Cuffed to my Roomies

by Natasha Black

  “If you’re gonna talk about the case, I’m going to shower,” I said, “Otherwise I’ll ask way too many questions. I’ve watched a lot of Law & Order, and I’ll start trying to solve the crime.”

  I went to sleep that night very happy. I had a safe, nice place to live. I liked my roommates, and I knew that Derek, at least, was attracted to me. There was nothing wrong with a little fun flirting as long as it didn’t go anywhere. It was harder to tell about Brett—he was more reserved, not as flirtatious. He seemed like a nice guy, like he had potential to be a good friend. Although he’d definitely be the sexiest friend I’d ever had. I would have to get my hormones under control if I didn’t want to act like an idiot around them, drooling when they were shirtless or working out or generally walking around the loft . I wasn’t the kind of girl who ogled men. At least, I thought I wasn’t until I met these two hunky cops. The next thing I knew, I was having a naughty dream about Derek—the two of us working out together, Derek showing me how to lift kettle bells, one thing leading to another, and then Brett walking in! When I woke from that dream, my face was hot with either embarrassment or arousal. I was afraid to wonder which one.

  5

  For a part-time gig, the unpaid internship at Envy kept me busy. I learned so much at the first staff meeting that I got into the habit of going to any meeting I was invited to. I got to know a lot of the writers and designers, and I even got to sit in on a marketing meeting for the web site. I did a lot of responding to unsolicited emails and spec articles with a polite not-at-this-time message. I picked up coffee and people’s lunches, went to the post office a couple of times and once to a pharmacy to pick up a prescription for an editor who was in a meeting. I’d learned the bus route pretty well with my car out of commission, and I started to wonder if I should just sell my car when it was repaired.

  The only problem I really had was making it to my waitressing job on time. Theoretically I could make it if I left the internship on time. But I didn’t want to be unprofessional by leaving an email half-written or skip a stack of copies I’d promised to do that day. So more often than not, I had to run from the bus stop and still walked in a few minutes late. The fourth shift in a row that I didn’t report until nearly ten minutes after my shift started, the manager pulled me aside.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I should have left earlier.”

  “You seem to be having trouble balancing your responsibilities at the magazine with your shift here,” Ben said. He wasn’t unkind. I was pretty lucky that I hadn’t been given a work-ethic and responsibility lecture before the fourth day in a row.

  “What if we adjusted the schedule so I started half an hour later, but I stayed to do the vacuuming or work on the dishes or something for an extra half hour?" I offered.

  “We have cleaning staff. We have dishwashers. What we need is a server who arrives on time for her shift.”

  “Am I being fired?” I shifted uncomfortably.

  “According to company policy, you’re being formally reprimanded for tardiness. Three more tardies will result in automatic termination,” he said, “I don’t have a choice. I know you’re a good server, you get along with the other wait staff, and the customers like you. But you’re late every day.”

  “This is my fault, Ben. I appreciate you giving me another chance. My car should be done tomorrow, and I sure as hell need this job to pay off the repair bill. Maybe with my own ride I can get here quicker.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  I swallowed hard and my heart sank. I’d never been fired from a job before. I didn’t want to be the flaky, undependable waitress. But the internship was everything I’d ever dreamed of, and I wasn’t willing to give it up, or to shortchange that experience for a waitressing gig, when I could, realistically, get another job as a waitress, possibly with different hours. I just liked it there, liked the people on my shift, and the whole atmosphere. It was polished but not uptight, and no one tried to grope my ass, which was a hazard I’d run into before in that line of work.

  When I went home after that shift, I was worried that I wouldn’t last the week. I sat at the kitchen table, chin in my hands, staring at the glass of water I’d gotten myself. I didn’t know what to do.

  “Watching ice melt?” I heard Brett ask, “We have TV, you know. I’ll even let you hold the remote.”

  “Thanks,” I said, looking up at him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, not wanting to trouble him.

  Brett flipped a chair around and swung his leg over it, facing me, “What’s up, buttercup?”

  “I got a warning at work. I’ve been late four days in a row.”

  “Your internship’s only part time, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s the hold up?”

  “I get all these opportunities to go to meetings and events, and I never let one pass me by so I can learn as much as I can while I’m there. So then I end up having to stay late to do my filing or copying or emails or whatever I promised to do. And the shift starts so close to when my time’s up at the magazine—the bus has been a lifesaver, but I still end up flat out running to get to the restaurant, and with having to cross at the light and—these all sound like bad excuses. I can’t seem to make it on time. And policy is that I’m fired in basically three days.”

  “Have you tried telling the magazine people no? Like, I’d love to sit in on that but I have to finish my work?”

  “I have. I just end up dawdling and wondering what’s going on at the meeting and I still barely get finished.”

  “It sounds like you just want to be at Envy.”

  “Well, right. I mean, that’s exactly what I want, but I have to make money so I can live.”

  “What if you changed jobs?”

  “I’m going to have to. I’ll look around for a place that lets the servers start a little later.”

  “Why switch? Don’t you like this place where you work? Just see if they have a bartender opening. Tips are better at the bar anyway. I used to sling drinks when I was going through the academy. Made a damn fortune in tips on the weekends.”

  I looked him up and down, “I bet you did,” I teased, “And the bar’s open later so I bet they have different hours. That’s not a bad idea.”

  “I have those once in a while,” he quipped.

  “I appreciate it. It was nice of you to take an interest. I mean, you guys helped me out when I needed it most, and I don’t want to interfere with your dynamic as roommates. I don’t want to be in the way.”

  “If you were in the way, we wouldn’t have asked you to move in. I know it seems like Derek runs the show, and a lot of the time he does, but it was a mutual decision. And not just based on that frittata you made.”

  “Thank you. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think maybe you got railroaded into agreeing to keep me around.”

  “You think I’m a pushover?” he said, a wry tilt to his eyebrows.

  “No, not at all, I just think you seemed more cautious, more self-contained.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking. “I didn’t used to be. We can thank my ex-wife for that, I guess,” he said ruefully.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something painful,” I said, taking a long drink of water.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m okay talking about it. Now.”

  “It must’ve been really hard on you. I can’t—I haven’t known you long at all, but you seem like the least annoying person in the world, you’re calm and kind and respectful. I can’t imagine someone wanting to leave you,” I took another drink, and promptly choked on my water. My eyes watered, and my face turned red, not only from choking but from openly admitting how attractive Brett was to me, not just his looks but his demeanor as well.

  He patted me on the back a few times while I got myself together. “I think you’re being generous. We all have our faults. Mine was that we were sexually incompatible. We were only together a few months bef
ore we got married, and it wasn’t until after we were married that I found out Sara was a submissive. She wanted me to be her dom, to—you probably don’t want that level of detail, sorry. It’s just something it took me a long time to make sense of.”

  I wasn’t sure what the hell I was supposed to say to that. This was the most words Brett had strung together in my presence and it was more revealing that I’d ever expected him to be. I cleared by throat. “No, it must have been upsetting for you if that’s not, um, something you’re into.”

  “It isn’t, and it never will be. I grew up with an abusive father. It’s part of where my protective instinct comes from, so there’s an upside to it, but hurting a woman, even a woman who wants to be hurt isn’t something I’m comfortable with. She was very frustrated with me, and she started to seek a dom outside our relationship, which was for the best really, but also felt like a betrayal on a very basic level to me.”

  I reached across the table, covered his enormous hand with my small one. I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry. To love someone and then find out you were never going to be compatible—I can’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine what that must have been like. But please know that there are plenty of women who like tenderness. I would hate it if you had turned yourself into something you’re not just to please her.”

  “It was difficult. The kind of power games she played were not something I was going to understand. I guess I’m a simple man at heart,” he said with a self-effacing shrug, “And that wasn’t going to be enough.”

  I rounded the table and touched his face. He looked vulnerable, like he was trying to hide it, like he was about to play it off with a macho posture, but I let my fingers trail along his cheek and looked into those eyes.

  “Thank you for trusting me, for telling me,” I said, “And you’re more than enough for anyone.”

  I brushed my lips against his. Heat rocketed through me. The gentle caress I intended to give him, part affection and part genuine attraction, got away from me. He reached up and cupped my head in his hand, guiding my mouth down to his. He tasted of cinnamon, and his tongue was hot in my mouth. I shuddered, felt myself turn liquid. And to think I’d considered him the quiet, unassuming one.

  I drew back a little shyly.

  “I hope I didn’t overstep boundaries,” I said, a little embarrassed. I’d honestly never been that turned on by a guy before, much less one I’d barely known more than two weeks.

  “Not a problem. I’ve been attracted to you from the start, but I wasn’t going to act on those feelings.”

  “That’s because I fell into an old Hollywood western full of handsome gentleman lawmen,” I said with a shaky laugh. I couldn’t dismiss it as a joke, not when my knees felt syrupy with want.

  This could get complicated.

  6

  I got up the nerve to ask Ben about a bartending position. I had scrambled in right on time, skipping a bathroom break I desperately needed and declining an offer to go out for drinks with staff writers. I yearned to hang out with staff writers. I imagined it would be glamorous, informative, and very grown up. Instead, I was trying not to pee my uniform while I asked the manager for a favor.

  “I notice you made it in time,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry about all the trouble. You were right about this shift, much as it pains me to admit I’m wrong,” I said as sweetly as I could.

  “Is this you quitting?” he asked.

  “Well, I have a question. Since I love it here but my punctuality with the schedule has been a problem, I wondered if there were any openings at the bar. I did tend bar my last year in college at McGillicudy’s near campus and Reggie, the manager, can give me a reference. I thought maybe the hours would be slightly different.”

  “We have two lunch bartenders already. We have three working evenings, but one of them is getting ready to go on tour with her band.”

  “So there’s an opening?” I asked with my most winning smile. He laughed.

  “We’ll try you out tomorrow night. The shift starts and hour later than the one you’re used to being late for, so try to be on time. I’ll schedule you on a trial basis for training. See if you can get the hang of the bar. There’s bar customers as well as service bar for the dining room, so it’s pretty hectic.”

  “I can handle it. Thank you, Ben. I can’t wait.”

  “Let’s hope you’re better at slinging drinks than you are at showing up on time,” he said sarcastically.

  I smiled, gritting my teeth only a little.

  Then I ran to the bathroom because wetting my pants wouldn’t make a good impression on the people at my first table. I got a chance to tell Gloria, the lead waitress that I was trying to change over to bartending. She looked at my v-neck shirt and smiled.

  “You’ll do great. You’re smart and fast. You just need a push up bra,” she said. I laughed. She didn’t. She was serious.

  “Oh. Okay,” I said with a weak smile and hustled some Diet Cokes back to a table of women sharing barbecued chicken nachos with extra jalapeños. I loved their loud laughter, and their giant orders of appetizers with their small diet sodas. Just being around them made me feel happy. I found myself missing my college friends.

  I finished out my shift and went over to the bar to talk with Jason, the lead bartender.

  “Ben tells me you’re training tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I’m really looking forward to it. I tended bar at an Irish pub near campus last year, but I have a lot to learn when it comes to more upscale, specialty drinks. Is that your primary crowd?”

  “That’s our female after work crowd. Otherwise, we do a lot of craft beer and we run a lot of G&Ts.”

  “I do a make a great lemon shandy, but that’s more of a summer drink.”

  “It’s more of a tequila crowd than a vodka one, when it comes to mixed drinks. We’ll put you through the paces, see how you keep up,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I told him.

  I headed for my bus stop, hoping that both guys were home or neither, because that kiss with Brett had left a lot of unanswered questions. I felt kind of weird about it, about trying to walk the tightrope between being platonic roommates and wanting more. I was definitely better off staying just friends with both guys. I didn’t want hard feelings, uncomfortable silences, a rift between them even. So I decided I’d just try to quit being so nervous about it and act like nothing happened. I’d be casual, relaxed, not touch him at all. Ever. Not even if there was a giant spider on him and he was asleep on the recliner. That way I’d never have to worry about that zing I felt when my skin touched his.

  Brett was on the phone, Derek was doing pushups, and I waved at them as I headed for the shower. I didn’t even stop to speak. I wondered who he was talking to, and I wouldn’t let myself ask or eavesdrop or generally act like a teenager. I turned in early, barely even Snapchatting Ainsley before bed.

  Bartending turned out to be fantastic. Jason and Cammie, the two non-drummer bartenders who were staying on, were total pros and lots of fun. They were dating each other, so their flirting and their sarcasm were always targeted at one another, both sweetly and hilariously. When it came to instructing me, Cammie was a genius mixologist who had me tasting different types of sugar for rimming sweet drinks and comparing salts as well for margaritas. She asked me my favorite drink, then showed me how to make an even better version of it, so I was sipping a blood orange margarita with a rim of superfine vanilla sugar while I made notes on proportions and which infused vodkas and flavored simple syrups to add to make standard drinks into something special. A few days training with Cammie made me a much more creative and thoughtful bartender, learning to ask a patron if she liked black currant or cranberry, if she’d like to try something different or if she wanted the comfort of a familiar favorite. Those simple questions turned into conversations, and I started to learn the names of people who came in most evenings.

  By the fifth day on bartending shift, I was confident that my tr
ial period was going to turn into a full-time position. I was on time. I was making better tips than I had waiting tables, and I liked joking around with the customers, trying to get Mitch to try something other than his usual three Guinesses, hoping to make a drink that Jasmine couldn’t name every flavor instantly—she even picked out a splash of blackberry liqueur in a Singapore Sling.

  One night, Jason made pitchers of his special white peach sangria with a swirl of local honey and some colorful berries. Brett and Derek came in to have a drink after their shift and see how I was doing. I promptly served them both wineglasses of sweet sangria garnished with a sliver of sugared peach on the rim. Brett grimaced at it and asked for a beer. Derek drank a huge gulp and said it was delicious.

  “You bet your ass it’s delicious. He only makes it like twice a year. He only did it tonight because Peter and Cynthia brought him back a huge box of fresh peaches from their vacation,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Peach people. People who like sangria. It’s some kind of a big deal,” I shrugged, “I’ve only been tending bar a week. But everybody’s acting like it’s Oscar night or the Super Bowl around here, and I’m all for it. We’re moving tons of nachos and artichoke dip and wings, and that means tips.”

  “Sounds like you’re having fun,” Derek said, “Can I trade this in for a beer?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, “How was your day? Any breaks in the case?”

  “We’ve got a new witness to question tomorrow, or rather we tracked him down and the detective on the case will question him,” Derek said.

  “Well, that sounds like progress if you can turn it over to the detective. So are either of you going to try to become a detective?”

  “Well, I’ve thought about taking the exam, but that would mean a new partner and less patrol work,” Derek said.

  “I’m staying on the streets. I don’t want the paperwork a detective has to deal with when I could be out in the trenches stopping assholes from beating up their wives and selling drugs,” Brett said.