Roomie Wars Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Kat T. Masen

  “How about some breakfast before I go? Is French toast okay?” she asks coyly standing beside the bed, tugging on the bottom of my shirt and trying to act all cute.

  “Yeah, sure,” I mutter.

  She leaves the room, and I jump out of bed gathering my clothes for a quick shower. I need to wash last night and this morning off me. This is probably why I should stop bringing random women home.

  The door to the bathroom is shut, and all I can hear is Zoey singing some god-awful tune that used to annoy me when I was younger. About a love shack or something ridiculous. Her taste in music is appalling. It seriously wouldn’t hurt her to turn on the radio and listen to something modern occasionally.

  “Uh huh... yeah, yeah!”

  “Zoey!” I bang on the door.

  Nothing.

  “Baby...”

  I bang on the door again, calling her name loudly. The water stops, so I wait for her to open the door shuffling my feet impatiently. The door opens, and she’s wrapped a towel around her body. Her blonde hair is dripping wet against her back, her skin barely dry.

  “What?” She scowls.

  “You need to help me,” I beg her, peering down the hall in a panic.

  Latching onto my arm with a forceful grip, she pulls me into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. “What have you done now?”

  I can barely make out Zoey’s silhouette with steam lingering in the air. No wonder our bill is so high. The amount of hot water she uses is ridiculous. Quickly moving to the window, I click on the latch and lift it open allowing the steam to escape so the both of us can breathe a little.

  “You need to get Michelle out of here.”

  “Who’s Michelle?”

  “The girl I brought home last night.”

  “The one who called your dick a ‘little peewee?’” she asks, trying to keep a straight face.

  “You heard that?”

  “Hard not to.” She chuckles.

  “It’s not little. Now, please help me?”

  “Okay, whatever.” She continues to laugh while brushing her hair with complete disregard for the severity of the situation. “You owe me.”

  “Anything you want. Just please say we need to go out… that we have plans.”

  “We do have plans,” she reminds me, waving her bikini in front of my face. “Okay, fine. Can I finish getting changed, or does your little peewee need to use the toilet?”

  My teeth clench followed by a low rumbling growl escaping my throat. This isn’t a fucking joke. My anger combined with anxiety threatens my ability to think clearly.

  But you have no choice because you need Zoey to fix this mess you’ve created.

  Leaving her to complete her bathroom rituals, I retreat to my room for some momentary silence. The second she is out, I have a quick shower before changing into my boardshorts and shirt. I brush my teeth and slowly make my way to the kitchen where the only sounds are their voices chatting animatedly.

  “Hey there, roomie!” Zoey greets me with a mouthful of French toast.

  Fucking traitor! It’s always about food with Zoey. Never mind my needs. I have to admit it smells delicious, but Michelle wearing my favorite T-shirt near the butter and oil is giving me a coronary.

  “You have to try Michelle’s French toast. It’s to die for,” Zoey exaggerates, as usual, while the maple syrup drips down the side of her mouth. She slides her tongue to the side and carefully licks it up, flashing me a mischievous smile. Grub.

  “Ah… I promised the guys we would be at the beach before lunch, and it’s a two-hour drive.”

  “Zoey, call me Mickey. That’s what my friends call me,” Michelle tells her.

  In another annoying move, Zoey sings the lyrics to Hey Mickey much to Michelle’s amusement. Definitely not mine.

  “Every time,” Michelle laughs. “It never gets old.”

  Are these two fucking kidding me? What the hell did I walk into? My head turns to the door retracing my steps. Didn’t I just ask Zoey to help me get rid of Michelle?

  Michelle serves the French toast on a plate, placing it on the table. I politely thank her and scarf it down hoping to get out of here without any drama. Zoey’s tuned out, fiddling with her cell and taking a photo of the French toast which, no doubt, will make it online somewhere. So much for helping a roomie out. I kick her under the table, catching her attention. With a slight yelp, she shoots me an annoyed look.

  “Oh, look at the time. You’re right, Drew. You know how I stop a million times to use the restroom,” she lies convincingly. “That time of the month. Can’t stop Aunt Flow when she’s painting the town red.”

  Jesus, did she have to add that last bit?

  Michelle takes the final bite of her toast, then walks over to sink to wash her plate. She walks back around and puts her arms around me. “I’ll just have a shower, then I’m out of here.”

  Phew.

  She disappears to the bathroom, and once again, I use the opportunity to kick Zoey under the table.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  “Don’t start making friends with her. I don’t want her back here. And really, Zo, did you have to play your menstrual-cycle card?”

  “God, for someone with a small peewee, you sure have a strong kick.”

  The closest thing to me is a banana peel. I take it and aim straight for her face, smacking her in the forehead with the soggy peel.

  “Gross! Grow up, Drew. The last time we had a food fight I won, and you cleaned up the mess. I’m going to get ready. Better go pack my super heavy-duty tampons,” she adds, walking past me to leave the room.

  I shake my head, bothered that she’s brought it up again. I don’t need to know these things. “I’ll be downstairs packing the car. Make sure she leaves.”

  Inside the garage, I load the car with the essentials we need for the beach—towels, cooler with water and snacks, sunscreen, and of course, my surfboard. With my surfboard strapped securely to the roof of the car, the sound of Zoey’s voice travels down the communal stairwell.

  “Ready?” I turn to Zoey, cringing as I see Michelle standing beside her.

  She nods but not before Michelle hugs her goodbye. When they let go, my eyes narrow. I’m infuriated as I stare Zoey down as she walks to the passenger side to enter the car.

  “Don’t forget to add me on Facebook,” Zoey yells back to Michelle.

  Oh no, she didn’t just say that.

  Michelle moves to me placing her body in flush with mine. My arms stiffen as I try not to encourage any further intimacy on my behalf.

  “When can I see you again?”

  I kiss her on the cheek, a friendly gesture keeping it placid between us. “I’ll call you.”

  “You’d better, Drew Baldwin.” She blows me a kiss before disappearing from my sight.

  I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, arching my head to the left to relieve the built-up tension in my neck. The moment we reverse out of that garage, I will have no problem unleashing my thoughts on how she asked Michelle to add her as a friend on Facebook.

  For the past thirty minutes, Zoey has been jabbering away about some book she started reading last night but not before changing the radio to some oldies station that’s having an eighties marathon. Again, her taste in music is awful. It’s like some time machine landed on Earth and transported her back to the eighties, freezing her in that era.

  With her phone placed strategically in her hand like a microphone, she sings loudly along to the song.

  “That’s the most ridiculous song,” I complain. “Get outta my dreams, get into my car? Really?”

  “You’ve never wanted a hot girl to get outta your dreams and into your car? How about to touch your bumper?”

  “If by bumper you mean cock, then yes,” I admit.

  “Honestly, Drew, no respect for the classics. License to Drive was the best movie ever. I loved the Coreys,” she informs me, bopping her head along to the music. The song ends, much to my pleasure, until
Boy George plays and an excited Zoey sings at the top of her lungs, off key, something about a chameleon.

  With the visor pulled down, she grabs her Lipsmacker and applies it carefully. Zoey has the habit of applying that stuff a million times a day, and she only uses the stuff that tastes like different beverages. Even her lip balm’s full of sugar and junk.

  “Anyway, so this damn book you’re going on about...”

  “Oh yeah! So, the guy’s like the biggest jerk ever and get this… he’s pierced,” she narrates excitedly. “Then he screws this chick in the alleyway, and she gets knocked up. After one night… can you believe that?”

  “Zo, it’s fiction. Anything is possible, but yes, I do believe it. Medically speaking—”

  “Hold the medical, scientific mumbo-jumbo. Don’t kill my buzz.”

  “Fine,” I mutter under my breath.

  I swear Zoey can be a royal pain in the ass sometimes. For the most part we get along, but she’s plain old stubborn, living in this imaginary bubble filled with pizza and book boyfriends. Not that I have much spare time with my hectic schedule. I do enjoy reading when I get a chance. The past few years have had me focusing on studying, so textbooks became my life. Yet, every now and then, I love to pick up a Stephen King novel and immerse myself in his stories. No one’s pierced in that type of novel!

  “Are we there yet?” she asks for the tenth time.

  I shake my head. “Another hour.”

  “Hour!” she yells, crossing her arms like a petulant child. “Fine. I’m going back to sleep.”

  With her head leaning against the window, my eyes remain focused as we drive up the windy part of the road. My beaten-up old car barely makes it, choking as I place it into gear. Please don’t break down now.

  Betty is my 1954 Volkswagen Beetle—trunk in the front, all power in the back. Lately, she’s been stalling, and I’ve been too busy with work to get under the hood to see what’s happening. I know by taking this drive there’s a chance Betty won’t make it. It’s a chance I’m willing to take, though. My biggest concern is the snorer sitting right next to me.

  To set the record straight, Zoey is my roommate, or in her lame terms, ‘roomie.’

  It was four years ago when I first laid eyes on her.

  There is no doubt Zoey’s a beautiful woman. On the short side with strawberry-blonde hair and pale, delicate skin. Over the years, she’s been through a dozen hairstyles, but even then, it’s her deep pools of green eyes that are like these magical orbs. They have this eerie way of transcending you to a different place. Stupid, I know. In the beginning, she would reprimand me for staring at her and calling me a creepy geek who needed to get laid. Over time, I’ve gotten used to being around her without gawking at her like she’s a Penthouse pin-up girl on my bedroom wall.

  As for her personality, Zoey Richards is a lot to handle—feisty, stubborn, and extremely lazy. To be honest, I hadn’t really been around women before meeting her. I was twenty-four and still a virgin.

  Call me pathetic.

  Women scared me. I was uncomfortable being slightly overweight, and my priorities were to study medicine. Girls didn’t throw themselves at me, and I didn’t have the balls to try anything on them. I had no clue all those years what I was missing out on. Never having a sister or a mother around, I wasn’t sure how to act around women. My dad once told me that women were like badly tuned engines—unpredictable, temperamental, and extremely capricious. This was coming from the man who was burned by a woman—my mother—and since then had a string of one-night stands to avoid being hurt again.

  Nevertheless, his words stuck in my head much like that terrible Billy Ocean song.

  I guess you could say Zoey’s all that and more. She is ambitious and smart and talked her way out of anything. I told her once she should have studied to be a lawyer but, of course, her passion has remained with architecture—a career that has nothing to do with talking.

  It was early last year when she began dating this loser, Jess, or who her friends dubbed ‘Bad Boy Jess.’ Miss Ambitious lost sight of everything, falling head over heels for this guy. I get it, she thought she was in love, and it would end in a happily ever after.

  The guy was clearly using her by living almost rent-free with us, and when I brought up Roomie Rule Number Three, she was quick to defend him and paid his share in rent. I wasn’t fucking stupid. She was normally a thrifty saver, just waiting for the day when she could design and afford her dream home. This fucker was eating into her bank account and into someone else’s pussy.

  Her work and studies took a big hit, and she almost abandoned her goals so she could party with him on the weekends at out-of-town exotic locations. His drinking was out of control, and as a result, Zoey would come home drunk more times than I could count.

  Then it happened—the cat was let out of the bag.

  Bad Boy Jess was getting it on with Miss Jugs aka her best friend, Callie.

  I had never, ever, in my life witnessed a more disastrous breakup. I’m talking endless tears, belongings thrown off the balcony, and the burning of all photos of the two of them. Ballads were blasted on repeat. The fact I knew of the artist, Tiffany, and could sing all the lyrics to Could’ve Been says a lot about how badly this all went down.

  It was extreme and a huge wake-up call that I was not ready to settle down with a woman. Relationships are complicated. I had my whole life to worry about that after I finished my internship. Again, Dad’s words rung true in my head. Women were nothing but a complicated species who walked on this earth to make our lives miserable.

  They were only good for one thing, and even then, some had no clue.

  Zoey was hurting badly, and being a guy, I wasn’t sure how to help her. I’d spent several nights sleeping beside her in bed trying to console her. At first, she blamed herself and all the things she should have done for him, but that soon turned into hatred, and finally, she accepted that he was at fault, and no matter what she did, he was a fucking dickhead.

  Thank fucking God she came to that realization because I couldn’t stand hearing any more about it being her fault. The guy was a deadbeat.

  Eventually, she moved on but never really was herself. She dated a few guys after that, but nothing quite as serious. She deferred her studies and prodded along working as an assistant to her boss. She stopped partying and buying expensive clothes and shoes, and stayed at home like a hermit of some sort reading romance novels.

  And she ate pizza almost every night.

  One time, the delivery guy cracked a joke about moving in since he was practically at the apartment every day. I thought it was funny. Zoey, on the other hand, lashed out at the both of us, putting on some drama-filled show before slamming the door to her room.

  She blamed PMS.

  She always blames PMS.

  Every day she would ridicule my healthy eating habits. I knew deep down inside it was killing her that she’d gained the extra weight. And something I had learned about women was Golden Rule Number One—never comment on their weight.

  As time went on, Zoey accepted the fact she no longer fit into her expensive outfits. I knew firsthand what it was like to be uncomfortable in your own skin, but one day, I realized I couldn’t go on being unhappy. It wasn’t an overnight miracle. In fact, it took two years to change my eating habits and achieve an image which gave me confidence.

  You see, Zoey is not only my roomie, she’s like a sister to me. And when someone that close to you is feeling down, you do everything you can to pick them up. Hence, this trip to the beach that I’ve organized.

  Some of the guys are tagging along and meeting us there. She knows of them and gets along well with Rob, a guy from my gym. It’s the confidence boost she needs—a little one-on-one flirting for her to get back to her normal self again.

  I see the beach ahead and nudge her slightly. She lets out a loud snore followed by a snort, then opens her eyes in a daze.

  “Are we there yet?” This time, she’s less en
thused.

  “Yes,” I answer, turning into the parking lot.

  I park the car, lucky to arrive early before the beach becomes busy.

  It’s a popular spot with nice big waves and a park area for picnics. Exiting the car, I stretch my arms and legs and take in the view. It’s gorgeous, and with the sun already piercing my skin, it’s going to be one hell of a hot day.

  “It’s hot,” Zoey complains immediately after stepping out of the car. Squinting, she rummages in her purse and emerges with a pair of oversized white sunglasses.

  “C’mon, vampire, put on your sunscreen and let’s unload.”

  She pokes her tongue out as she begins to lather her skin with cream. Handing me the bottle, she turns to me. “Back and shoulders, please. I don’t want to leave today looking like a lobster.”

  Pulling her T-shirt off, she reveals a teeny, tiny white bikini top. It has a pattern of pineapples all over it. She has this obsession with pineapples. Apparently, they’re good luck or some bullshit story like that.

  Her tits look huge in them.

  I’m obviously not the only one to notice—a bunch of guys walking in front of us almost trip over our stuff because they’re too busy staring. My eyes wander back to her tattoo that sits just above her bikini line. She inked herself with a My Little Pony image one night on a bender. A stupid mistake. Unlike Zoey, I’m not a fan of tatts. She’s made it clear on several occasions she only dates guys who have tattoos and drive a nice car.

  I pull the bottle out of her hands and rub the cream all over her back, irritated at her choice of attire. Honestly, one wrong move and her tits will be all out for show.

  “Ow!” she yelps. “Easy with the cream.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, patting her back hard when I’m done.

  We settle for a spot close to the sand and picnic area. Moments later, Rob and another friend, Isaac, arrive in his newly purchased convertible.

  “Drew,” he howls with the top down.