overthinks things. He used to have anxiety even about dressing himself. I hate it say it, but, I even understand why he said that to you. Graham's a perfectionist. He wants everything to be exactly where and when it should, so in his mind, even though he wanted to tell you how he felt, he probably didn't think it was the right time.”

He sighs. “Damn it, I am completely ruining my chances with you—not that they were ever too great. Might as well go for the gold,” he mutters. Looking at me, he says, “He was thinking of you. He doesn't know how to be selfish, and even now, I see him struggling with what he wants and with what he thinks is best for you.”

“What's best for me is him.”

“Maybe. But does Graham think that way?”

“You know nothing,” I tell him, but I'm really hoping he does.

“I know some things.” He winks. “Like, you smell like bubble gum.”

“Clearly you don't know enough. I don't do bubble gum.”

He leans forward, tickling my neck with his breath and filling my nostrils with the scent of smoke and cloves. His soft hair brushes my jaw and I freeze, a deer stunned by the headlights of a car. “You're right,” he says as he straightens, flashing me a quick grin. “It's more of an apple and vanilla smell. I like it.”

“I can die in peace now, knowing you approve.”

“Come now, be honest. You'd probably die in peace just from knowing me.”

Something slams behind me and I jump, whipping my head around. A tight-lipped Graham takes another hardcover book and whacks it against the coffee table. There is a stack of books beside him, so I'm thinking this is going to be a drawn out event. I should have made popcorn.

“Hello, brother,” Blake greets as he wrestles to get around me, giving me a chastising look when he wins—like I should have known better than to try to thwart him. He enters the living room and stops beside Graham. “What are you doing?”

“Just getting set up for a night of light reading. It's the way I love to spend all of my Friday nights,” he says mockingly, keeping his head down as he abuses another book.

I wince, remaining close to the door and escape. He asked me to go to a movie with him tonight. I'm not sure if it was supposed to be a date or a just as friends thing, but either way, I had to decline due to my previous acceptance of Blake's fair proposal. He didn't even say anything when I told him. He just looked at me for a long moment and then walked away.

My whole being felt the loss of him as another crevice formed in the Graham-Kennedy pact of bosom buddies forever. I keep telling myself this is how it has to be. If we're ever to be anything more than roommates, our current friendship status has to be annihilated. I just hope we are not destroyed during the process of it. I am walking a paper thin line and I do not enjoy it, most likely because I fail at the balancing part of yoga every time. Which is why I never do it. Yoga and me do not get along.

“I have some books if you need something to read,” I tell him, hesitation I have never before felt obvious in my tone. It's uncomfortable and I loathe it. “And if you get super bored, you can even alphabetize them. I know you like doing that.”

He glances up at me and away. “I have plenty to do.”

Blake's eyes narrow on me before he turns to his brother. “We'll be sure to bring you back some cotton candy.”

“Don't bother.”

“Graham doesn't like cotton candy,” I say.

Blake's eyes twinkle as they meet mine. “More for me then. Ready?”

Graham straightens as his brother walks toward me. “The cotton candy isn't yours to have. Just remember that.”

What the heck is going on? They're arguing over cotton candy now? I mean, really? Do their competitive natures know no end? They're dragging spun sugar into their war now?

Roomies
Roomies Page 42



Briefly pausing, Blake replies, “It is if no one else wants it.”

With gritted teeth, Graham replies, “Maybe it isn't that no one wants it. Maybe they just don't want to pressure anyone into thinking they just want cotton candy and nothing else. Maybe they want to make sure everyone knows how much they really enjoy cotton candy, not just for now, but for always.”

“But you don't like cotton candy,” I point out to Graham, since I guess he forgot.

Rolling his eyes, Blake puts a hand on my arm and gently pushes. “Let's go, Einstein.”

“Maybe I really actually love cotton candy!” he hollers as the door closes.

I look at Blake as we loiter inside the apartment building. “What just happened? He so doesn't like cotton candy.”

He sweeps a hand over the top of my head without touching it. “Never mind. Some things are beyond you.”

“That sounded like an insult.”

“Did it?” His facial expression is all innocent.

“Apparently that wasn't beyond me,” I mutter as we head out into the scorching heat of a summer evening, Wisconsin style. A mosquito immediately attacks my arm, making the ambience complete.

“How far away is the fair?” he asks, lighting up a cigarette.

“A mile—not too far. We can walk.”

He pauses. “No. I don't do walking.”

I stare at him in miscomprehension. “What are you talking about? You have legs, don't you? How can you not do walking?”

“I don't like walking. You don't do bubble gum, I don't do walking. We're all allowed to not do things.”

“You went for a walk your first night here,” I point out.

“It was a short one, and slow. And it was either that or find real beer.”

I can tell by the look on his face that I shouldn't comment on that, so I return the conversation to me, where I like it.

“Look at my skirt.” I fluff it up for his admiration. It's cream-colored eyelet that rests at my knees in a positively demure way. “I am not riding your bike in this skirt. And it's nice out. We should walk.”

“No.” He inhales nicotine, not looking the least bit disturbed by his refusal to give in to my whims.

“I'm walking,” I say with finality. Are we really arguing over this? Graham would walk with you. Graham likes walking.

He shrugs. “Okay. I guess we'll meet there.” And he starts toward his motorcycle—which entails walking, I might add.

I stare at him, sure he is joking. When he gets on his bike and looks at me, I see he isn't. Is he for real? As he continues to watch me, I have to believe he is. I ignore the rumble of the motorcycle's engine as he peals out of the parking lot, and when he toots the horn, I flip him off.

I am so walking like I don't have somewhere to be. With a long sigh and lots of mumbling, I begin my trek, kicking at a rock with my magenta sandal as I go.

Deciding to have a conversation with myself seems like a good idea, so I do that. “If this is his idea of wooing, then someone should let him know he totally sucks at it. Won't even walk a mile. A mile! How does he stay so fit-looking? Maybe he just smokes cigarettes all day and hardly eats. Maybe he doesn't need exercise to stay skinny 'cause he eats toilet paper like those models I read about. Graham likes to exercise. Graham likes to eat—and not toilet paper.”

I begin to state the pros of Graham Malone, versus the cons of Blake Malone.

“Graham likes to walk. Graham likes to eat. Graham doesn't smoke cigarettes. Graham doesn't have a problem with addiction, which, crap, that bit endears Blake to me. Okay, moving on. Graham likes to exercise, which is sort of like walking, but I'm going to count it separately.”

I wave at two young boys as they give me strange looks while coasting down the street on their bikes. “Graham has great taste in music. Graham is nice. Graham cooks good food. Graham is orderly and sort of anal about keeping the apartment clean, but that is still a plus. Graham would never do this to me,” I say pitifully as longing shoots through me and makes my chest hurt. I could turn around, go back to Graham, ***ch Blake, profess my love, and hope he professes his back.

And for my awesome conclusion, I end with, “Graham is not an asshat.”

I generally walk a mile, depending on my amount of ambition at the time, within fifteen to twenty minutes. A look at my cell phone tells me I milked this baby out to forty-five minutes, which I think could be a record. I should contact Guinness and see. But I am not one for self-seeking glory, and so, I shall have to decline. Plus, like I have any idea who to get in touch with.

Multi-colored lights, the scent of buttered popcorn, a cacophony of boisterous voices, and foreign metal contraptions of fun and horror sticking up in the air tell me I have reached the fair—that and the sign that says 'Grant County Fairgrounds'.

I glance around the parking lot, looking for a familiar surly-faced guy or motorcycle and instead find something else. My heart squeezes as he strides toward me, although I am not sure if it is in pleasure or fear because, well, he doesn't seem very happy.

He looks up and sees me, his pace slowing as a frown mars his face.

Going for casual, I place a hand on my hip as I ask, “Did you do some heavy speed reading or what?”

“Aren't you on a date? What are you doing?” Graham demands.

“Apparently not. What are you doing?” A light breeze plays with his hair, somehow making it look even better, and I find myself distracted by the way the golden locks move up and back and down.

“Nothing.” His eyes won't meet mine.

I nod. “I always wander aimlessly for miles as a form of doing nothing as well. It's a great way to waste time. And you know what they say about wasting time—actually, I don't know what they say about wasting time. Anyway, have fun doing nothing.” I turn toward the fair, inwardly shouting at him to stop me.

“Kennedy—Ken,” he calls.

I slowly face him. “Which is it? Kennedy or Ken?”

He takes a step toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. His expression alters from one emotion to the next until he finally, carefully, asks, “Which do you want it to be?”

This is a monumental question. Am I Ken to him or am I Kennedy? Basically—am I his buddy or something more? I open my mouth to answer him when something red, yellow, blue, and hideous, appears to the left of him. All good thoughts and feelings leave me in a whoosh of terror. If I was a screamer, I would so scream, but I am not, so instead only a strange, shrill sound escapes me.

I suck in a sharp breath and backpedal, wishing I could close my eyes so that I could pretend it isn't there. Graham is asking me something, but my heart is pounding in my ears, muffling his voice and all other sounds except for my terrified heartbeat. The thing approaches me, waving its oversized hand with a grotesque smile on its face, and I want to run.

“Get back,” I tell it, only my vocal chords are tragically nonexistent at the moment, so it comes out a soundless rasp.

It starts to giggle, and I kid you not, my stomach cramps up in rebellion. Everything about it, constructed to be friendly and appealing, has a menacing quality to it. Its eyes are circled in black, its smile stretches to an abnormal width, showing yellow teeth, and even its bald spot seems garish. This—this right here—is why I hate clowns. There is nothing happy about them. And maybe my revulsion to them started out with the whole throwing up bit, but their appearance certainly didn't help.

Roomies
Roomies Page 43



And then it squirts me in the face with water and I shriek. What began as a tremble turns to an uncontrollable jerking of my limbs. It's still coming for me! What do I do? Where can I go? Where do I hide? I guess I'll stand in frozen terror—I seem to excel at it. My voice is especially loud when I tell it, “Get away from me! Shoo!” I even make a shooing gesture with my hand in case it doesn't speak English.

Its mouth tries to frown, but there is that perpetual smile painted on, and the whole thing just looks wrong, unnatural—like my mom's hair color.

Graham is suddenly between me and the obnoxious thing, cupping my face within his hands. “Hey. Look at me.” He slowly smiles. “Hey there. Are you going to let a silly clown scare you? You're tougher than that. Come on, let's go. I'll buy you cotton candy.”

“Fairs...are not...supposed to have...clowns,” I say around chattering teeth.

Crinkles form around the striking green of his eyes. “I know. Who does things like that without consulting you first? There should have been a memo.”

“At least.”

A spray of cold water hits the back of Graham's head, and of course, once again my face, and I watch as he stiffens, the humor falling away like a superhero's cape when it's time to get real. He straightens, shielding me as he turns around. “That's enough. We get it. You're a clown. You do dumb things. Find someone else to pick on, okay?”

The clown giggles again and pulls an inflatable red bat out of its back pocket. It then commences to hit Graham over the head with it, which has my mouth dropping open. His profile shows me the tightening in his jaw. “Okay. Ha ha. You're funny. Now go away.”

“Graham, let's go. If we walk away, I doubt it will follow.” I'm really hoping anyway. I feel like such a wimp right now, but not enough to stop being one. Effort and all that.

“Yeah. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, releases it, and starts to move—but not in enough time, because the final blow to cause Graham to snap is when the clown reaches around to poke him in the forehead with its fingers.

“What the hell?” he shouts, whirling around to shove the clown back.

The clown lifts its hands up innocently even as it is stumbling back.

“I'm okay,” he tells me when I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Clearly.”

“I'm okay,” he repeats. As he turns toward the antagonistic clown, he says, “I apologize. I just—”

I really think the clown has a death wish and its next move supports this theory. It spins on its heel and takes a jab at him, putting a hand to its mouth when its fist connects with Graham's arm. I have alternating bouts of fear, laughter, and incredulity shooting through me as I watch the confrontation. I glance around, noticing we have a crowd forming around us. This is not good, not good at all.

Grabbing his arm, I yank him toward me when he starts for the clown. Placing my mouth close to his ear, I hurriedly tell him, “We need to leave. It's just a stupid clown. People are watching.” I go still when I feel air fluttering the backs of my legs. I carefully turn around and glare at the cad. “You did not just lift up my skirt.”

It shrugs.

I dive for the offensive being and grunt when an arm loops around my waist and pulls me back. “Easy, Cujo. We're both going to turn around and walk away, okay?”

I take what is meant to be a relaxing breath and nod. “Right. We're above this.” I look at the annoying carnie as I say, “I'm going to write your employer a very stern letter about your conduct.”

It spins in a circle, swinging the bat around its head as it does so, and thumps me over the head with it.

“That's it!” I shriek, running at it like a linebacker. I plow into its stomach with my shoulder and we both go to the pavement, its frumpy costume acting as a cushion for me. I grab the bat from it and begin to pummel it over the head with it. “How's that feel? Doesn't feel good, does it?”

Multiple hands pull at me and I snarl back, so wanting to annihilate all clowns, but finding comfort in being able to at least take this one down. I suppose maybe I am having a 'Happy Gilmore' golfing, or even a 'Billy Madison' penguin attacking, moment, but right now, I am okay with that. And at least I am not drunk—although, I sort of wish I was. Arms hook around me, lifting me up and away from the laughing clown. Who laughs while being attacked, even if the weapon is an inflatable bat? This clown is freaking nuts.

“Crazy clown!” I fight the bands locking me to a hard wall—I soon enough find out the bands are Blake's arms and the wall is his chest. “This is your fault!” I rant at him, twisting my face up to better glower at him. “If you had just walked with me, this never would have happened!”

“Yes, my lack of supervision is completely to blame for your 'roid rage. You should probably lower your dosage.” He tips his face close to mine and says quietly, “Knock it off. Graham is trying to make you look sane for the nice cop over there. We all know it's going to take an impressive amount of acting on his part.”

That slumps my shoulders. I look around, note the dispersing crowd, and focus on my roommate. He's gesturing wildly with his hands to a man in uniform, and I am sort of thinking he is not helping my case—especially with the way the police officer is staring at him like he is babbling nonsense. But then, maybe he is. I shake off Blake's hold and slowly make my way to the two men.

“—attacked her—”

I put a hand on Graham's mouth and press down. “Shh, there, there.” Looking at the unimpressed cop, I say, “The clown is sadistic and should be put down.” I ignore my roommate's groan. “Like, bullet to the head put down. I'm not lying. It—” A hand goes over my mouth and my eyes look up and to the left.

This has to look strange; my hand over Graham's mouth, Blake's hand over mine...

“These two are my responsibility. I thought it would be fun to take them to the fair, but they really can't handle social interaction at all. I should have known better. They're a little...” He moves the finger of his free hand in a circle by his ear, rolling his eyes.

I want to bite his hand, but instead settle with growling, which may or may not help my case. I guess it depends on how you look at it. I mean, if we're looking at a potential crazy person, then yes, I feel my growling is a plus.

I am an asset.

The cop eyes me and Graham, finally shrugging. “Take them home and we'll forget about it. The clown doesn't want to press charges.”

“That clown—” I begin to sputter, but am unceremoniously shoved forward, my words cutting off as I fight to balance my position so that I do not land on my face. I glare at Blake, silently applauding his fabulous acting abilities that make it appear as though he is completely unconcerned over my unhappiness with his conduct.

“I feel bad for that clown,” he mutters as we make our way from the fair.

“He's an asshole,” Graham heatedly declares.

“Clowns are nuisances; they like to irritate people. That's what they do. People usually don't go all Incredible Hulk on them for it.”

“I hate clowns,” I say, sounding sort of spoiled brat-ish. “Especially that one.”

Graham makes a funny noise and I glance at him. His eyes twinkle as they meet mine and he starts to laugh. I lift my eyebrows and he supplies, “You beat up a clown with an inflatable bat.”

Roomies
Roomies Page 44



My mouth stretches into a wide grin as I laugh too. “I so did.”

“Do you realize what else you did?”

“Somehow managed to look fabulous in a completely unflattering situation?”

“You got over your fear. I mean, you were livid. You can't lambaste a clown like that when you're scared of them. That was awesome.” He high fives me.

“I am amazing, like Spiderman,” I say with gusto, nodding in agreement.

Blake looks between the two of us, shaking his head. “You two are incredible.”

“That too,” I say. “Incredible Hulks,” I add.

He lights a cigarette. “Incredible something. I take it the date is off?”

I see Graham stiffen out of the corner of my eye, refusing to look at him. I can visualize the tight-lipped expression he is sure to be wearing without actually having to see it.

“Was it a date?” I innocently blink at him. “I mean, don't dates usually entail the two people going somewhere together? That really didn't seem like a date to me. Me, walking. You, not walking. You didn't even wait for me. Where were you anyway?”

Eyes narrowing, he says, “Whatever makes you feel better in front of Graham.” He hooks a leg over his bike. “If I'd realized it was going to take you an hour to get here, I would have better utilized my time. I was getting you this.” He digs something small, fluffy, and white out of his jacket. It looks like a dead kitten.

I catch it when he tosses it my way, seeing that it is not a dead kitten, but a stuffed one. With furrowed brows, I stare down at it, wondering why he would get me such a thing. And then I sort of melt, because, well, it's so cute. And super soft. I rub it against my cheek as I lift my eyes to his, forgiving him for any annoying thing he's said or done since his arrival in Lancaster.

“Thank you.”

“Unbelievable,” is muttered to the right of me, which is where Graham is located. The voice sort of sounds like his too.

He winks at me as he starts the motorcycle, calling, “We'll do this again soon,” before roaring out of the parking lot.

I turn to Graham, wondering what I will find. His eyes are locked on me, studying me, probably fantasizing about me as well. I'm pretty desirable, especially in this skirt.

I purse my lips and make my kitten dance in the air. “Hello, Graham, my name is Purr-Fecto.” I drop my hand when he gives me a look that is not at all amused. “You know, like Magneto, only in the cat form.” His features go blank and I sigh. “Come on, you grump, let's go home.”

He flinches, his expression darkening, and suddenly I am being pulled roughly against him. He grabs the kitten from my hand and chucks it to the ground, interlacing his fingers with mine—all the while ignoring my perturbed demands that he tell me what is wrong with him, mind you—and slams his lips to mine. My words halt, my brain turns to mush, and I am a spark of fire turning into a blaze with his mouth teasing and loving mine.

Fuuuudge.

He tears his lips from mine, but doesn't release me. “My home. Your home. Our home.” I open my mouth to ask him if the clown did mental damage with his deathly bat, but he's kissing me again.

“I'm competing, Kennedy,” he breathes against my neck. “And I'm going to win.”

I want to tell him that it isn't necessary, that I love him, which is so much more than the minor attraction I feel for his brother, but I don't want him to stop kissing me, so I focus on kissing him back, which isn't exactly a terrible thing to endure, and decide I'll let him compete.

THE KITTEN IS now gray with dirt, but I am floating on the beauty of Graham's words, so even that can't pull me down. But you know what can? Blake appearing beside me in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.

Without looking directly at him, I demand, “What are you doing?”

“Why are you carrying around that stuffed animal?”

“Fashion prop?” I actually forgot I was holding it when I decided we needed cereal for the morning and began the four block walk to the store, so I shoved it in my purse upon entering the building, and there it sits with its dingy head sticking out of the top of it.

“More like you couldn't bear to part with it.”

I turn my head so that I can better squint my eyes at him. “Did you follow me here?”

“Yeah, I drove my motorcycle behind you in such a stealth-like way you didn't even know I was stalking you. You're not the only one who needs staples, you know.”

“Go to the office supply store then. They don't sell them here.”

He slowly closes his eyes and then reopens them. “Staples are food items too, like bread and milk. What school did you go to?”

“You know, I usually like sarcasm. Yours—not so much.”

“I used to do drugs,” he blurts out, immediately clenching his jaw, but meeting my gaze with defiance darkening his. “You probably already knew that.”

The box of cereal drops from my limp hand, hitting the floor with a thump. “I'm sorry, what did you just blurt out, in public?”

He leans close to me, the proximity of him heating the air around me. “You want to know about me. I'm letting you know about me.”

“In a grocery store?” My voice is high with disbelief. But, I mean, really? Talk about worst place ever to have a serious conversation. I shudder at the word 'serious'.

“I have a feeling I won't be getting much alone time with you from now on.” His words tell me he suspects Graham has staked his claim on me. He doesn't seem surprised about it. “Seems like our interaction is working in your favor, if you're still hung up on Graham?”

I nod once at his inquiring look.

Rubbing his forehead, he mutters, “My dad is the definition of an asshole. He is a control freak, yells too much, and has been known to do things that wouldn't exactly endear him to others. My mom...my mom feels sorry for herself and the way her life turned out. Her whole world is focused on her and how better everything could have been.”

I take a shaky breath, seeing a flash of pain in his eyes before it fades. My chest is tight as I say, “Do I need to pull up a chair? Maybe brew some coffee? I mean, how long is this heart to heart going to take?”

A grin lifts his lips almost as immediately as it falls away. “I like that about you.”

I swallow hard, but don't say anything. I'm not going to guess what he is referring to, because, well, there are so many traits that could qualify.

“You avoid all things meaningful. You deflect from important conversations with your sardonic comments. Only, I do the same thing. It doesn't work on me.”

“Can't blame a girl for trying,” I grumble.

He reaches down, offering a now smashed-in box of cereal to me.

I take it and put it back where I got it from, glancing at him. “All those dead animals on the walls of my parents' living room? I put them there.” When his eyebrows lower, I specify, “I mean, I didn't literally put them there, but I hunted them. I killed them. I am responsible for them being forever entombed on a gaudy yellow and white-striped wall. I used to hunt with my dad. A lot.”

He takes a step back, visually sizing me up. “Wait. You don't eat a lot of meat. Graham told me when I got the pizzas.”

My face instantly burns and I cross my arms, waiting.

Blake taps a finger against his unshaven jaw. “And yet you kill animals. Why don't you eat meat?”

I stare straight ahead, my jaw stiff as I mumble, “I eat some meat. But when I don't, it's because I think about the animals as a living creature and not the slab of meat before me and I can't eat it.”

Roomies
Roomies Page 45



“But you can kill them.”

“I don't kill them anymore!” People are beginning to look at us, and I lower my voice when I say, “I am not proud of my prowess as a hunter, okay? And every time I took a life, I felt horrible, but the sorrow I felt at taking an animal's life couldn't compare to the joy I felt knowing I had my dad's approval for something. It was like a blade of love and pain slicing me up each time.

“I was good at it, but I didn't enjoy it. So I stopped. And I don't eat a lot of meat. And, just for the record, anything we hunted was used as food, not trophies. I mean, I guess now the heads are trophies, but...whatever.” I blink stinging eyes and want to race from the store.

“Hey.”

I look up, finding his head dipped low so that his eyes are level with mine.

“I get it.”

I faintly nod, grabbing the already mutilated box of cereal and smashing it against my chest some more. My grip is tight on the box, almost as though I am hugging it to me. “I love this cereal,” I say lamely when he gives me a funny look.

“I can see that.”

“It's my favorite kind.”

“Okay.”

“I'm going now.”

He nods, a distant look in his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

I frown. “What?”

“You know, fishing with your dad. See you tomorrow.” Blake looks at me, a smile on his lips.

“I'm not going.”

“Sure.” He sounds like he doesn't believe me, but I am overwhelmingly worn out from my small dip into the 'feelings' realm, so I walk away without further comment.

I AM WORKING on my second bowl of cereal in the near dark when there is a faint knock at the door. I heave my sleep-lodged body from the chair and stumble into the living room. Six in the morning is way too early for me to be awake. This is all Graham's fault. Even if I wasn't annoyed with the world over being awake at this insanely early hour, I'd still be annoyed with Graham, because, well, when I got home last night, we were back in the 'roomie' zone. At least, I think we were. I'm really not sure, which is the most maddening of all.

We watched a movie together, and yes, we sat extra close and we even kissed, but I don't know, I expected things to be more out of the friend zone than that. I didn't expect him to profess his eternal obsession for me or anything (because it's just a matter of time before he will), and I didn't really think we'd immediately be in bed or whatever (although, ya know, it would have been okay), but...what did I expect? Heck if I know. Something. Something more than what happened.

I open the door and glare my vexation at the one person who has the capability of annoying me more than, or at least an equal amount to, my imperceptive roommate. “This is all your fault.”

He blinks. “What's my fault?”

I don't answer; I just continue to moodily scowl at him. If he hadn't shown up in Wisconsin and (maybe unknowingly, but probably not) messed with people's emotions, none of this would be happening. He got me all confused and Graham all confused and now everyone is confused. You're not being fair. Okay, so I'm not, but who cares? It's six in the morning and I'm going fishing with my dad, not to mention all the other stuff I am irate over.

“I take it you aren't a morning person?” are Blake's next chipper words. He's even smiling, which is bright enough to take over for the sun should it ever feel the need to go into retirement, but still not enough to make me happy. Plus, I know why he's smiling. “Funny thing, seeing you, here, awake. It's almost like you meant to be up. Like you have plans even,” he continues.

I cross my arms, not finding him the least bit funny.

“All set for fishing?”

I turn around without saying a word, going back to the kitchen to finish my cereal, only to find that it is now soggy mush. With a sigh, I dump it out and wash the bowl and spoon.

“Where's Graham?”

I jump, somehow, in my semi-sleeping state, forgetting Blake was here.

He chuckles, moving within my view as he leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “How'd he get you to ****?”

My face burns and I tighten the lopsided rubber band holding my hair up, firmly pressing my lips together so that I do not acknowledge that question.

“Okay.” He straightens. “I'll just go ask Graham.”

“He didn't ask me,” I mutter. “I volunteered.”

His laughter is loud and rich and supremely aggravating. “You don't say?”

Graham enters the kitchen, looking positively perky. Guys shouldn't look perky, FYI. He's wearing old clothes—threadbare jeans that fit his thighs like I want my legs to and a worn deep purple shirt. His hair is messy, but that just makes him more appealing.

He nods at his brother and then turns to me, his eyes softening as he takes a good look at me. “You don't have to go.”

I'm swaying on my feet, so when I try to put a hand up, it sort of flops around before going back to my side. “Sure I do. It'll be fun. You know me, love hanging out with the dad and doing macho stuff so that my gender role can be perpetually confused. It's the best.”

He puts an arm around me and I slam into his side, liking the warmth and smell of him. I could probably fall asleep right here. “Such a trooper,” he says, smacking a loud kiss to my temple.

Blake is watching us in that too in depth way of his, but he quickly looks away when I pointedly stare at him. “I got worms.”

“You should probably go to the doctor for that.”

He rolls his eyes, stealing a bottle of water from the refrigerator and uncapping it. “Doctors are overrated.”

“Yeah, funeral directors too.”

He pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth, bewilderment filtering through his eyes. “I don't understand half of what you say.”

“Well, at least you understand the other half of it. There's hope for you yet. I mean, at least a fifty-fifty chance, right?”

His eyes brighten. “There she is. 'Bout time you woke up. Good morning, Kennedy.”

I mutter something that may or may not come out sounding like, “**** off,” and stomp into the living room to await what is guaranteed to be an outstanding day. I can feel the awesomeness ahead.

Graham follows me, flipping a light switch and burning my eyes. “Did you just tell Blake to **** off?”

“I can't remember. It was so long ago.” I close my eyes and flop onto my back on the couch, hoping when I open my eyes it will be tomorrow.

He frowns. “You never say ****.”

“****. **** **** **** **** ****. ****ity **** ****.”

“Maybe you should go back to bed.”

“Maybe you should fu—”

A hand claps over my mouth, and I look up, finding twinkling eyes on me. “You're cute when you're upset.”

I lick his hand and he yelps as he yanks it back. “Really, Kennedy?”

I smirk, finally feeling halfway decent. “Really. Carry me to the truck, servant.”

The quiet grows, which makes me think he ignored me and left the room, but then I am being tossed over a shoulder. I begin to protest—loudly. “Graham! Put me down. This is no way to treat your roommate.”

A hand smacks my rear and I jerk at the sting that comes. “Licking hands is no way to treat your roommate either. You wanted to be carried to the truck. I'm carrying you. Blake,” he calls. “Let's go.”

I watch black boots follow us as I am jostled around on a broad shoulder with pavement as my scenery. Cool air and gray skies sweep over us as Graham crosses the parking lot. I focus on his steady breathing, wondering how he can carry me without getting winded.

Roomies
Roomies Page 46



It isn't until we reach the truck that I realize his palm hasn't left my right cheek—butt cheek, that is. Blake gets into the truck, leaving Graham and me outside. His hand squeezes my cheek in a completely un-roomie-like way and he lowers me so that I slide down the front of him, catching me between his arms and the side of the truck.

Trapped by his arms, trapped by his eyes, trapped by my feelings for him, we stare at each other.

A smile flirts with his mouth and my stomach flutters. “I'll make you a chocolate cake tonight.”

My mouth waters from those words. “Homemade cake?”

“Mmm. With homemade chocolate frosting.”

I swallow thickly. “Why you gotta play with my emotions?”

“Why you gotta be so easily manipulated? Mention a cake and you're like putty in my hands.”

“I can be,” I breathe.

His eyes darken and he dips his head toward mine, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth as he whispers, “Not yet.”

I think I'm going to fall to the ground when the horn blares and I jump straight up. “****!”

Graham winks at me and moves away. “You're getting some bad habits, Ken.”

“Can you be one of them, Barbie?” Oh yeah. I am back. Take that, Graham Malone.

He pauses by his door, looking at me over the hood of the truck. He shakes his head. “Nah. All I'm gonna be is good. You'll see.”

I love competing Graham. He's fricking lickable.

I also take back every negative thing I thought about him last night when he refused to fondle me (he should just know to do these things)...and this morning...and...any other time I found him less than appealing.

GRANDPA JACK IS passed out on the porch when we arrive at my parents' home, which is one hundred percent awesome. What's even better is that he is wearing his pink scarf that looks like a bra, snoring away with a look of bliss on his wrinkly face. The lawnmower is parked with one wheel on the face of a garden gnome, but hey, at least it's turned off. Either that, or the battery went dead. I wonder if I get my super duper skills on the road from him?

This is not a funny matter. I get that. Alcoholism is a serious issue, and when I glance at Blake's white face, I see it hits him hard. He walks back to the truck without saying a word. Graham and I exchange a look, mine coupled with a loud sigh.

My grandfather is harmless, has never been involved in any criminal activities—well, other than drunk driving (which could have been bad if he'd ever decided to go out of town, but he didn't, and now he can't drive at all, so it's a moot point)—and he's happy this way. So we leave him alone. None of us enable him, but we also don't badger him. This is Grandpa. This is the way he's always been. He's close to eighty and isn't going to change. We just love him anyway.

I touch his cool brow. “Grandpa. Wake up.”

He mutters in his sleep, clutching the scarf to his chest, and rolls toward the door.

I glance at Graham. “Do you think we can get him inside?”

He fingers a lock of hair that has fallen from my ponytail, his eyes a tender caress against my features. “Yes. We can do that. Blake and I,” he adds.

“I don't think...” I look up, noting the cloud of smoke around Blake's head as he speed smokes like someone is after his stash of nicotine.

“It'll be fine. Go on inside. Tell your dad what's up.”

I mentally groan at the upcoming confrontation—every event that involves my father and me turns into one, guaranteed. I could be like, The sky is such a pretty blue today (not that I would ever speak in such a nauseating way), and he'd be all, Only girls notice the sky is blue, or something equally lame. Because, duh, everyone knows the sky is blue, not just girls. Anyway.

I knock on the door once and check to see if it's locked. It swings open and the scent of burning toast hits me. I have dealt with my mother's non-cooking abilities for so long that I can distinguish which foods are, in fact, being decimated by her hand. Today, it is toast.

Rest in peace, crispy bread, I think as I enter the house.

“Mom? Dad?” I call as I avoid the dead eyes of deer staring at me from various positions on the walls, and head into the rose-themed kitchen, which is equally creepy.

My mom is staring at a plate of black, crumbly toast and my father is sitting at the table, watching her. “I don't understand,” she mutters. “I had it on the highest setting.”

“Hey, did you know Grandpa's sleeping outside?” I grab an apple from a bowl on the table and bite into it, thinking maybe the fruit will take the edge off the doughnut craving I am presently having. Three bites tell me it isn't going to work. I am not a quitter, but sometimes, even I must realize my limits. I chuck the apple and decide we'll be making a doughnut stop on the way to fishing. It's the least they can do.

“He must have thought this was home again. He's getting confused more and more,” my mom says with a sigh.

“You don't have the toaster set all the way up unless you want burnt toast.”

She glances at my father. “Why would I want that?”

He shakes his head and pushes himself up from the table, displaying his paunchy stomach. “Graham and his brother here?”

“Yeah. They're trying to wake up Grandpa.”

“And what are you doing here?” His brown eyes I inherited zap me with their intensity.

I shift my feet, but don't look away. “I'm going fishing.”

“Why? Thought that was a boy thing.”

I set my jaw. “Did it ever stop you from taking me?”

“No, because you liked going.”

“Maybe I like going now.”

He snorts. “Maybe you got a thing for Graham.”

My face heats up and I open my mouth to deny his words. Then I think, The hell with it. “Yeah? Maybe I do.”

I see I surprised him when he narrows his eyes at me. He studies me for a minute and then nods. “'Bout time you liked a boy.”

I toss my hands in the air. “You don't make any sense.”

Scratching his head, he says, “I make all kinds of sense.” He leaves the room.

I turn to my mom. “He doesn't make any sense.”

“Your father...isn't good with emotions.”

“Yeah. Figured that out a while ago.” Like, when I was four and cried because our family cat died and he offered to have it stuffed as a means to make me feel better. It didn't.

She throws away the inedible toast and looks at me, her blue eyes sad. “I'm a bad cook.”

My first inclination is to say, “You're just realizing this now?”, but I don't. Instead I shrug. “You're good at a lot of other things.”

“I can't crochet either.”

I purse my lips to keep from agreeing. “Well...you—”

“And I can't sing. I don't even remember the shade of my natural hair color and I've had this outfit since the eighties.”

I glance at her red top and tan pants. Yeah. Those should really go—along with a lot of other things in the house. “You're sort of making it hard for me to make you feel better when you keep tossing all the things you aren't good at, at me.” I brighten. “You can dance! You're a great dancer.”

“I'm having a mid-life crisis.”

“You're forty-six,” I scoff. “You're too young for that. I mean, maybe in four years...”

“I want to get fit, learn new things. Grow my hair out, maybe join a gym. Get a job. There's no reason I can't work. You're out of the house and I just burn food and have no reason to be at home as much as I am. I need some purpose, hobbies. I need a life.”

Roomies
Roomies Page 47



My mouth drops open. She is so having a mid-life crisis. “But...you and Dad...” I trail off, not even knowing where I was trying to go with that. Somewhere awesome, that's for sure.

Mom starts singing 'Living Next Door To Alice', which in itself is strange, since her name is Alice, but I also think it is a diversion tactic, and also, maybe, a hint. Of what, I have no clue. A frown creases my brow as I watch my unusual mother I may or may not take after more than my father—either is a high compliment, of course.

“So—” I begin, and she just sings louder.

I shake my head and leave the room, but the living room isn't much better. Grandpa is propped up on the couch, still sleeping, with Graham and Blake on either side of him. His head bobs from one of their shoulders to the other, and it doesn't take long to find out why. Every time his head lands on one of them, the other one lifts their shoulder and he goes the other way. They also appear to be tangled up in his frayed scarf; one fabric tentacle around Graham's neck and another wrapped around Blake's arm. Both of their faces have resigned looks on them, and they appear to be having so much fun I would hate to disturb that. I don't find my dad in the room, and without saying anything to them, I walk outside.

I take what is meant to be a cleansing lungful of air, but instead I get a mouthful of the foul scent of cow manure, which is puzzling. How can I smell something through my mouth? Anyway. All the blissful smells of country life manage to seep into the town at the most inopportune times—like when I'm outside and breathing.

My dad hops down from the bed of his beat up Ford truck, wiping his hands on his jeans as he straightens. He barely looks at me when he says, “Wasting daylight. Get your boys.”

“They're not my boys.”

“Sure about that?”

Huffing, I round up 'my boys', both of which look beyond relieved to get away from the clutches of Grandpa's deadly pink scarf. We reach a small body of water in under ten minutes. Equipped with fishing poles, tackle boxes, and a cooler, the four of us amble down an uneven hill to a little known hot spot perfect for catching fish.

I strategically place myself away from the Malone men, which, unfortunately, puts me beside my father. Graham gives me a frown I ignore. I also pretend I don't see the smirk on Blake's face. I may have agreed to this fishing expe***ion, but they need to be together without the awesomeness of me getting in the way. I tend to do that. You can't hold back my light; it blazes far and wide.

So I pretend it's just me and my dad. We don't speak, me spearing the worms with the hooks and handing one pole to him. Minutes meld into an hour, the quiet actually relaxing, and when he finally does talk, a small shriek bursts from my lips as I jump.

He ignores that completely melodious sound. “Mom and me...we aren't doing the greatest.”

I remove a hand from my pounding heart and glance sideways at him. We don't have heartfelt conversations. It is an unwritten rule. “Okay.”

He scratches the side of his face and casts the line. “Think I should take her out on a date.”

“What's your definition of a date?” I ask carefully.

He shrugs, looking at the brown water of the creek. A breeze catches the thin strands of his black hair to play with them, revealing his bald spot. “Haven't been on one before, really.”

“Sure you have.”

“Don't know much about them, but I am thinking tractor pulls and cans of beer don't qualify.”

I almost smile at his dry tone. “Probably not, no. How about dancing? Mom likes to dance.”

“You've seen me dance. Can't.”

My father won't meet my eyes, his jaw set stubbornly even as his skin turns a startling shade of pink. I study him, something warm and fluffy going through me. Tenderness? An epiphany of what is happening sweeps over me, stunning in its clarity. My father is coming to me for advice. My father is talking to me like he actually wants me to act like a girl and think like a girl. It's weird.

I look over at Graham and Blake, find them quietly talking, which makes this moment all the more unusual, and turn to my dad. “I can teach you.”

He looks startled. “No.”

Situating myself directly in front of him, I set the fishing pole aside and stare him down. “I'll make you a deal.”

Wariness creeps into his eyes.

“I'll go fishing with you one day a week until summer is over, and you'll have one dance lesson a week with me. You miss a day, I don't fish a day. Deal?”

“Why would I want to do that? Don't need you to go fishing with me that bad.”

My face softens as I note the blustering tone to his voice and the way he will not look at me. “I think I've figured something out about you, but I'm not sure.”

His jaw juts forward, like I am going to shout to the world that he lost his masculinity or something equally absurd. I mean, maybe if I had a megaphone...

“You love your wife.”

“Of course I do.”

“You want to spend time with me.”

With a scowl in place, he replies, “Never said I didn't. You're the one that stopped wanting to hang out with me.”

“Dad.”

Rubbing his jaw, he mutters, “I know I haven't always been the way you want me to be, but I'm trying, all right? Don't know anything about girls. Never have. Hell, I don't even know how to take care of your mother.”

I swallow at his admission, feeling my chest constrict at his inelegant honesty. “Okay. So. I have the perfect solution for this. I'll swap a dance lesson a week for a fishing day a week, and the end result will be mega-snappy dance moves cool enough to let your wife know you love and appreciate her, because, honestly, you really suck at showing it.”

My dad glares at me.

I cross my arms and lift an eyebrow.

Finally, with a dramatic sigh, he nods. “Fine. I'll do it.”

“Don't sound so happy about it.”

“Trying not to.”

“I noticed.”

We go back to our silent fishing, but I'm smiling the whole time. The tension has dimmed. Well, until Blake shoves Graham into the river. A gasp leaves me, my mouth hanging open as I watch my roommate sputter to the surface of the dirty water. I drop my fishing pole, frozen in place.

My dad mutters, “What the hell?”

Blake throws his head back and laughs like I have never seen nor heard him laugh before. The loud and hearty sound is cut off short when Graham comes barreling out of the water, his body aimed straight for him, his eyes daggers of retribution. He lunges for his brother, wrapping his arms around his stomach and heaving him toward the water. Blake stumbles back, landing on his rear just inside the water. The sound of jeans smacking into water is sharp. He swipes water out of his eyes as Graham smirks at him.

“What is wrong with you two?” I demand, more annoyed than worried. They seem to be getting along, even if they are being brutish about it.

Suddenly I have the attention of two wet men, twin calculating gleams in their eyes. Graham is closest, his steps slow and purposeful as he approaches me.

“Don't even think about it.” I put my hands out in front of me to ward him off.

His grin deepens as he reaches me. Water drips from his hair down his face to become one with his soggy clothes. “Don't think about what?”

A glance over my shoulder tells me a tree, the first form of cover I think of, is too far away. Not one to give up, I move for it anyway, but a wet, strong hand grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me away from where I want to go until I am flush with a cold chest. Cold clothes; warm body, I should say. His skin is burning through the dampness of his shirt.

Roomies
Roomies Page 48



“Graham, I swear, if you throw me in that water, I will never speak to you again.”

His voice is low and close as he says, “You make it sound like that wouldn't be a good thing.”

I haven't even finished my sound of incredulity before I am gathered into his arms, my arms unconsciously going around his neck to anchor me to him. His touch is gentle, his eyes are smiling.

“I mean it. This won't be good for you.”

“Oh, I don't know about that.” His arms swing out, and I tighten my hold on him, threatening him even as he is laughing at me. He does it again as we move closer to the water and I glare all my irk at him.

“If I go, you go.”

He tilts his head as he studies me. His voice is unnaturally sober as he tells me, “That's fine with me.”

I don't have time to process that before he lets go of me. I hit the water, refusing to let go of his neck, and we both go under. Lucky for me, the water is only a couple feet deep. Unlucky for Graham, I twist around until I am straddling him, keeping him down with my weight so the only thing above water is his head.

I give him a sweet smile. He doesn't return it.

“Hi,” I purr.

He grunts in response.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“What can I say? Where you go, I follow.”

I pat his cheek. “That's so sweet.”

“I'm a sweet guy.”

“So sweet,” I agree.

“Hey! You're scaring the fish away.” This from Blake, who is now standing near my father.

“The fish love me!” I declare, sweeping my arms out wide and losing my balance. I splash into the water, first laughing, and then choking as water goes down my throat.

Graham lifts me out of the water by my shirt. “The weight of your arrogance obviously tipped you over.”

“It was more like the air couldn't handle all my splendor.”

Half of his mouth lifts. “Something like that.”

“Fishing with the three of you is impossible,” Dad grumbles and stomps to the cooler, opening a can of soda and gulping it down.

For the remainder of the day, the four of us pretend to fish while we really enjoy tossing insults back and forth. My father is surprisingly good at it. I watch him joke around with the Malone men and feel pride feather its way through my chest. He's not so bad, I realize. I guess I'll keep him.

GRAHAM PRODUCES A pan of brownies from the oven just as I walk into the kitchen. I knew he was making them, because the aroma of baking chocolate was tantalizing me the whole time I tried to relax in the bath. It's that blend of warm cocoa and sugar that makes you envision melting chocolate surrounding you, invading your senses. I got out early, way before I decompressed from work and finished my glass, okay, bottle, of wine, and now I am standing before him in a towel, dripping water on the floor, and salivating for a brownie—and my roommate. My head is fuzzy, which may or may not be from the wine. I can't be sure.

I take a deep breath and blurt out, “Can we move past the friend zone and into the next zone already?”

He freezes, looking comical bent over with a pan of brownies gripped in his red oven mitts. He's so domestic. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s called a towel. Answer the question.”

He frowns at me. “I—do you want to?”

I **** my head. It already feels like we're a couple, but focusing on it also makes me feel slightly ill. Because, commitment? Scary. Even so, this intimacy, this comfortableness, between us, comes naturally. It always has, even when he was stupid and thought he should date. I was the one he confided in, the one he snuggled against, the one to make him laugh. None of his ex-girlfriends ever had with him what we have.

“Yes,” I say hurriedly and just as hurriedly add, “Give me the pan and no one gets hurt.”

“You—what? You need to put clothes on.” He swallows, slowly straightening. His eyes never leave me and I resist the urge to drop the towel. Why do I keep resisting the urge? Aren't you supposed to follow your instincts? He inhales deeply. “You can't walk around in towels anymore. It's forbidden.”

“Since when?”

He closes his eyes and slowly inhales, popping them open as he says, “Since now. Right now. It's no longer allowed. It's a roommate rule.”

“Roommate rule?”

He nods.

“We don't have roommate rules.” Okay, so we do, just...I never follow them. Also, we made them up one night after some heavy drinking, so they really don't count, not to me. I search my head to see if this is, in actuality, one of the silly laws we made up while under the influence of alcohol.

Roomie Rule #1: Never put a gallon of milk back in the fridge when there is only an inch of milk left in it. (Graham's)

Roomie Rule #2: Do not put a knife in the peanut butter and then use the same knife in the jelly. (Graham's)

Roomie Rule #3: The television must be on football if football is on the television. (Graham's)

Roomie Rule #4: Use your own razor. (Graham's)

Roomie Rule #5: Any chocolate in the apartment belongs to Kennedy, regardless of who bought it. (Mine)

There's more, but I can't see the point in remembering them. Brain strain and stuff.

“You know,” I begin, getting beyond irritated as I think of all the stupid rules he's made up since we began living together. “Your rules suck.”

“Maybe you suck at following rules.”

“Maybe you should suck—”

“Don't,” he growls. “Don't even say it. Get dressed. Please.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to be decent right now and it’s getting extremely difficult.”

I stare at him, scrunching my face up as I consider his words. His expression is pained, tightness around his eyes and mouth. My inward debate lasts all of five seconds. I mean, look at him. I don't want him to continue *****ffer. I lift my arms out to my sides and let the fabric fall, hearing his breath hiss through his teeth. No one has ever seen me naked before—at least, no one other than my family when I was a small child.

But if I want anyone to be the first—and only—to gaze upon my unclothed form, it is Graham. I can't be embarrassed about my boldness or lack of clothing, not with him. I trust Graham in all ways—with any secrets I feel the need to tell him, with me, even with my virtue. Also, I am impatient and we totally need to move this forward, or stop it altogether. Which, ouch to my heart.

The pan of brownies falls from his limp hands, clattering to the floor with the sound of sorrow, and he doesn't even notice. I do, of course. I shriek in horror and race for them, forgetting about how hot the pan is and burning my hands. Cursing, I tear the oven mitts from his frozen fingers and rescue about a third of the brownies. It doesn't register in my head that I am still naked until I glance at Graham and notice that I sort of put my breasts directly in front of his face, since he's still bent over. You'd think his back would hurt after a while. Also—he's turned on. Even if I didn't want to notice, it is just too obvious not to.

I slowly stand, but all that does is give him a better view. And then I decide I might as well work it, since, ya know, I'm naked and everything. I bend a knee and jut a hip out, placing my hands on my waist. I do this thing with my head that has my loose hair swinging around my arms and chest. He doesn't say anything—he just watches me with hunger in his eyes. It is so potent I feel a responding tug inside me.

He slowly straightens, and even that motions seems to bring him pain. His hand trembles as it raises and my breath catches, thinking he is going to touch my girls, but all he does is gently, with the barest brush of his fingertips along my sensitive skin, remove a lock of hair from my shoulder.

Roomies
Roomies Page 49



Graham's eyes meet mine and a charge goes through me at the heat within them. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds like gravel. “You're naked.”

“Yes. Way to be observant. You said not to wear towels around the apartment anymore. I'm just following the rules.”

His eyes flicker down and I feel his gaze on my skin like the hot brownie pan on my hands. It scalds me. They slowly raise to mine. “This isn't how the first time should be,” he says bluntly, all of him burning into me, his soul an imprint upon mine.

“With you? Yes. It should.”

“Your first time should be slow and careful, not crazy, frantic ***, and right now, that's what it would be. I don't want to hurt you. You deserve better,” he says in an unsteady voice. “I want to do this right and this isn't the right time.”

“What did you say about waiting for the right time?” I ask around a thick throat, feeling rejected. I reach down and grab the towel, quickly wrapping it around me once more. “That what you think is the right time is usually too late.” He doesn't say anything, but his lips press into a thin line. My anger flares like flames of red heat. “You know what? You're a self-righteous ass. Have fun not having *** with me.”

I start to leave the room, and glance over my shoulder to say the worst thing possible. “Maybe I'll call your brother. I know he won't say no.”

I haven't even ended the lie before he is to me, his jaw clenched as he looms over me. “Don't even joke about that,” he says slowly, thickness to his voice.

“Who said I was joking?” My body is shaking, part in fury and part in longing.

“Damn it, Kennedy!”

“Don't swear at me!” I yell, not really sure why everything he does and says is presently so irritating, but it is. Then again, I do know. My insides are all jumbled up, my mouth has a perpetual taste of something to it, and I feel...ugh, which is the most horrible of ways to feel. So horrible I can't even put a better name to it. I'm frustrated—mentally, ***ually, emotionally.

My heart feels like it is cracked and I don't know how to make it whole again. I almost wish we were back to buddies, back before we kissed and said things and then became stupid. I also should have been honest long, long ago. That's what's between us; all the things we should have said before now and didn't. It isn't just me, and it isn't just him. We both messed up. Blake isn’t really the problem—it’s our own lack of bravery that’s held us back.

“Can you just—can you just be honest, okay? Stop pretending to be someone you’re not.” His voice is pleading and his eyes are hurting.

“I don't pretend,” I snap, although, yes, I do. I pretend I don't love him in the way I do, I pretend I am okay with just being his friend, I even pretend I am narcissistic, when really, I'm trying to hide all of my insecurities beneath sarcasm and a facade of insensitivity. I missed my calling as an actress. I missed my calling as a lot of things, I guess. The world will never be the same with all of my talent wasted working as a foot doctor's assistant.

“So you meant what you just said about Blake?”

I bow my head. “No,” comes out in a meek voice.

“It's time to get real, okay? No more jokes, no more acerbic comments. Just you, me, and truth.”

I freeze, thinking I should look up 'acerbic', and meet his gaze. “Fine,” I say in a voice limp with resignation. It's past time to get real. “I'll get so real you'll wish I was fake.”

He frowns at me.

“How's this for real?” I lean toward him. “I'm sick of being your buddy.”

“I'm sick of you being my buddy.”

Our faces are close, his red and tight—mine probably really unattractive at the moment. “We never should have been roommates.”

He flinches. “You're right. We were not meant to be roommates. I know that now.”

My breath hitches. “Why did you have to wait until your brother showed up to say anything? That makes me feel like this—whatever this is—isn't legitimate. Maybe you're just competing with your brother for the sake of competing. How am I supposed to know?”

He runs his hands through his hair. “How can you not know? Everything I say, everything I do, how I look at you. How can you not know?”

“Assuming things doesn't get anyone anywhere, Graham, you know that. People need to be told things, even me.” Especially me.

He grabs my hands, his expression earnest. “I wanted you, Kennedy, from within minutes of knowing you. At first that's all I thought it was—an attraction. I realized it was more than that months ago, but I still felt like I shouldn't make a move, that it wasn't the right time. I didn't want to feel like I was pushing you into anything, ya know?

“And you're so much younger than me, you have so much living to do. How could I take that away from you? I tried dating others, but...I couldn't keep dating women when all I wanted was already living with me. I was going to tell you. I just...I wanted to make sure you felt the same. You joke a lot, but I never know what you really feel. Then Blake showed up and I panicked when I saw how you responded to him. I messed up. Big time. I don't even feel like I deserve a chance anymore.”

I want to hold him, but I can't. Not yet. “I hate all your girlfriends.”

“I haven't dated anyone in months.”

“I don't care! I still hate them.”

He shifts his jaw back and forth. “Fine. Okay. I hate all your boyfriends.”

“I haven't had a boyfriend since I moved in with you.” Like I wanted to admit that.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “I hate all of your potential boyfriends.”

“What potential boyfriends?”

His hands fly into the air. “I don't know! Potential ones. Any guy you look at, how's that?”

“Even Dr. Olman?”

“Yeah. Probably. If you smiled at him.”

I grab Graham and squeeze him to me, feeling him slowly relax against me. This—him—this is all I want. Just him. The feel of his thundering heart against my chest makes me squeeze harder. He lifts his arms and holds me back, placing his chin on the crown of my head, and then rubs his cheek against my hair. He's upset. I'm upset. But even so, here we stand, together.

He sighs. “Now what do we do?”

“Make out?” I suggest hopefully.

He pulls back, his eyes flickering to my lips just before he brands them with his. It is a hard kiss, his teeth scraping my lips, his mouth punishing mine, telling me I will never, ever, ever be with anyone other than him. I already know it. The sweetness has been burned from Graham, and I also know I did that as well.

But I am not sorry.

I grab the ends of his shirt and tug. He obeys my silent command, removing his shirt and immediately locking lips with me. His hands find mine and thread our fingers together as he raises them over our heads, moving forward so I have no choice but to move back. Through the kitchen, into the living room, down the hall, never once do our lips part. He surrounds me, finally taking me, marking me as his with every touch of him.

He pushes me back, into his room, and I fall onto the bed, his body immediately covering mine. A low moan leaves me at the feel of him against me. “I'm done being the nice guy, Kennedy,” he growls, his eyes flashing down at me.

'I'm Too ***y' by Right Said Fred starts playing from my bedroom. I stare up at Graham. “Good. Because I like it when you decide to get crazy and not shave. You're so badass when that happens.”