by Tiffany King
“What makes you think I can’t handle wild?” he asked, adjusting his glasses. I could tell by the way he shifted his weight he was uncomfortable. Yet another way we were so different.
“You’re joking, right? I bet your computer brain feels like it’s been invaded by a virus.”
The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Who am I to judge? If killing brain cells is the theme of these parties, so be it.”
Despite myself, I grinned. “Damn straight.”
His eyes lit up at my words. It should be a sin to waste such beautiful eyes on someone so different from the guys I usually went for. The thought had barely materialized in my head before I gave it a mental bitch slap. I needed to keep my shit together. “He’s over there,” I said, pointing to the far side of the backyard where Tristan had two pledges showing their goods to a group of sorority girls holding up scores to vote in some sort of contest. I turned and walked back to the house, ready to put some distance between Trent and me. I was pretty sure I heard him call my name, but I ignored it. He could sink or swim here, but there was no way I was sticking around to be his life raft.
“What did you do with your cub, momma bear?” Derek teased as I joined him and Cameo, who were on one of the sofas.
“Bite me.” Sinking down on the couch next to them, I reached over and snagged the red Solo cup Cameo was clutching.
“Hey, that’s mine,” she complained as I sniffed the contents. Rum. That would do the trick. Ignoring her grumbles, I downed the contents in one gulp. The rum burned a path down to the pit of my stomach, numbing my teeth along the way. My eyes took on a slightly fuzzy view. Rum was definitely what I needed to forget about jerky ball-scratching ex-boyfriends and electric blue eyes on nerdy superhero look-alikes.
“Don’t mind me. Go ahead and have my drink,” Cameo said sarcastically.
“Thanks, sugar lips,” I said, giving her a smacking kiss. The rum had given me a nice buzz.
“Gross. I don’t know where those lips have been,” she complained, swiping a hand across her mouth.
Grinning, I reached for her again, this time giving her a spectacularly sloppy kiss on her cheek while Derek laughed next to us.
“If you two are done making out, I’d like to do some more dancing,” he said, bobbing his head to the music.
“I need another drink first,” I said, pulling Cameo to her feet. She accepted my help, though she was still rubbing her cheek where my lips had been. “Sheesh, it’s not like I have cooties.”
“As far as you know. You owe me another drink.”
“Ouch. Don’t bother to ask me when you decide you want to experiment with being a lesbian,” I said, pulling her to the kitchen to make us another drink.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I know we danced for several hours, and I’m pretty sure Cameo and I did an impromptu karaoke show when Justin Timberlake’s newest song came on. One thing was certain: Chuck and Trent became a distant memory.
3.
I was jarred awake the next morning by an unmistakably male body pressed against me. Oh hell. How much did I drink last night? Opening my eyes a crack, my first instinct was to reach down to check whether I was still wearing panties before I spun around to see who was spooning me. I sighed with relief when it turned out to be Derek. His large frame was sprawled across my bed, trying to steal every inch of available space. Not quite ready to be awake, I shoved at him until he rolled over. This wasn’t the first time Derek had crashed with me. I didn’t mind, but you had to claim your space with him around—otherwise you’d end up on the floor. With more room for myself, I turned on my side and pulled the blanket up to my chin, drifting back to sleep in seconds.
The next time I woke, my bed was empty and I could hear the rustling noise of pans and plates coming from the small kitchen in the apartment I shared with Cameo. Rolling over on my back, I took stock of my hangover. On a scale of I need to throw up to I just need some coffee, I’d say I was more on the needing-coffee side. I had a slight pounding headache, which I could handle with Advil, but my mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died. It felt like I would need a sandblaster to remove all the gunk from my teeth. Grabbing a clean pair of sweats and a Maine State shirt from my dresser, I staggered to the bathroom to shower. The mirror over the sink showed no mercy. Not that I was somehow expecting to look any better than I felt. I popped three Advil into my mouth before giving my teeth the long brushing they needed. My face resembled something out of a zombie movie. Both of my eyes were rimmed in a thick layer of black eyeliner and mascara. I didn’t remember being that liberal with the makeup, but the evidence was staring back at me. A dried patch of drool covered my left cheek. That was attractive. I looked like a hooker after a hard night at work. I reached around the shower curtain and turned on the water, leaving my freak show reflection behind. If a hot shower didn’t make me feel more human, I guessed I’d have to resort to a paper bag over my head for the day.
Derek and Cameo were cooking breakfast when I finally stumbled into the kitchen twenty minutes later. Derek set down a platter of crisp bacon and eggs on our small dining room table that would wobble slightly if not for the piece of folded-up cardboard under one of the legs. Classy, that’s the way we rolled. Cameo and I rescued the table from a Dumpster at the start of summer after the previous owner threw it out before heading home at the end of term.
Last year, our apartment had been pretty sparse when it came to furniture. We had nothing more than our beds and one futon couch, but when Cameo decided to take summer classes, we stuck around, keeping a sharp eye out for any furniture that would fill the gaps. We were shocked by what people would throw out, and in no time our apartment was filled with the treasures we had found. Most of it had seen better days, but we used strategically placed scarves to cover scratches and water marks. Nothing matched, but somehow it still looked good in a bohemian sort of way.
“She lives.” Derek greeted me in a booming voice that earned him one of my patented glares. He laughed, opening the cabinet to pull out more plates.
“You’re a bed hog,” I complained, filling my favorite oversized mug to the brim with hot black coffee. It had a cartoon dog with the caption: If you don’t want me to be a bitch, give me caffeine. My brother gave it to me for Christmas the previous year. He thought he was so clever, laughing his ass off when I opened it. He was a little shit, but I loved the mug. It could have read Tressa is a whore on the side and I would still use it because of the sheer size of the mug.
“You snore,” Derek returned, handing us each a plate.
“Liar,” I said, shoving him with my hip.
“You were pretty toasted last night,” Cameo said, placing her coffee and an energy drink beside her plate.
“Caffeine and an energy drink? You planning on hiking Baxter Peak?”
“I wish it was something that easy. I need to crack down and finish my bio chem paper or I’m seriously screwed. What about you? Don’t you have a paper due in your business management class?”
I shrugged. Schoolwork wasn’t high on my priority list at the moment. To avoid answering her question, I shoveled eggs into my mouth. I chewed slowly, making sure my stomach, which had been relatively tame, wouldn’t boycott. After several bites, I figured I was safe. Cameo and Derek chatted while I ate my breakfast and nursed my coffee. I wasn’t a big morning person. Both of them knew me well enough to allow me to finish my coffee before involving me in any conversation. Derek teased me, claiming I was like a bear being poked with a stick in the morning.
“More like a ticking time bomb,” Cameo joked.
“Drama much?” I countered. “Bite someone’s head off once and suddenly you’re labeled.” Cameo started to say something more, but Derek covered her mouth with his hand.
I was finishing the last of my bacon when I finally felt I could join the conversation with any civility. It didn’t hurt that the food was delicious, as usual. Derek was a wiz in the kitchen, where Cameo and I were both h
opeless when it came to cooking. Cameo at least had an excuse for her lack of culinary skills. Her parents were doctors and rarely cooked while she was growing up. Catered meals and takeout had been as close as she ever got to a home-cooked meal. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no excuse considering my mom was practically Susie Homemaker. Three squares a day and extravagant Sunday dinners were the norm in my house. Mom had tried to teach me to cook, but it never stuck. Finally, after I burned her favorite set of pans, I was officially banned from the kitchen. I’d be lying if I said I wept at being exiled.
Derek was a regular Gordon Ramsay who could easily compete in one of those cooking challenges on TV. Cameo and I capitalized on his skills and worked out a deal with him: He cooked for us on occasion, and we let him crash at our apartment whenever he wanted. His roommates were complete douchecanoes this year, so he was at our apartment more often than not. Cameo and I had considered the idea of telling him to move in with us, but hadn’t broached the subject with him yet.
Once my plate was empty, I stood up to do the dishes. Early on in our roommate relationship, we learned that if the apartment was going to remain clean, we would have to work out a chore schedule. This week, I had dishes and vacuuming. Dishes weren’t bad. Vacuuming was tolerable, but I hated when I drew laundry. Laundry was the bane of my existence.
I filled the sink with hot soapy water as Derek and Cameo carried the rest of the dishes to the counter. “So, are you going to tell us the deal-i-o with your friend?” Derek asked, hoisting himself up on the counter while I washed.
“There is no deal-i-o,” I answered, swatting his hand as he tried to snag some bubbles. I heard Cameo snort behind me. Without even looking at them, I knew they were exchanging a doubtful look. I focused my attention on the dish in my hand, continuing to scrub while I came up with a plausible excuse for my behavior the night before. When neither of them left the kitchen, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to weasel out of answering. “Fine. It aggravated me that Panty Muncher had her claws in him. I felt responsible for him,” I said lamely, drying my hands on a towel.
“Bullshit,” Cameo coughed.
I flicked the towel at her. “I’m serious, bitch.”
“Right,” she laughed mockingly as she left the kitchen. “You need a reality check.”
Derek stayed with me while I put the dishes away, remaining silent as I worked. This was one of his sneaky tactics I was all too familiar with. Eventually, the silence would wear on you and before you knew it, you were spilling your guts to him. But he could sit there all day as far as I was concerned. I would not buckle. There was nothing to say. Okay, for some odd reason Trent had snagged my attention. Who cares? It’s not like it was the first time I showed any sort of interest in a guy. Why did this time need an explanation?
Derek sat watching me like he could read my thoughts. He wasn’t going to wear me down. I was as strong as a brick wall.
I pulled the vacuum out of the small linen closet, glaring at him as he perched himself on the futon.
He returned my glare balefully.
Pushing the vacuum along, I tried to drag out the process, hoping he’d give up, but I could only vacuum the same spot so many times. Shooting him another glare, I shut off the vacuum.
“Fine! You freaking stubborn ass!” I began to spill my guts, just as he had planned. Damn him.
It poured out of me like sewage I couldn’t wait to get rid of. I told him how my friends back home were convinced that Trent had a crush on me, but I felt he so wasn’t my type, and how off-the-wall my sudden possessiveness had been.
“So you have the hots for Clark Kent. Big deal,” he said when I ran out of steam.
“Have you not been listening at all? I have the opposite of the hots for him.”
“‘Most men would rather deny a hard truth,’” he stated. Derek loved quoting his favorite books, and he seemed to have one for every occasion.
“Hemingway?” I guessed.
“George R. R. Martin.”
“Who?”
“Seriously? You don’t know who one of the greatest authors of our generation is?” he asked, looking scandalized. “He only wrote the saga of literary genius that includes A Game of Thrones. Maybe less partying and more studying,” he said, sticking out his tongue at me when I swung at him. It was no secret that studying wasn’t exactly my forte. I had to really discipline myself in junior college to pull good enough grades to transfer to MSC. I still don’t think I would have gotten in if not for a glowing letter of recommendation from Professor Nelson, a bigwig at the college and longtime resident of Woodfalls. He even offered to act as my advisor throughout school. Things started okay, but I had been avoiding him since fall classes started. I was supposed to sign up for a particular summer course he recommended, but I blew it off. Last year he was relentless as he pushed me to work harder. He seemed genuinely disappointed when my grades slipped. I shuddered at the idea of facing him at the moment, especially since I had bombed the first exam in business communications, and statistics wasn’t going any better. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to wrap my brain around it.
“Who cares about grades when there’s always dancing to be done?” I held out my hand so Derek and I could fist-bump.
“Damn straight,” he agreed, knocking his fist against mine and then spreading his fingers like his hand was exploding. “You guys want to hit that new underground club that opened up on the east side? I heard it’s freaking hard-core. The acoustics are supposed to be out-of-this-world insane. Brant went last week, and he said the bass booms so hard the floor vibrates.”
“Brant? I thought you two were done?” I asked, digging through a basket for a nail file. Cameo and I had an extensive collection of nail polish that made it hard to locate the files that always became buried at the bottom of the basket.
“We are,” he answered defensively. “We’re just friends.” He sighed, grabbing a nail file for himself. He sat buffing a nail that was already pristine, obviously trying to evade my question. It served him right to get a taste of what probing felt like. Derek was idealistic. He believed in love and soul mates, and was determined to find his perfect match. The only problem was he kept falling back into the same toxic relationship with his ex. That’s one thing Derek and I had in common. We gravitated toward the jerks. I had done it countless times with my ex Jackson. I would break up with him over and over again, but he always had an uncanny knack of dragging me back in. Brittni claimed it was because he played on my insecurities. I would always snort my disgust at her interpretation of our relationship, but deep down I knew she was right. Jackson always knew what to say to make me feel like I needed him. Eventually, the time came when I realized I needed to end it for good. My acceptance into MSC gave me the perfect excuse to make Jackson nothing more than a memory. I tried several times to bully Derek into cutting his losses with Brant, but I also knew from personal experience that no one can force you to end a bad relationship.
That decision is one you have to make on your own.
“Right,” I finally answered, working to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“I’m going to stay strong this time,” he said resolutely.
I nodded my head in support. “I believe you.”
“I will,” he replied passionately. “I have to do it,” he said before sagging like a balloon that had lost all its air.
“Time to man up, big boy,” I said, dropping my supportive tone for a harder edge.
“Man up, yes.” He repeated my words as he stood. “I better go home and try to grab a shower. That is, if no one has passed out in it.” He headed for the door looking disgruntled.
“Why don’t you crash here for a while?” I suggested, stowing the nail basket on the shelf under the heavy-duty coffee table. It was the sturdiest piece of furniture we had in the apartment. Too bad it was maybe the ugliest table you could ever lay eyes on. We tried to make it look more presentable by covering it with a lace runner Cameo had found at the Second Chance
s consignment shop. It helped some, but not much. We talked about painting it too, but neither of us felt like putting in the effort.
Derek turned to me with a hopeful puppy-dog look on his face. “I can’t just take over your apartment. That’s no different than what’s going on at my place. I won’t impose.”
“What about the fact that we’re asking you to stay? You’re not imposing, nimrod. It just means you’ll be cooking for us a whole lot more,” I said, grinning at him. “You can crash on the couch and stash your junk in my room. It won’t be Buckingham Palace, but it has to be better than what you have now.”
“Seriously, you guys wouldn’t mind?” he asked, striding across the room and swinging me up in his arms. “Shouldn’t we check with Cameo?”
“We’ve already discussed it,” I laughed. “No overnight guests, though. Our generosity doesn’t stretch that far.”
“Deal. Wait, does that rule apply to you too?”
“Hell no. We can have all the guys over we want.”
“Classy. You should make flyers and post that all over campus.”
“Whatever, douchehead. Even if I wasn’t kidding, it’s not like I have any prospects. Let’s just say we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Does that work?”
“I can deal with that.” A wide grin split his face and he let out a loud whoop.
“I’m guessing you told him?” Cameo stood in the doorway with a textbook cradled in her arms.
“What was your first hint?” I grinned as Derek scooped up Cameo into a bear hug, spinning her around. Her squeals filled the small apartment.