by Kristy Marie
And then there’s Maverick Lexington—granter of all the things. Or so I’ve heard. If the rumor is real, and he really needs a roommate, I might be able to solve my problem quickly. If the rumor is untrue, I’ll ask for a favor. Heaven knows I could use one—or five—right about now.
I mean, how bad could it be?
He probably just wants someone to do his homework or wash his car.
I’m not proud. I could totally handle that.
I put my car in park and stare at the white-washed building.
Typical and basic.
Those are the words that come to mind when I take in my potential home. Surprisingly, with all the rumors that have circulated around Maverick, I feel like it should look something more like Elsa’s castle—frozen and cut off from the outside world. Not a decent, mid-scale apartment complex. It could use a little color and some shrubbery, but it looks clean and well maintained. And really, that’s all I need—clean sheets in a dick-bag free zone.
I get out and check the text, verifying that I am at the right place. How awkward would that be? I’d probably be banned from this complex if I knocked on a stranger’s door, begging for a favor. I think most places frown on scaring their residents.
But that’s what the text from Maverick says. At least, I think it’s Maverick. Considering I didn’t know where he lived, I did what most sane people would and stalked him on social media. Which, in all honestly, was relatively disappointing. His social media profile consisted of a picture of a playing card and his phone number. No cute selfies or photos of his dog graced his page—just that one single picture and his first name. Maverick is a man of few words, apparently.
I grab my bag and debate if I should text him that I’m here. He didn’t seem very responsive when I asked if I could talk to him with a little heart emoji. The text was cute and friendly, but it was returned with an address—nothing more. Not even an emoji.
So I’m going with not texting and just showing up. Hopefully, he’s here. It never crossed my mind that I could be walking into a different Maverick’s apartment. Surely there isn’t another one with a playing card as his trademark. That would be insane.
But then again, I never thought Taylor would have banged Tucker on my good throw—people surprise you.
I stride up the pathway and up the stairs to the apartment listed on the text. I don’t know what I expected to find—maybe a dropbox for your soul? Certainly not the underwhelmingly plain door. Perhaps I have the wrong apartment? However, the nerves in my belly warn me that looks can be deceiving. It’s his apartment. The stale quiet of the empty hallway gives it away. Most complexes who rent to students are lively and loud. But not this one. This one gives off a secretive vibe. Like you need a code word to enter the real complex that lurks behind plain doors.
Or maybe, the quietness can contribute to the level of fear that living with the rumored devil is, plus a thousand. They could be scared to death to make a peep. A few months back, I heard about this one guy who had made a deal with Maverick and had to quit the football team to become Maverick’s security due to the flurry of death threats he received from family members.
I can’t remember his name, but I bet with a little snooping online, I could find it.
The point is, deals with Maverick have been rumored to ruin lives and destroy families. But the way I see it, I don’t have anything left for him to ruin. My mom is the only family I have, and she would never let us be torn apart. She will most certainly be upset with the decision I’m making, but she’s my mother. She’ll have to forgive me.
Besides, I’ve never paid much mind to rumors anyway. They aren’t true ninety-nine percent of the time—at least about me. So I doubt all the rumors about Maverick are either. Though, I imagine some rumors hold a kernel of truth. For example, I’m not a pyro, nor did I try to set my apartment complex on fire. But I did set the curtains on fire. So see, some truths are hidden in the rumors—which does not make me feel better standing at Maverick’s door. If the rumors have any truth to them, then he’s not a nice guy.
Deep breath. You can do this, Ainsley. All you have to do is knock on the door.
I eye the intimidating door once more, noting at closer inspection streaks through stained handprints just below the handle. Are they the tears of his victims? Were they begging for their lives? Their friends’ lives?
It’s perfectly sane that I’m here, right? It’s sane that I’m desperate enough to offer up anything Maverick chooses, just for a place to stay. Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy when they do things. I do. So this can’t be crazy.
Granted, I haven’t thought about the possibility of Maverick turning me down. It’s not like there is a rule book or something. I tried to find out more online, but we all know how that went. And asking his victims—I mean, his clients—wouldn’t have gotten me the truth. If there has ever been one consistent rumor, it’s been that no one talks about Maverick Lexington’s favors. You thought I was going to say Fight Club, didn’t you?
Either way, there’s a really good chance I’m wrong, and Maverick will call the cops or vanquish me straight to hell with his other minions. Worse, he could invite me in for a drink and a blow job. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t grant my favor after seeing the horrific sight of me gagging around his dick like I had food poisoning. Sucking dick is not my forte. I never got good at it, and Tucker never really cared. So it’s not on my sexual résumé. It’s one of those things I would need an online class for.
Sleeping with him, though—even if he’s a geek behind an iPad—might not be too horrible. Not like I’m a whore or anything, but I’m just saying that might not be the worst thing in the world for a woman scorned. It’d be like a nice little fuck you to Tucker with an orgasm on top, but that’s beside the point. The point is, there are so many rumors surrounding Maverick that I could be walking into an ambush.
I have no idea who is going to answer this door or what they will say. What if this whole card thing is a scam? I mean, what if it’s some old geezer who gets his rocks off making up rumors on the online campus forum? It could happen. This could be a whole catfish scam for all I know, but I’m desperate, and Bostic is not going to allow me to keep sleeping in my car and lying. Besides, I’m not a person who lies on the regular. The fact that I’ve probably told more lies now than I ever have before is not doing good things for my soul.
Truthfully, the two guys who mentioned Maverick was looking for a roommate could be full of shit. But I’m going to knock anyway. Even if it is some old dude behind this door, I’m going to offer up my soul, or whatever it’s going to take, and I’m going to beg. Even if I have to get down on my knees and do it. I need a place to stay. I can’t go home. I’m not willing to admit defeat to Tucker and Taylor. They do not get to dictate my future at this university. This is my life, and I have control.
I am in control.
I curl my fingers into a fist and contemplate just pounding on the door like some guy would do, but I don’t because he may come out ready to fight, and then things would only get awkward. I’m just going to be a girl and rap a few dainty times. Maybe he’ll have a little compassion seeing as I’m a lowly desperate girl.
Lightly, I rap on the door and then pause. Dammit. I didn’t knock hard enough. Should I knock one more time or leave it? Great, now I’m obsessing. I should have knocked like I was the police. Fine, I’ll just give it another minute and put my ear to the door like most sane humans. You know it’s not that crazy of an idea. If I hear footsteps, I’ll know my knocking was loud enough. If I hear nothing in the next sixty seconds, I’ll knock again but harder.
With my ear to the door, I strain to hear. Nothing clatters, nothing groans, it’s just silent. And right when I pull back to knock again, the deadbolt clicks. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. He’s unlocking the door—or someone is unlocking the door.
I step back just as the door swings open with force, and a rock-hard body fills up the empty space. My gaze starts at the top, noti
ng the firm grip he has on the molding. The muscles strain against his taut skin, flexing as he leans forward, cocking his head to the side. His face—
Oh shit.
This is bad—really, really bad.
“Oh no.”
His scowl curves up into a lazy grin.
“Waitress,” he purrs. His voice has this melody of a luring song—one meant to pull you in and destroy your heart in a matter of seconds.
It doesn’t affect me, though.
“Dick at table forty-three, the princess who needed his steak warmed.”
Slap me with a stupid sticker because I have lost my damn mind. Why did I just say that? Yes, he was the rude-ass who insisted I warm his food up, and yes, he’s the one I dumped said food on, but that was yesterday, and I have moved on. Hopefully, so has he.
“Dick, huh?” He drops one of his massive arms and rubs a spot just above—ah damn, his nipple is pierced. Not to mention the whole right side of his ribs are covered in a massive tribal tattoo. Even on his left, a smaller tattoo wraps from his back and ends on his stomach, teasing me to gaze longingly at the ridiculous set of six-pack abs between them.
Why is life not fair?
I drag in a deep breath and try to let any animosity of yesterday go. “Can we start over?”
That lazy grin of his falls in an instant. “No.”
No. Okay. Well, that’s not good.
Sighing, I watch as his body goes rigid, and his arm goes back to the top of the doorframe, blocking any view behind him. His icy blue eyes stare back at me unyielding and hard, not the same guy who grinned when he first saw me. “I’m sorry about last night.” Hopefully, my sincerity will soften him.
“What can I do for you?”
Okay, so we’re going with a hard no on being softened.
With no hint of emotion, other than the apparent tone of boredom, one can surmise that Maverick will not be bought with sweetness and apologies. I’m going with plan B, which I’m making up as I go.
“Are you Maverick?” I could have said that a little stronger and without the slight tremor.
He drops his hands and reaches into his back pocket, producing a handful of playing cards. Oh no. I’m not prepared for it to get real this fast. What if those two idiots in class were right? What if I’m never the same after this?
“How much is it worth to you?” He drawls, producing a marker.
I swallow and straighten, plastering a snide grin on my face. “Nothing. Just producing the cards tells me I have the right person.”
He nods, seemingly pleased with my answer. “I would say you’re a smart girl, but the fact you’re standing at my door speaks otherwise.”
This ass.
“I need a favor.”
Yes, girl. Be bold. Don’t let him intimidate you.
His brows arch and the smirk he flashes pisses me off.
“You do grant favors, don’t you? Or are they just rumors to get you laid?”
My snippy words only add to his amusement as his lazy gaze moves from my flip-flop covered feet to my tank top.
“I don’t think you have anything I want, waitress.”
Oh no, he did not just refer to me as the waitress again.
“I’m sure you can find something you can take.”
He makes an amused humming noise in his throat as he shuffles the playing cards in between his fingers, never meeting my gaze. “What is it that you think you need?”
The menace in his condescending words knots my hands together. What do I think I need? I think I need a new job and a new parking lot—one that Bostic won’t find.
“I-I-I need a place to stay”—okay, so the stutter is new—“and I heard you were looking for a roommate.”
The laugh that erupts from his chest is enough to send a lesser woman home with broken confidence. But not me. I stand tall, waiting for him to wipe the smile off his face as if my being here has been the highlight of his day.
“Tell you what, the rumors never disappoint me.” He shakes his head and steps back, about to shut the door in my face.
“Wait!”
I shove through the small space, wedging my body between the door and throwing away my last shred of dignity. “Look, even if you aren’t looking for a roommate, maybe you know someone who is. Please.” My eyes plead with everything I am. “Please help me. I’m begging you. You’re my last hope.”
Too much to disclose? Probably. But again, I’m that desperate.
Desperate enough not to comment on the substantial annoying sigh he lets out as if giving me two more seconds of his time is painful.
“Fine,” he clips just before bringing the marker to his mouth and biting the cap off. He spits it out at my feet, and I refrain from staring at his tongue snaking out and wetting the spot the cap just left. “Hold your hand out,” he demands.
His voice might be a little scary, and I might be a little scared, but I hold my hand out, as crazy as that is. I wonder if Bostic would be proud or if he would be tempted to kick my ass? I guess we’ll find out eventually—like later tonight at dinner.
Slowly, I stretch my hand out in the small space between us. If Maverick notices the trembling, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he presses the playing card into my palm with his left hand, holding the card flush as his other fingers wrap around me as if he’s making sure I don’t move.
“I assume you know the rules,” he drawls quietly.
I nod and then decide to be honest. “Sort of.”
He scoffs. “You sort of found me, came all the way here to ask for a favor that you don’t know the price of?”
Well, now that he says it like that, it seems as if I was a little hasty.
“I know enough.” I lift my chin just in time to see him smirk.
“Doubtful.”
But he begins scribbling out the first letter—I—on the card. “You will give me your phone and I will write down your number.”
Oh. Well, that’s totally fine.
He rounds out the O on the card. “When I cash in my favor, I will call you and give you a time and a place with instructions. You will not ask questions, and you will do as I ask. There are no refunds for my favors.”
I swallow. That sounds a little dramatic and mob-like.
I nod my consent slowly as he finishes writing the U on the card.
“You will never mention me or my favors, nor will you disclose what favors we trade. I am a ghost to you.”
Or a genie. I think a genie is way less scary.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Ainsley. My name is Ainsley James.”
I felt like it’s important he knows my name.
“Do we have a deal?”
It’s like he purposely didn’t use my name, so this deal sounded less personal. Whatever. I don’t need him to be a friend. I just need a favor.
“We have a deal.” I want to add devil at the end of my statement, but I’m not that crazy.
At my acceptance, Maverick steps back, his masculine scent of an expensive smelling cologne pulling away and dissipating into the new space around us.
“Come in,” he murmurs, holding the door open like a gentleman.
It’s not like I rush in. Maybe I hustle a bit, but I try to seem cool and not like his hard glare on the card in my hand concerns me. Surely he won’t change his mind before I can adequately grovel.
The door slams behind me and sue me, I jump. It’s a little freaking scary. Sure, Maverick’s apartment is light and airy with a touch of modern college decor—meaning he isn’t using storage containers as coffee tables, but he definitely doesn’t give a shit if he has fresh flowers on the table. He doesn’t even have a table. Well, he does, but it’s got a green felt top on it. He definitely doesn’t eat at it.
The couch looks comfy as I head to it for a test sit, that’s all that matters. I need something softer than Jane Honda’s back seat.
“Go ahead, make yourself at home.”
He pops the top off a bottle of beer,
and I sink back into the cushions. “Oh, wow. This is a really nice sofa.” The back is made out of these big pillows that just swallow my body. “It’s like it’s giving me a hug.” And I really need a hug right now.
I’m basking in the snuggliest sofa ever—eyes closed and everything—when a low growling type noise has me popping one eye open. “Oh. My bad.” Seriously, I got lost for a second.
“Your favor,” he prods, rolling the bottom edge of his beer against the kitchen counter.
Dammit. Farewell, best sofa ever. I wonder if Maverick will let me come back to nap on it. Nah. It’ll probably cost me a favor. I shift, scooting onto the edge—which is soft too. Maybe a favor is worth it.
“Right,” I tell him, shaking off the haze of relaxation that came over me. Maverick’s modern college vibe works for me, I think. I haven’t felt this comfortable since living with Mom. “So, I’m looking for a roommate.”
Maverick—the dick—rolls his eyes. “I caught that much.”
“Well, isn’t that where you come in?” I mean, really? What good is a genie if you have to do all the work?
He snorts. “It’ll take some time. I don’t keep a running list of vacancies.”
My heart skips a beat. “I don’t have time. I need a place tonight.”
Maverick’s dark brows arch perfectly up his forehead. “Tonight?”
I bet he has that listening problem Tucker had. Mom says all men have it. Maybe she’s right.
“Yes, tonight. I told you I am desperate.”
His mouth goes tight. “Don’t tell people you’re desperate.”
“Whoa, okay. You don’t have to get all bossy. I’m just telling you the truth. I don’t have time to play games.”
His mouth relaxes a fraction. “Why can’t you stay with friends?”
Grr! “Do you ask everyone this many questions when they ask for a favor?” I think not.
Before I can even apologize for my outburst, he slams his beer down and has the door opened. “Out.”
Pleadingly, I hold out my palms. “I got thrown out of my apartment! I’m sorry!” I can see the flinch in his cheek. “Please help me. I don’t have any friends who will let me room with them. Trust me. I’ve tried.”