Just Roommates

by Ferrell, Charity

  The bar is packed, but he’s not taking orders from anyone. He holds up a finger when they call his name, his eyes drinking me in as if I were his cocktail. Satisfaction hits me, and my cheeks blush. I’m the one who’s holding his attention.

  “Consider yourself special because I made you that drink. That’s normally not my style.” He rubs his hands together. “Now, I’d love to continue this guessing game, but customers are waiting. Go drink and enjoy your night.”

  I frown, not wanting to leave him. I grab my drink, but he stops me from turning around.

  “One more thing, Jailbait.”

  My knees weaken when he comes closer. Mere inches separate us. I inhale his scent—cinnamon and spice—and nearly die when he drops his head, his lips brushing my ear.

  “Tell me, birthday girl,” he whispers.

  I gulp. Do not fall on your ass. Breathe. “What?” I stammer.

  “Who is the dude at the table behind you, shooting me a murderous glare? Does he know you came here for me?”

  My nails dig into the bar, ruining my fresh manicure, and I shiver as something rushes through me that shouldn’t—desire.

  I was so hooked on Maliki that I forgot about Devin. I hate that I lose our contact when I peek back at Devin. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are fixed on us.

  Shit.

  He invited himself tonight. We’re each other’s exclusive booty calls—not hooking up with other people yet not sharing love devotions.

  I shrug, glancing back to Maliki. “He’s kinda, sorta my boyfriend.”

  “Kinda, sorta?” he questions. “How the fuck is someone kinda, sorta your boyfriend?”

  “I mean … we haven’t made anything official.”

  “Some words of advice, Sierra: a man who wants you will never let you say he’s kinda, sorta your boyfriend.” He catches my chin and swipes his thumb over my lower lip. “This is on me, Jailbait. Go dump your kinda, sorta boyfriend and have yourself a great fucking birthday.”

  4

  Sierra

  Age Twenty-Two

  I stride into Down Home Pub, and per usual, I head straight to Maliki. It’s early evening, and the night crowd hasn’t hit the place yet. That gives me plenty of time to annoy him before customers arrive with drink demands.

  I drop onto a stool and watch him pour a beer for a brooding customer. He nods when the man pays him, and then his eyes meet mine. We share a smile—mine no doubt loaded with goofiness. He snags a cleaning towel, takes the few steps separating us, and stops in front of me. He leans back on his heels and waits for me to speak.

  I shift my weight in the stool. “Guess what.”

  He dries his hands on the towel. “Who knows with you, Jailbait?”

  “I moved home!”

  He chuckles. “Oh boy, that’s fucking trouble. We should alert the authorities.”

  “Don’t act like you’re not secretly thrilled I’ll be able to annoy you more,” I say with more dignity than someone borderline stalking him should.

  I snatch a peanut from the chrome bucket on the bar, crack open the shell, and pop the nut into my mouth.

  When I came home on breaks, I always headed straight to the pub to see him. I ordered all my drinks from him, ditched my friends to hang out at the bar with him, and spent more time here than at home.

  Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean we’ve shared in-depth discussions. The bar stays busy, and most locals order from him rather than the other bartenders. We make small conversation until he’s called away again.

  “Oh, princess, I can’t wait.” He inches closer, provoking my breathing to hitch, and softens his tone. “What made you come home?” His smile widens. “You want to see me every day, don’t you? I love that you find me irresistible.”

  Thank God the bar hides the view of me clenching my thighs underneath my maxi dress. This is Maliki’s game. He loves fucking with my head. He’ll get closer, whisper in my ear, and then back away to serve a customer, a shit-eating grin on his face. The ass knows I’m attracted to him.

  I roll my eyes and toss a shell at him. “You’re so arrogant. Gee, I don’t know, maybe I moved home because”—I hold a finger to the corner of my lips—“my family lives here. That’s a mighty ego you wield there, bartender. You should drink some of it off.”

  “Your family and me,” he corrects with a smirk.

  Am I that transparent?

  For as long as I can remember, I swore I’d never live in Blue Beech as an adult. My hometown was too small, too stuffy, but that plan changed a month ago. I graduated from college a semester early, and instead of apartment-searching in the city, I packed my stuff and came home. After being gone for four years, a girl needed some familiarity.

  I straighten my back and clear my throat. “I’ve experienced the party life, and now, I’m ready to get a job and act like an actual adult.”

  He chuckles. “It’s weird, seeing you mature, Jailbait. It seems like only yesterday you were in here, all doe-eyed and innocent with your strawberry daiquiri.”

  “Hey, I’m very mature, thank you very much. Just yesterday, I scheduled my own dentist appointment.”

  “Oh shit, look at you, all grown-up and changing the world by assuring you’re cavity-free. Maybe next week, you’ll advance to grocery shopping.” He pauses, holds up a finger, and winks. “Hold up. I bet you’re back for my drinks. They don’t make them like me in the city, do they? I’ve ruined you for all other bartenders.”

  “I hate to pop your drink-making ego, but the booze selection in the city is much larger.” I smirk. “I’ll give you some pointers.”

  Down Home Pub doesn’t boast an expansive drink list—beer by the bottle and draft, mixed drinks, shots, and a few select wines. Nothing too fancy. There aren’t any special house cocktails, but there’s also no demand for it.

  He shakes his head. “Eh, not interested. You can keep testing what I give you though.”

  Sometimes, Maliki gives me drinks to taste-test. I’ve never had one I didn’t like.

  I roll my eyes. “God, you’re boring.”

  “For someone who claims I’m boring, you sure seem to enjoy yourself around me.”

  “I love drinking your boring drinks.” I shrug. “’Tis all.”

  “You love my company, babe,” he talks while starting a drink. “There are two sides of the bar. Mikey is free, and I guarantee he won’t have a problem serving you. He’s more your age and always up for a good time. Hell, he’s probably more entertaining than I am. Why don’t you go bug him?”

  I scrunch up my nose. “Ew. Mikey sleeps with any woman who can count to ten.”

  He chuckles. “It’s eleven now.”

  “Aw, I’m glad he’s upped his standards.”

  Maliki drops my favorite drink in front of me, a playful grin on his face, and turns to help another customer.

  I hate this part. The part where I share him with them.

  He returns when he’s finished serving their needy asses.

  “You moving back in with your parents?” he asks.

  “Unfortunately, yes. That’s something I’m not looking forward to. I plan to find an apartment, but everyone knows there aren’t many open rentals in this town.”

  “And the boyfriend?”

  I lower my head and take a long sip of my drink. “It’s, uh …” I gulp it down and sigh before clarifying, “Still complicated.”

  He nods.

  Devin begged me to stay with him until he graduated. When I didn’t, we agreed to spend time away from each other—physically, that is. We still talk, and he mentioned he was searching for apartments between Blue Beech and the town he had grown up in. I told him he was nuts, thinking we could move in together. My parents would cut me if I moved in with a man before marriage.

  When I peek back up at Maliki, his attention is on me. Mine is on him. He’s wearing his signature Down Home Pub tee and a backward baseball cap.

  He raises a brow. “Sierra is single then?”

&nbs
p; I shrug. “Kinda, sorta.”

  “What did I tell you about the kinda, sorta shit?” he asks in a scold-like manner.

  Instead of making me another drink containing alcohol, I’m given a glass of water.

  I play with the straw, jabbing a piece of ice. “We’re taking a break.”

  I can’t stop myself from admiring his arms when he crosses them. Infatuation barrels through my blood. It’s absurd how drawn I am to him.

  “I’m no expert, but couples taking breaks from each other isn’t a sign of a healthy relationship, Jailbait.”

  “Exactly. I’m jailbait. We’re young.”

  “Twenty-two isn’t young, princess.”

  “How old were you when you acquired the bar?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Were you ready to settle down at my age?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Exactly! Why does everyone like to give out advice but never take their own?”

  “I also wouldn’t string you along if I didn’t know what I wanted. I’d be straight up and ask you to be straight up in return.”

  We’re interrupted by my phone beeping with a text.

  “Ugh, it’s my mother,” I say, reading it.

  He strokes his face stubble. “Why’s that an issue? You love your mom.”

  “She’s throwing a welcome-home party for me.” I grimace. “All the folks of Blue Beech can’t wait to see me and ask three thousand questions.” I get up with a huff and rub my brow to ward off the impending headache. “Most of them ask why I’m still single, just as you did.”

  He holds his hands up. “Hey, babe, I’m not telling you to get hitched to some frat boy just to please people.”

  My phone beeps again, my mother asking if I’ve picked out what I’m wearing. I hold up the phone to show him the text. “See! She already wants to know what I’m wearing!”

  “What will you be wearing?” he asks suggestively with a smirk.

  “Clothes.” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Maybe a dress with no panties.” I grin when his eyes widen and his jaw flexes. “You’ll probs see me later when I come to drink the party away.” I wiggle my fingers in a wave. “Bug you later, bestie.”

  * * *

  “I swear to motherfucking God, I’d better not see your ass on Dateline,” Ellie says. “I refuse to do an interview, talking about the girl you were before becoming obsessed with that man behind the bar.”

  I press my hand to my chest and fake offense. “What are you talking about?” I bump my shoulder against hers. “You’d better never go on Dateline and tell my secrets.”

  “Never. I’m referring to my friend being annoying on my birthday because she’s daydreaming about the bartender dicking up her vagina.” She shoots me a grin of amusement.

  “Or this friend is staring at the bar, debating on what her next drink will be.”

  This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s told me to ask Maliki out. I question if she’s started smoking crack. Maliki would turn me down, and I’d never step foot into the pub again.

  That can’t happen, and not to mention, a relationship would never work with us. We’re too different. So, I’ll admire him from afar like he’s a handbag in a store I can’t afford.

  She tugs her hair into a tight ponytail. “Honey, you spend more time here than your own home and with your boyfriend. Do your parents know this?”

  “Nope. They think I’m working crazy hours, which is true with my new job.”

  “Does Devin know about your favorite pastime and why you keep pushing him away?”

  “Hey, I don’t push him away,” I lie.

  She snorts. “Dude has brought up marriage to you like ninety thousand times, and you brush him off. If that’s not pushing someone away, I don’t know what is.”

  “We’re too young to get married.” I chug my drink. “Are you ready to get married?”

  “That’s a big hell no.”

  Tamara, our waitress, returns to our table with another round of drinks. “Maliki asked me to drop these off.”

  She throws me a wary look identical to the ones the other bar employees give me. The waitresses and Maliki’s sister, Liz, aren’t my biggest fans.

  I signal to them. “Oh no, we didn’t order these.”

  Ellie shoves my shoulder, giving me a dirty look. “Of course we did.” She side-eyes me when Tamara shrugs and walks away. “What is wrong with you? You never turn down free drinks. Living with your parents again fucks with your head.” A quick smile spreads across her lips as if something hits her. “I mean, we know you’ll only take free drinks from the bartender though because you’re in love with him.”

  I roll my eyes, a pain forming in my throat. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  * * *

  4 Months Later

  “Any plans later?” Maliki asks.

  “Nope,” I answer. “Unless you count hanging out here.”

  Instead of replying, Maliki focuses his attention on something behind me. When his eyes narrow, I shift in my chair to find what’s suddenly pissed him off.

  I wince.

  What the hell?

  Maliki tenses when Devin meets us at the bar.

  My kinda, sorta boyfriend slings an arm over my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “Hey, babe.”

  Devin looks like he came straight from the office—sporting khaki slacks, a white button-up shirt, and chestnut-colored Sperry slide-ons. Ever since he graduated and moved home, he comes around more.

  The two men I’m attracted to couldn’t be more opposite.

  I cringe and force a smile. Devin’s kiss isn’t what has upset me. It’s why he kissed me, acting as if I were his possession. It’s a reminder to Maliki that I’m not his.

  Last night, Devin emailed links of possible condos to look at, and his father offered me an interior design position at his building firm, to which I accepted.

  My breathing accelerates, and I grow more flustered by the second.

  How rude would it be to shrug him off?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He tugs me closer, giving me a tight squeeze, and feigns ignorance that Maliki is here. “Corbin said you and Ellie were here. I had a break in my schedule and wanted to surprise you.” His hand creeps to my waist. “I’ve missed you, and I needed to see your gorgeous face. Plus, I found a condo you’ll love.”

  This is when I jerk away from him. He knows I can’t move in with him, but again, Maliki.

  After my twenty-first, Devin questioned me about Maliki for weeks—asking how I knew him, if I had a thing for him, if we’d ever hooked up, if I was into older men. He accused me of flirting with Maliki, but I never entertained the conversation. Devin and I weren’t in a committed relationship then.

  I grind my teeth and twist in my stool. “We’ve had this discussion.”

  Maliki snatches my half-empty glass from the bar and walks away, shaking his head in irritation.

  Devin grins at the loss of Maliki. “Sorry, I needed to clear the air, so we could enjoy our night.”

  “I wasn’t aware Ellie invited you,” I mutter.

  “She invited Corbin, who then called me.” He shoots me an accusatory look for my lack of invite to him.

  Corbin is Devin’s cousin and Ellie’s new boyfriend. I fixed them up after she broke up with Leo.

  Devin captures my hand, and I hop off the stool, allowing him to lead me to Ellie and Louis’s table, wishing I could return to my stool and stay with Maliki.

  Maliki is glaring at us when I turn around, and me mouthing, I’m sorry, to him further pisses him off.

  He turns his back to me, wanders over to a woman, and talks to her for the rest of the night. He doesn’t look at me again the entire night, and it infuriates me.

  I fake interest in conversations but have no clue what anyone has said. The drink Devin brought me earlier—one he’d ordered from Maliki and complained he was an assh
ole to him while doing so—is half-full and watered down. For the first time, I’m relieved when Devin asks if I’m ready to leave Down Home Pub.

  Devin walks me outside and kisses me good night, and we walk to our cars. Instead of leaving as he does, I slump down in my seat.

  I’ll stick around and reflect for a moment.

  Settle down from the anxiety of the night.

  Screw Devin for pulling a power move like that.

  It’s nearing last call, and I question my sanity as I watch each minute tick by. When the time hits one fifty-five and I notice people leaving, I wander back into the bar, fear surging through me.

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  Maliki sets down the bottle in his hand and stares at me in question. “Did you forget something?”

  As I hoped, the place is almost empty with the few lingering people gathering up their belongings and heading toward the door.

  I shake my head, and a brief silence passes over us while he waits for me to explain why I’m here. “I thought you might need help cleaning up.”

  “You thought I might need help cleaning up?” he slowly repeats. “How much did you drink?”

  “Not enough.” I move further into the bar, praying he won’t kick me out—something he’s never had an issue with. “Even if you don’t want me to clean, can we hang out?” I hop onto the bar and swing my legs back and forth in an attempt to prevent them from shaking.

  He shrugs, circles around the bar, and starts placing stools on pub tables. “I’m always up for pleasant company.”

  He considers my company pleasant.

  Yay!

  I jump off to help him, and when I can’t take the silence any longer, I blurt out the last question I should, “You don’t like Devin, do you?”

  He practically throws the next stool onto the table, and it slides forward. “You won’t like my answer to that.”

  I grab a stool, but my lifting skills are nowhere near as graceful as his. Things are heavy. “Why not?” Why am I asking this when I already know the answer?