by Kristy Marie
He pushes the door closed slowly like he’s trying to convince himself not to drag me out. “Why won’t they let you stay with them?”
I shrug. “I might have started a small fire in my apartment.”
Dammit, I’ve scared him. His eyes have gone from narrowed suspicion to holy-shit-I’ve-let-in-a-psycho wide.
“What’s a small fire?” His words are smooth and unhurried, like I didn’t just make him nervous.
“Like a small curtain fire that ended with the fire department and a ban from the complex owner.”
Yeah, that did it. Now he’s scared.
Rumor has it she has to do his laundry for a year.
“You were banned? From a college apartment complex?”
Just when I think I’ve heard it all. I don’t know if I should be impressed or fucking terrified.
Her cheek twitches just before she shrugs, the strap of her tank top sliding off her shoulder in the process. “Not officially. It wasn’t like he made me sign anything. He just said he didn’t want to see me on his property ever again.” She adjusts the changeable strap, slipping her bra strap underneath so I can’t see the clashing color. “I read between the lines.”
She read between the lines.
I shake my head.
She seems so normal. Sure, she’s gorgeous, most of the crazy ones are too, but Ainsley has this genuine quality to her. Like what you see is what you get. She doesn’t hide who she is, nor does she waste time doing those fancy knots with her hair. She opts to keep it simple, allowing her long waves to drape over one shoulder, the sheen glistening in my overhead lighting. Even if she’s taller than most girls, she doesn’t lack curves. Her body is lean, and her hips prominent. That doesn’t even take into account her tight ass shoved into those jean shorts. If I were interested, I’d note that she’s stunning in a girl next door type of way, but I’m not. I’m just pointing out how normal she appears to be on the surface.
She’s obviously a handful, but is she really crazy enough to get banned for causing a fire? I find that hard to believe. Do you know all the shit college students do in their apartments? Students make up the majority of renters around here. Owners are used to a certain level of stupidity and “accidents.” But she gets banned for a curtain fire? What am I missing here?
“So that’s why your friends won’t let you stay? Because they think you will set the place on fire?”
She has the audacity to look meek. It pisses me off. “That and I don’t have that many friends. I came here with a boyfriend, and since the rumor will eventually make it to you, you should know he was banging my roommate when I came home that night. I threw a candle. One thing led to another and—”
“You set the place on fire,” I finish for her.
“I wasn’t trying to kill them.”
I almost laugh at that one. To think this hundred-and-thirty-pound, hot mess of a girl is worried I might think she was trying to hurt someone. Please.
“So you need a place with working sprinklers,” I suggest.
She nods, appearing a little more deflated than a few minutes ago when she nearly passed out on my couch.
Goddammit. Don’t do it, Mav.
“I’ll have to make some calls.”
Her head drops a little farther. Argh! “But you can stay here.” I point to the couch. “I don’t have an empty room—but you can crash on my couch until I find something for you.”
A slow smile tugs at her cheeks. “I can crash with you?”
No.
“One night. Twelve hours. However long it takes me to find you a roommate that has flame retardant tapestry.”
“Haha. You’re hilarious but thank you.”
Don’t thank me just yet.
“So, we have a deal?”
She jumps up and down. “We have a deal.”
It’s way too fucking easy.
I slip my hand into my back pocket and pull out a card. What the hell did I do with my marker? I spot it on the counter and eat up the distance in a couple of strides. Now, where was I?
Oh right. “Turn around,” I bark, my voice gruff and edgy with an absurd amount of frustration.
“What? Why?” She notices the playing card in my hand. “I only asked for one favor,” she starts to argue.
Rookie mistake.
“No. You asked for two.” I take a few steps closer, coming toe to toe. I don’t need her to turn around after all. I can be flexible.
I hold the card in front of her face. “The first favor you asked was to help you, which got you through the door.” I push the card against her lips, cutting off any argument. “The second is for finding you an apartment. Don’t get it confused. I offer no freebies. Everything with me is quid pro quo.”
I take the marker and scrawl the letters IOU, taking my sweet ass time. I want her to know I’m the one in charge here. No pouty mouth and tight body is going to make me forget who I am. I’m not doing this out of charity. It’s a deal just like any other. A favor bought and housed in reserve.
When I’m satisfied she understands the shit she’s now in, I release my hold on the card and let it fall to the floor, her shocked expression morphing into something else entirely. Something incredibly sexy. Something incredibly pissed.
“You lied!”
I cock my head to the side, a silent warning to watch her fucking mouth. “I didn’t lie. You didn’t know the rules. Not my problem.”
Sure, I could have warned her, but where would be the fun in that?
“You could have been a little more thorough,” she says, her bottom lip quivering just a bit. She doesn’t beg me to take it back, and I admire that she’s accepting the terms and dealing with them, even if she doesn’t agree.
“Do I get a key?”
I bark out a laugh. “No.”
She shrugs, unaffected. “Whatever. Don’t blame me when you have to crawl out of bed at 11:30 to let me in. That’s when I get home from work.”
Don’t blame me when your ass sleeps out in the hallway with that smart mouth.
“I’ll be up,” I assure her, going back to my beer.
She takes a deep breath and nods. “I need to take a shower before work.”
Motherf—“Fine.”
Now she needs a bathroom. Next thing I know, she’ll want something to eat.
The smile she flashes me makes my dick jump.
This is a bad idea—a terrible idea, Maverick. The worst you’ve ever had.
“Great! I’ll just be a second. I need to grab a couple of bags from my car, so don’t lock me out, okay?”
I clench my jaw and try to seem hospitable. “Sure.”
“Eep! You’re so not as awful as people said.” And there lies the problem. She’s too observant, and I’m breaking all the rules. This is what happens when you only sleep two hours fulfilling a fucking favor you should have never had to do in the first place. Never again.
“Your phone,” I demand, holding out my hand. At the tone of my order, the smile falls from her face, and she reaches into her back pocket, pulling out her phone, pausing only a second to unlock it. That’s better. That’s the fear I need to see from her.
“Just ignore the screen saver. It was a dare, and I don’t know how to change it back,” she mutters, her nose pinking just a little on the tip as she places it in my palm. She’s embarrassed. Huh.
I lower my gaze to her phone, and a picture of a sea lion stares back at me. I almost grin. Bullshit, she doesn’t know how to change it. This picture is edited with a filter, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s not from the internet. The background has our local aquarium’s logo behind the smiling sea animal.
“Cute,” I muse, scrolling through her pictures, noting hundreds of images of her and a guy. Must be the ex-boyfriend. I click on one of her and him pushed together in the bed. Wait. “This was our waiter last night.” God, what was his name? Thomas?
“Yeah. He’s Taylor’s and my boss.”
“Who the fuck is Taylor?” Why are
there so many T names in her life?
She fidgets with a tweed bracelet on her wrist. “My ex-roommate.” She says it like a question. “It’s why I was in such a bad mood when, you know . . .”
When she tossed food in my lap.
“Ah. Will you be looking for a new job too?” The patrons need one of them to quit. Had I been someone else, I would have had her fired.
“I mean, I would like to, but there aren’t many openings around here, and I refuse to be a stripper, not that I’m judging the women who are. I just don’t have that kind of confidence in my body.”
Good Lord. I take it back. She has eight hours and then she’s out of here.
“It’ll be fine,” she says, waving off my doubt. “Things will blow over, and I’ll be fine. It isn’t like I’m heartbroken over it.”
Famous last words.
It’s midnight, and I’ve read the same set of numbers four times now, and I’m no closer to digesting what they mean to Braylon’s portfolio than I was fifteen minutes ago. The same fifteen minutes before she came home from work and threw herself down on the sofa face first. I hadn’t even cared at the time. It wasn’t my business to ask how her day was or to offer her a nightcap. I simply nodded, locked the door behind her, and went to my room.
But then the sniffling started.
“Ahh!” I hear her muted cry through the closed door.
I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling, but she’s not masking that horrific squall of pain. It sounds like a coyote screeching into my throw pillows while attempting to guzzle a beer. Exactly, it’s not pleasant.
Another whimper.
Fuck!
I’m not getting involved. I’m merely fulfilling a favor by letting her have a place to stay tonight. And possibly tomorrow. So far, my attempts to find her a roommate have failed. For some reason, this girl has pissed some people off. Enough people that I’ll have to use a favor just to get her out of my apartment and off my sofa. Granted, I’m intrigued. I admire someone who can ruffle a few feathers at this university, but I am not for all this crying. I don’t do nursing someone’s mental well-being.
I’m not her friend.
This is a deal.
It’s as simple as that.
“Do it, Ainsley. Do it! Press the button!”
Oh, God. Is she talking to the remote? I have neighbors, for God’s sake—ones that I want to keep fearing me. I can’t have them thinking I’m running a slumber party over here.
Sighing, I pluck the unlit cigarette from my lips and set it down. I need something to drink anyway. On my way to the kitchen, I will pass by and give her a once-over. If she’s drunk, and indeed talking to the remote, I will come back, turn on some music for my nosy neighbors, and put my headphones on to drown out the rest of this crazy night.
I can do that.
It’s not like I’m really checking on her. I’m just ensuring she won’t destroy the remote or lash out at any of my shit. I’m protecting my assets and my lease agreement. The deposit wasn’t that much, but I’d prefer not to lose it.
I throw on a shirt and head out into the hall, where the whimpering becomes more apparent. She’s not just sniffling now. She’s holding back some massive sobs.
This isn’t my thing. I don’t do crying women.
The last time I witnessed a woman cry was when my mother found out she had MS. Her sobs are still burned in my memory. I wasn’t equipped to deal with it back then, and I certainly am not equipped to deal with it now. Crying girls are not in my wheelhouse.
“Press the button! Remember what he did!”
What the fuck? Is she giving herself a pep talk? And what button is so damn important that she needs to press it? Dammit. Now I have to know. Call it fucking curiosity. Maybe she really is crazy and just hides it well. Sebastian always says the prettiest ones have the craziest personalities.
I pad down the hall, careful not to interrupt her sobs, and come to a stop a few feet in front of the sofa. There, hugging the spare pillow from my bed—I’m not a complete shit of a host—sits the brave girl I admired earlier today. The one who begged me to hear her out. This time, though, instead of a strong jaw and a smart mouth, she sits curled over her knees with swollen eyes glaring down at her phone, a grip so tight it’s turning her knuckles white.
“Should I pull out the fire extinguisher?”
Shitty thing to lead with, I know, but again, crying women are not my thing.
She pulls her murderous glare from her phone and aims it straight at me. I’ll be honest. It unnerves me a little. Not enough to deter me, though. I’ve seen better.
“Are you going to need to raid my freezer too?” I head to the kitchen, ignoring the heated glare I can feel on my back. Please, God, don’t let her have one of my kitchen knives stashed in the cushions. “Full disclosure, it’ll cost you another favor.” I’m lying, don’t go all girl power on me. Someone needs to pull her out of this spell, and I’m all she has at the moment. Poor girl.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Maverick?”
I roll my eyes. Here we go. Why must they all ask this question? Shouldn’t the rumors squash this question? “No, but let me warn you that girl talk and boy bashing will cost you another favor. Choose your questions and comments carefully.” I pour myself a glass of water from a jug I keep in the refrigerator, and before I put it up, I take out another glass and pour her one too. For free. Because I’m feeling charitable at the moment, and I’m not so sure she isn’t armed.
“So you don’t know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest, do you? A pain so violent that you can’t bear to delete the memories of your past.”
Whoa. Is that what she’s trying to do? Delete pictures of her and what’s-his-name? I thought she said this would blow over, and she wasn’t heartbroken over it?
Without looking directly at her—she looks a little wild—I take a sip of water and decide for once in my life to answer honestly. The poor girl looks like she can’t take many more lies. “I’ve never had my heart ripped out by a girlfriend, but I do know the pain of losing the most important woman in my life.” Let her piece that statement together if she wants.
“Oh,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” She hiccups, but the comment seems to have settled her.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.” I take her the glass of water and hand it over.
“Will this cost me a favor?”
I deserve that. Honestly, it makes me smile. I like a client who learns quickly.
“It’s on the house.”
“I thought you didn’t do freebies?”
See what I mean? She remembers too much. She has to go.
“I also don’t do guests, but here you are.”
She bites her lip and mumbles, “Here I am.”
I take a seat on the coffee table, directly in front of her. She seems calmer, and the air feels a little safer. “What’d she do tonight?” I’m referring to the Tessa or Tonya girl she used to live with. She gave her a hard time last night if I remember correctly.
“He moved in with her.”
“Who? Your ex-boyfriend?” No, I’m not stupid, but with women, you never know what upsets them. Not that I have a whole lot of experience, but Sebastian has made more than a few cry and run to me for help. Never mind. I just need to be sure we are talking about the ex and not a stepdad or something.
“Yes. Tucker, my cheating asshole boss and former boyfriend, moved in with my cheating ass roommate and coworker.”
Now she’s just being a smartass.
“And this upsets you?”
“Yes! Would it not upset you if your girlfriend moved your roommate in with her?”
I want to answer honestly and tell her no because that would never happen with me. I don’t allow people to become that valuable to me—to have enough power to control my emotions. Everything is a deal in my life. Nothing is organic or free. Except for Sebastian and Rowan, but even then, I think I
could write them off with a minimal headache if they were to betray me.
“I would move on. You shouldn’t mourn the loss of a lie.”
Wrong thing to say.
“Tucker and I weren’t a lie! He loved me!”
Okay, therapy time is over. It’s time to remind her why she’s in this situation—some tough love or the truth. “He bent your friend over your pink sheets and fucked her so hard that she bit the fabric and screamed out his name.”
She rears back, her plump lips forming an O. “Shut up! He did not!”
Maybe not on her pink sheets. They could be blue or some shit, but rest assured the bastard more than likely fucked her on Ainsley’s bed. She needs to let this dick go and get some sleep—hell, so we can both get some sleep. I need the girl from earlier. “While you were making him the perfect dinner, she was riding his cock in the back seat of her car.”
“Stop!”
I’m not going to stop. She needs to hate him or delete the fucking pictures, whatever the end game is here.
“While you were texting him that you couldn’t wait to see him, he was texting Tiffany with all the things he would to do her as soon as he got away from you.”
“No!”
The sobs that shake her entire body almost get me to stop, but the finger she moves to the screen, hovering over the picture, keeps me firm. “Press the button, Ainsley.”
“He loved me.” Her voice sounds defeated. I should feel better that she’s doing what I want—that she’s letting go, but instead of turning back, I ignore the pain that throbs behind my ribs. In the morning, if I have to search all day, I am finding her an apartment. I’m not doing this again.
“He might have loved you once, but he doesn’t anymore. He used you, Ainsley. He threw you away like last season’s Christmas sweater.”
I watch her chin quiver, and like a bastard, I keep going. “Press the button.” God, forgive me.
With one last scream of anguish, she jams her finger to the screen and deletes the picture. And then another one. And another. She’s so consumed with cursing her screen, she doesn’t even notice when I get up and leave.