Under My Enemy's Roof: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Collection (Under Him Book 7)

by Jamie Knight

“I’m third year, due for parole soon! Kidding, I love my classes. I’m doing Poli Sci. Going by your books I’d guess you’re over at the Bible Building. Our own term for the theology school. It’s not very original but it makes us laugh.”

  As subtly as I could, I checked her pupils. It didn’t seem like she was high, but you could never be too careful.

  “Good one,” I fibbed, deciding she was just excited about life in general.

  We kept chatting, with Jenna mostly talking and me mostly listening, so that our time in the line seemed to just fly by. Before I knew it, I was at the checkout, punching in the numbers to charge nearly a thousand dollars to dad’s credit card.

  And I had made a friend. My very first one here on campus, as eccentric as she was.

  Chapter Two - Augustus

  The dorms didn’t look like much on the outside. Just one-floor structures like townhouses. Though inside was an innovation of architectural engineering. A central room, combining living room and kitchen, surrounded by sight small bedrooms, encircling it in a roughly orthogonal shape.

  There was one main door, leading to seven separate spaces. At least that was how it had looked on the website. I could only hope the reality would live up to the image in my head.

  I could see the campus like a glowing city on the hill as our ancient transit van chugged its way along. Only rolling back a little on the ascent. For a while there was a question whether I would get there at all. Though my dad was wylie and devised a way, so he could afford to drive me himself.

  Sending my little sister onto the message boards, they’d found a student at my university, a rich prep brat with a double-barreled last name who was looking for someone to drive the rest of their stuff from their hometown. The job paid $1,000 plus gas. It was a good thing I’d packed fairly light. Otherwise, we would never have gotten all five of us into the van with the load.

  It felt weird being a scholarship kid. I was the first one in my family to make it to university, the tradition being more along the lines of construction work. My uncle Dave went to community college and the rest of the family acted like he was some kind of dandy. Me going to university on scholarship to study film was like a peasant-farmer’s son getting appointed to the House of Lords. The overall reaction from my beloved blood-relations being a healthy mix of pride and good-natured teasing.

  The van coughed its way into a parking spot before sputtering to a halt. How dad kept the old beast going was a mystery for the ages. Likely involving a combination of like-new used parts from his mechanic friends, a smattering of black magic as well as a touch of iron will. They didn’t call us Graves because we gave up easily.

  Breaking up into teams, my sister and I took my stuff to the cluster housing as my mom, dad and brother went to deliver the stuff and get paid the other $500 and get reimbursed for the gas. It was amazing how carefully dad had kept and organized each and every gas receipt. Like a stamp collector with OCD.

  Outside, continuing the theme of their internal design, the cluster housing was divided between eight buildings surrounding a central courtyard in an octagon. The courtyard itself featured an octagonal bench at its center. If I didn’t know better I would swear that the architect was an adherent of numerology. Using eight as a holy number. Things were already looking up.

  “Nice,” my sister said as we walked through the courtyard.

  The main door locked automatically. So every resident was given two keys. One for the main door and one for their own room in the cluster unit. I had been offered a double. It was within the power of the housing office to give it to me for the same price as the cluster housing but it wasn’t about the money. Not entirely anyway. Even with a double dorm there was a chance of my potential roommate not showing up. Then I would be all alone in a big apartment-like room.

  I’d grown up the middle child of five with a brother and sister on either end. The older ones had already left home but for a large part of my life, there were six other people constantly in my life. Loving, crazy, wonderful people and I didn’t see how I could go from that to no one at all. I might not get along with everyone in cluster housing, Baphomet knew I didn’t get along with my siblings all the time, though a bit of conflict was still preferable to isolation.

  The door unlatched with a happy pop, opening the first few inches of its own accord on tight new hinges. The housing had only been built in the last few years, apparently under some duress on the part of the administration, so everything still had that new building feel. One that extended to the bedroom, with the mattress actually crinkling under me, still covered with protective plastic.

  “Up and at ‘em, bro,” Amelia said, smacking my boot.

  “I’m still the older one you know.”

  “Yes and I’m the mature one.”

  Her eyes flashed mischievously. She was still only fifteen, but my baby sister could already keep up with me in a bullshitting contest. Then again, she had lots of practice and a pretty good mentor in my brother who was two years younger than me as opposed to five. It would be fair to say that Amelia had been a bit of a ‘surprise’ though our parents didn’t love her any less. Even though I’m pretty sure my dad got a vasectomy after Amelia’s birth.

  A young, pretty blond, Amelia dressed in the family fashion, that could best be described as ‘Discount Addams Family Chic.’ Black slacks and vests with dress shirts for the guys and long dark dresses for the girls, all of us in army surplus boots. All of it bought dirt cheap at thrift stores and estate sales.

  “Hold the other side, please,” I said, unfurling my full-sized black and white American flag.

  The flag was the symbol the main Temple came up with to protest the ‘Christianic Panic.’ A clear and funny lampoon of the ‘Satanic Panic’ once led by Christian bugaboos to disastrous results.

  When the flag was up, Amelia helped by shelving my books in alphabetical order in the IKEA-style unit affixed to the freshly painted wall. While she did that, I set up my portable record player on the night table, sliding the vinyls in the space under it. Dad always only used LPs. In addition to being born in the late-1960s when they were all that was available, he also joked that the back masking came across a lot clearer on vinyl.

  “Thanks, want me to walk you back to the van?”

  “No thanks, I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn't do,” I said, crouching slightly to give her a quick hug.

  “I won’t.”

  She was sadder than she let on, but I didn’t want to push it. Even though we both realized this day was coming. Though, to be fair, she never really knew our older siblings. Both of them had grown and gone before she was elementary school, but I had always been there and suddenly, I wouldn’t be anymore.

  “I’ll be home in a few months for Thanksgiving,” I said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

  She nodded glumly, like I’d said a couple of years instead of a couple of months. I suddenly had a much better idea how it must have felt when my brother and sister left. My brother left for the army and my sister went to get married.

  Momentarily alone in the cluster dorm, I tried to console myself with the food of the soul. Though this notion proved to be easier said than done.

  In trying to give myself the choice to make things easier, I’d inadvertently made them harder. Finally resorting to the eeny-meeny-miney-moe method, I settled on Satan Takes A Holiday. One of the few known releases by Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey. Something of a rarity, particularly in first pressing,b ut this copy had been in my family for years. First bought by my dad when it was first released in 1995.

  Sliding the shining disc from its protective sleeve, featuring a dashing if intimidating photograph of the man himself, I placed it on the turntable as though it were a holy relic. Which, in a way, it was. An unholy relic.

  I was so lost in the experience as the record spun that I didn’t hear my roommates arrive. Something of a feat considering there were seven of them. Yet, each
passed by without notice or not as I basked in the voice from the past. No doubt there would be some speculation as to what was going on in room six. Particularly after the adjustment I’d made.

  It wasn’t anything too bad. Certainly nothing for the administration to get their knickers in a knot about. I had simply stuck a piece of tape, the approximate color of the door, next to where the room number was and added a pair of 6s. Go fish.

  Chapter Three - Rachel

  Summer had a smell. Sweet and light on the gentle breeze. Everything so still I could hear the buzz of the passing bees. More plentiful that year than others. I wasn’t allergic, and they didn’t tend to go after me, so I didn’t mind.

  I’d wanted to sleep in. It was Saturday after all. It might not have been an actual law that I was supposed to get Saturdays off, but I believed with every cell of my being that there should be. The knocks were light. Just enough to wake me. The last coming at the same time he opened the door.

  Dad’s knocks were more of a warning shot than a request for permission. He never asked permission for anything. Being firmly of the belief that it was not only easier but better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

  “Daddy?”

  “Morning, kitten.”

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Time to get up.”

  Having already learned not to argue, I got up and started to get dressed after he left the room. Had he told me where we were going I probably would have made different decisions. As it was, I dressed for the weather.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, belted into the back seat, my tummy full of warm oatmeal.

  “A family outing,” Dad said brightly.

  Mom shook her head but didn’t say anything. I was too young to take that as a red flag. Not that I could have done much any way.

  There were already lots of people there when we pulled over to the curb. I recognized the building and knew it was bad but wasn’t sure why. Serious looking people in long white coats went into the building as we got out of the car. I would find out later that the building was a research laboratory. ‘Playing in God’s sandbox,’ my dad liked to say.

  I could hear the vans before I saw them. The engines sounded more like bulldozers. Waves of strangely dressed people getting out and meeting outside the lab. They were dressed like priests and nuns.

  The leader, at least I thought he was, started saying something about life and creation. I didn’t understand it all, but he seemed to be saying that life was preserved through science and to oppose science would lead to death and destruction. He didn’t get to finish. My parents and their friends started throwing fake blood and rotten tomatoes before he got the chance.

  I sat bolt upright in bed. The dream was still stark in my mind except it hadn’t been a dream. Not exactly. Some details were different but what happened in the dream actually occurred on my 12th birthday. My dad thought it would be great fun to take me on a protest. I don’t know if he knew the counter-protesters would be there, but he sure was ready for them if he didn’t.

  He was always doing stuff like that. He didn’t really believe in selfishness, even on occasions when it was seen acceptable. Especially when it was deemed as acceptable. Only giving out UNICEF pennies on Halloween and turning birthdays, including his own, and Christmas into opportunities for protest and charity respectively.

  There were still clear memories of deciding which charity we wanted to support every Christmas and going down to volunteer at the soup kitchen rather than having a big meal ourselves. Dad might have been devout in his beliefs, sometime to the point of retrograde, but at least he wasn’t a hypocrite.

  I counted my beads as I did every morning. A ritual as vital to the day for me as coffee was for others. I didn’t kneel anymore and figured the Lord really wouldn’t care if I was still in my night dress when my appeals and petitions were made.

  My daily correspondence with the divine at an end, I headed to the bedroom, taking off my nightdress like a sweater as I went, leaving me quite naked for the last few steps from the living room into the privacy of the bathroom. I had neglected to close the blinds and anyone could have potentially seen in as they strolled past.

  The warmth rose inside me once again. Turning me light pink from my cheeks all the way down to my chest. Though the idea embarrassed me, it also thrilled me a little. That anyone would be interested in gazing on my unclothed form. I didn’t look bad, I didn’t think. A bit on the soft side with a few extra pounds here and there. Though this only made my breasts bigger.

  I looked at myself in the full length mirror in the bathroom. The ghost of a smile haunting my lips. I was in pretty fine form and also young. Only 18 and a virgin to boot. Surely there was some nice guy out there who would want to take me for a wife. I knew I was too young to be thinking about such things, but it really was what I wanted. Not least because I wanted to preserve my purity for my husband. As difficult as that task had been since puberty.

  I was honestly shocked at my libido. Of course I did my best to be ladylike but that didn’t stop the inferno inside me from burning.

  The situation was getting desperate. As soon as I was in the shower, my hand was down between my thighs. I knew it was supposed to be wrong but I didn’t see how. It felt good yes, but that wasn’t really the point. My primary motive for touching myself was to try and put out the fire, so to speak.

  I stroked my hand gently over my aching pussy, or ‘peach’ as I thought about it back then. I really was a kid in a lot of ways. Not least in terms of pubic hair, never really growing any. I was a bit concerned but the doctor told me it could happen, my ‘peach’ really more of a nectarine.

  The stress started to turn to pleasure and I leaned against the tile wall for support. My mind was more or less blank. Not really thinking about anything but the sweet relief building up. It was a slow build, gaining inch by inch. Each passing second feeling a little better, like a fuse. Then there was an explosion. Bright, rocketing bursts, exploding like Roman Candles in my head, actually making me moan with pleasure and release.

  Regaining my senses, I washed off again before redoing my hair, sweaty once again with the exertion. Patting dry with one of the towels provided by the housing office, I got into my robe and put in a good hard prayer. Just to be safe.

  I usually tried to dress modestly but that September still felt like the dead of summer. I could have worn long-sleeves and a shin-length skirt, as was my custom, but likely would have roasted to death.

  Finding the shortest, breeziest skirt I owned, I shortened it even further by tucking up the waist, the hem ending up a good two inches above my knees. Pairing this with a tank top I’d gotten at camp one year and an old pair of Chuck Taylors, I assessed the results in the full-length mirror. I felt practically naked but had to admit I was a lot more comfortable and looked pretty good as well.

  At one point I would have felt ashamed for desiring male attention, but I was never going to find a fiancé if I didn’t start looking. I was still pretty naive but even I didn’t think the perfect guy would fall into my lap if I just prayed hard enough.

  Despite the helpful signs I still had trouble finding the building for my first class. Partly because it was on the other side of campus. Dad didn’t actually know that I’d enrolled in an Experimental Film course. I’d added it as my sixth class after he had already approved the ones I’d had.

  There was really no way of explaining why I wanted to take the course. Something about the idea of experimental film just really appealed to me. It likely had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t allowed to watch any movies outside the Family Channel and PureFlix. My dad was generally of the opinion that even Disney should have devil horns as a logo instead of mouse ears.

  I was tempted to ask if he believed in the Illuminati too but, like Hamlet, held my tongue. Plays were still okay as long as they were written before 1900.

  Class had already started when I arrived, so I did my best to slip into the back an
d be inconspicuous. There was only one seat left over by the door and I was happy to take it. My ass touching plastic just as the instructor hit play on the first film of the class.

  Something people don’t really seem to get about the Bible was it held horrors almost too terrible for the mind to comprehend. Particularly at the beginning and the end. H.P. Lovecraft had nothing on Revelations.

  Still, I wasn’t quite ready for what I saw on the pull-down screen that warm, summer morning. It wasn’t terrible or really scary per se but still beyond anything I had yet imagined. The film was Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising.

  Even before I really understood the gay or Luciferian subtext Anger had sprinkled through, it still grabbed hold of my young mind and molded it like clay, though the sheer force of the filmmaking alone, leaving me changed.

  The rest of the class was something of a blur. A mass of swirling words and terms, most of which my addled brain couldn’t comprehend. I did my best to try and keep up but there was still only so much that I could do.

  “You okay?”

  I broke out of my trance, my heart literally skipping a beat. He had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. All genuine concern and dashing charm. He was so handsome, it was a second or two before I could speak.

  “Y-yes, I just - wow!”

  “Never seen a film before?” he teased.

  “N-not like that, no.”

  “Fair enough,” he conceded.

  “I-is this your major?” I asked, it seemed a reasonable thing to say.

  “Yeah, Film Studies I mean. This is a requirement. I’m honestly most interested in the French New Wave but that’s not available until the second year.”

  “You look older,” I blurted, “sorry.”

  “It’s okay, as well as true. It took a while before I really knew what I wanted to do, so I applied as a mature student. I’m twenty before you have to ask.”

  “I’m Rachel,” I said, managing to remember my name.