Roomie Wars Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Kat T. Masen

  “Why are you being all weird… and stiff?” she notices, her face wary of my mannerisms.

  I loosen my shoulders, trying not to look too obvious, but Zoey’s extremely observant. Just breathe. Don’t show any fear. She’s like a wild animal—they can smell fear a mile away.

  “Just feeling restless. You know, it’s a Saturday night and all,” I blurt out, hoping it will get her off my back.

  She pauses the movie and stands up placing her hands on her hips.

  Oh shit. Here we go.

  The vein on her forehead looks like it’s ready to pop. Her dull green eyes suddenly spark with rage.

  “I get it. You’d rather be elsewhere,” she huffs. “Why on earth would you want to spend Saturday night with your friend who almost died today when there’s some fresh pussy waiting to be fucked.”

  “No, it’s not like that—”

  “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Drew,” she says without looking my way as she heads out of the room.

  What the fuck was that?

  I want to follow her down the hall, but obviously, something’s bothering her, and I’m too on edge. We’re forever arguing about things, forever at war but this is so out of left field.

  Minutes later, I find myself staring blankly at the television wondering what the hell’s wrong with her. It’s like almost instantly she snapped, and why? I have no idea.

  The clock on the wall says it’s just after eleven. For the club scene, it’s just the beginning of the night, but my head isn’t in the right frame of mind to go out and have fun.

  On top of that, I had called the hospital earlier and told them my roommate had to be resuscitated today. They told me as long as someone covered my shift, I could have the night off. While Zoey was sleeping earlier, I had called around, begging everyone I could find to swap with me. It’s the worst night to switch given everyone cherishes their rare weekends off. Finally, one of the other interns, John, agreed on the condition that I did his nightshift. Great. I agreed only because I thought being here for Zoey was important.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Zoey

  On Sunday morning, I’m glad to wake up and find the apartment empty. Last night turned out to be one of those nights I would rather forget. Make that the whole day.

  After Drew’s eagerness to head out and party mid-movie, I’d lost my cool and threw a girl tantrum. So, I was irritable and exhausted. And just maybe I had acted like a spoiled little brat because I didn’t get my way. You’d think spending time with your roomie on the day she almost lost her life wouldn’t be too much trouble, but hey, what would I know?

  Drew never came to my room to smooth things out. I wasn’t surprised one bit. He simply left the apartment probably to drown his frustrations in someone’s vagina.

  Typical.

  As for me, I was wide awake with nowhere to go. I cleaned my room after a sudden burst of energy, throwing my earphones on and mellowing out with some New Kids on the Block. It was either that or go for my ballads, but I didn’t need a reminder of my tragic love life.

  Upon cleaning my room, I found one of those miniature vodka bottles someone gave me at a party and downed it in one go, ignoring the persistent burn it made on its way down my throat—the perfect end to a day that screamed disaster.

  And so here I lie, at some godawful hour on a Sunday morning, with the sounds of a bird’s incessant chirping invading my room. The sun lights up my walls forcing me to open my eyes. The vodka—although a small quantity—was enough to give me a slight headache.

  After yesterday’s near-death experience, something inside me has been triggered. I don’t want to be the fat girl eating pizza on a Friday night by myself. I don’t want to fetch paper for my boss. And most importantly, I want to feel the touch of a man again and the love of a man. I want to close my eyes each night next to a man whispering sweet promises in my ear of the beautiful life we will embark on together.

  Romance—that’s what I crave—and to feel worthy. And just because I’m only human, maybe some kinky sex on the side. A man who can make me feel like a goddess in the bedroom.

  Maybe this happening is a good thing. A much-needed wake-up call that Zoey Richards is wasting her life away. I just need a plan. Plans are better executed with some music. Leaning across to my nightstand, I fumble for my iPod and scroll through my playlist. Katrina and the Waves—perfect. I should be walking on sunshine considering I survived.

  I text my friend from work, Mia, to see if she’s up for a run. This out-of-character text prompts her to call me immediately.

  “Are you okay? Is this an SOS message because you’re in danger?” she panics over the receiver. “I’ve got 911 on speed dial.”

  “No, I’m fine, but I could use a run.”

  We agree to meet at the park around the corner in twenty minutes. Buried in the back of my closet are my shorts and a sports tank I bought after my New Year’s resolution of losing weight and getting fit. The tags which are still attached to the garments are another reminder that New Year’s resolutions were a waste of time. Stretching my arms, I pull the tank over my head and it’s snug, and that’s being generous with my words. My boobs look like water balloons ready to burst, and my tights, they give me massive camel toe. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I slip my feet into my joggers and grab a hair tie, throwing my hair back into a tight ponytail. No doubt, this time tomorrow, I will be sitting in the same spot regretting my mission to become thin and fit.

  The park is located a block away from the apartment. I attempt to throw myself into the deep end by running as soon as my feet touch the pavement, but by the time I hit the end of the street, I can barely breathe and am certain that I’m having a heart attack. Resting against the street lamp, a couple stops and asks me if I’m okay. How embarrassing! I simply smile and manage to cough out the words ‘major stitch.’

  There are a few benches where some people sit with their dogs and a small playground for children which is deserted. Beside the water fountain, Mia is already stretching her limbs. I stroll over and wave hello.

  “Hey, Zoey, nice getup,” she laughs.

  “Can you see my camel toe?”

  “I’m trying not to.” She cringes. “So, what the hell is going on with you?”

  I motion for her to start walking alongside me as I tell her the events of the past twenty-four hours, minus the kiss with Drew. If she knew, she would make it a bigger deal than what it was, and considering it meant absolutely nothing, the topic is officially closed, buried beneath six feet of dirt and a pile of crap.

  Mia is that annoying friend who believes in finding soulmates and leaving things up to fate. The one person who updates her social media with inspirational posts on love to the point it becomes nauseating. She’s always on my back about finding true love, similar to what she has with our IT geek, Troy. Granted, Troy is a nice guy. He doesn’t exactly have lines of women knocking on his door, and considering they work with each other eight hours each day, five days a week, it was bound to happen.

  “Shit, Zoey, I’m so sorry. You should have called me. I could have—”

  “Nothing, Mia,” I interrupt. “It’s fine now. Drew stayed with me all day, and I’m fine.”

  “But you almost died.”

  “Almost,” I reiterate. “But I didn’t.”

  “You’re so lucky Drew was there. It’s like he’s your guardian angel or something.”

  I stop mid-step following with a loose laugh. “Guardian angel? He’s my roomie. Trust me, Drew ain’t no angel.”

  Mia doesn’t appear offended, and instead, nudges me along. We walk a couple more blocks until we reach a popular cafe that serves the best Nutella donut shakes, a new fad rocking the foodie groups. It takes every part of me to resist the urge and settle for a green tea. It also doesn’t help when everyone else orders them, the shakes sitting deliciously on their tables as they take selfies.

  Genius doesn’t even describe the person who thought,
‘Hey, let’s shove a straw in the middle of a donut and plonk it on top of a milkshake made of Nutella.’

  But I need willpower.

  Strength.

  Resistance.

  We settle for a small table in the back and chat about Mia’s birthday, which happens to fall the day before her upcoming wedding.

  “Thirty is so old,” she moans.

  “No, it’s not. It’s the new twenties. I read that online somewhere.”

  “What I would give to be twenty-one again.”

  “You and me both. I would have eaten less pizza.” I sigh, sinking into my chair. The hard plastic back makes it difficult to get comfortable. “Then I wouldn’t have camel toe.”

  “I would have taken that junior art position I was offered in France.” Mia sits back, stirring her tea before taking a sip. Her hair is cut just above her shoulders and almost falls into her cup. Frustrated, she grabs a hair tie from around her wrist and pulls it back.

  “I wouldn’t have stayed so long with my ex. I would be able to afford the deposit on the block of land I wanted to buy near the beach if I didn’t blow it all on him.”

  “Ouch.” She winces. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Still paying the price.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, and I get to thinking about how easily I allowed that relationship to destroy everything I worked so hard for. I came from a united family—Mom and Dad were still married. I didn’t have a fucked-up childhood or ‘man issues’ that would lead me down the wrong path. For a long time prior to Jess, I was independent. Men were great to have around, but I never truly grasped how women lost their identities all because of one man who had entered their life. From the moment I met Jess—at the backyard party of a mutual friend—something about me changed. He had this hold over me. You could say I was obsessed, and my need to please him was greater than I thought I was capable of.

  “So, I need your RSVP for the wedding,” Mia reminds me.

  “Well duh… of course, I’m going.”

  “I know that, silly, but are you bringing someone?”

  “I’ll probably take Drew since he owes me big time for yesterday morning. You know how much I hate going to these things alone. Weddings make single people look pathetic and needy.”

  Mia nods her head in agreement. “All right, I’ll RSVP the two of you.”

  I take a sip of my tea, and Mia tugs on my arm almost spilling the hot liquid all over my chest.

  “Is that Drew?”

  Turning my head to where she’s looking, I see Drew walk into the cafe with some cute brunette. They’re both dressed in scrubs, nothing unusual, and as they stand at the counter ordering a drink, he places his hand on the small of her back. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow cautiously, not able to grasp why this is bothering me so much. I don’t want him to see me. Obviously, he’s busy finding some new chick to get his hands on like the fucking ass he is.

  “What did you say?” Mia asks, raising her eyebrow at me.

  Shit! Did I say that out loud?

  “Uh, this green tea tastes like ass. I would have rather had a donut shake.”

  “I don’t know what ass tastes like, but okay.”

  Her comic relief prompts me to relax, and with a small giggle, I shake off how much that gesture bothered me.

  It’s Drew.

  Manwhore Drew.

  “So, aren’t you going to go over and say hi?”

  “Nah,” I say casually. “He looks like he’s trying to get his groove on. Don’t want to break his swagger.”

  Mia’s shoulders shake as she laughs quietly. Trying not to stare, I force myself to turn away and focus on Mia. In the corner of my eye, I watch Drew and the mystery girl leave the cafe, instantly letting out a breath of air I’d been anxiously holding in.

  What the hell was that? You’ve seen Drew with many women. You’ve even been home while he screws them in his bed. Why this sudden jealous streak?

  “Okay, let’s head back. This time, we’re running,” Mia tells me.

  By the time I reach the apartment, I’m sure I’ll collapse from exhaustion. Mia’s been running every day to achieve that perfect wedding body. I haven’t been running since back in my early twenties. Even then, it was only because I was checking out the marathon runners in their tiny shorts.

  Jumping straight into the shower, I linger long enough that my skin begins to prune. The water’s heavenly, and I use that fancy shampoo Drew must have purchased yesterday. It smells like a rainforest and coconuts combined. I could eat it. That would be weird, right? Or not. They invented soda-flavored Lipsmackers, and they’re somewhat edible.

  I should get into the business of inventing everyday products you can clean with and eat. Seriously? My brain is over-stimulated. Probably from ‘accidentally’ swallowing some shampoo.

  With my shower finished and my brain ready to explode with random thoughts, I head back to my room to change. On a whim, I dress in a navy summer dress with spaghetti straps paired with my white wedges. I can’t even remember the last time I wore them. It was about time I abandoned my weekend sweats. They had sweatpants cancer—holes. The ones that started somewhere near your thigh, and before you know it, your asshole is completely exposed.

  After a day spent roaming around the city window shopping, I wander back to the apartment around five, armed with a bag of groceries. I had text messaged my mom to ask for the recipe for her lasagna, and much like everyone else, she called me instantly, worried something’s wrong.

  “Honey, you haven’t cooked since you moved in with Drew. What’s wrong?” she panics over the phone.

  “Relax, Mom. Nothing. Okay? I just felt like a home-cooked meal,” I lie.

  “Why don’t you come up for the weekend? Daddy and I will pay for your fare.”

  “I’ve got money, Mom.”

  Having no life and staying home meant I had rebuilt the nest egg that I had so carelessly thrown away during my relationship with Jess. It wasn’t enough to buy into real estate, but slowly, it is growing.

  “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later. Okay, Mom?”

  I hang up the phone, annoyed at my mom. Not only does she frustrate me, she makes me feel like a pathetic nobody who everybody feels sorry for. Poor Zoey, can’t cook. Poor Zoey, she’s as fat as a pig. All right, maybe not the last comment, but I know everyone thinks it. They just don’t say it out loud. Or to my face.

  That’s it. No more feeling sorry for poor Zoey.

  Inside our kitchen, I lay out all the ingredients on the countertop and start prepping just like Mom said. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t do this more often. I’m pretty sure there must be some law against feeding your kids pizza every day.

  With the lasagna in the oven and the timer on, I wait patiently at the table reading Drew’s medical textbook which was left on the countertop. I’m engrossed in the chapter about heart surgery when voices enter the apartment.

  Shit, is someone else here?

  There is no time to think or escape.

  “Hey, you’re home. And what’s that smell? You’re cooking?” Drew states, shocked.

  Behind him is the same brunette I saw him with earlier today. I wipe my hands on the apron and offer a fake smile. Fake, because something about her, about them being together, just doesn’t sit right.

  “Yep, where else would I be?”

  “And you’re wearing a dress?”

  “So? It was nice out.”

  “You went out? On a Sunday?” He scratches his head, pausing, then continues to watch me with inquiring eyes. “And are you reading my textbook?”

  “What’s with the fifty questions?” I push past him and cordially reach out my hand. “Hi, I’m Zoey.”

  “Hey, I’m Kristy.” She smiles, shaking my hand in return.

  The timer goes off, and I move to the oven. With my mitts on, I open the door and see my perfectly cooked lasagna sitting inside. The creamy béchamel sauce looks to die for, bubbling at the surface, jus
t the way my mom makes it.

  Taking it out, I place it on the cooling rack and pull out a plate. Then, I realize they’re still watching me. Drew’s in shock. His face couldn’t be any more transparent. I turn around to be polite and offer him a plate. “You guys want some?”

  They both decline, having eaten not long ago.

  Whatever.

  With my plate in hand, I make small talk for a couple of minutes before retreating to my room and eagerly shutting the door behind me, careful not to slam it and display my anger. The nerve of him to bring her back here.

  Does he not care about me at all?

  Who cares that Zoey almost drowned?

  Let’s just carry on!

  Okay, that’s selfish. I could audition for a Broadway play with an act like that.

  I’m hungry, and with the lasagna cooled down, I devour the plate, licking my lips in delight. Seconds would have been great, but I decide against it, not wanting to disturb their alone time in the living room.

  No, they’re probably screwing in his room. Argh! I pick up a sneaker off the floor and throw it at the wall, creating a loud bang. Do you really think that will stop them?

  Minutes pass and nothing. No sounds, no giggling of any sort. Bored, I sit at my desk and scroll through my emails, then browse some travel sites just for fun. My neck and eyes become sore from staring at the screen for a long time. Leaning down to my ankles, I unstrap my sandals and toss them in the corner. What’s missing is some tunes. When I press the shuffle button on my iPod, Eye of the Tiger blares through my speakers, and just like always, I play my air guitar, singing along.

  My sweats tease me, hanging over the small armchair. It’s late, and while attempting to remove my dress, the zipper gets caught midway down my back. Letting out a frustrated groan, I feel hands against my back causing me to yelp as I turn around in shock. Drew’s standing in the middle of my room. He carefully unzips my dress, then walks to my iPod and turns down the volume slightly.

  “Fucking hell, you scared the shit out of me,” I shout at him.