by Lulu Wright
He’s doing that now, only he’s not speaking.
The last time I saw the man in front of me was ten years ago. He had complained that my salutatorian speech was “too fucking long” and that he had parties to get to and vaginas that needed his undivided attention. I had responded boldly, telling him that I’d see him at our reunion—if he could put down his bong and whoever he was banging long enough to make it.
And now, I’m standing smack dab in front of Jace Exley, asking for him to give me a job.
Heat pulses down my spine as he flicks his steely blue gaze over me, raking in all five foot six inches—five foot nine with the heels. I’ve filled out since the last time we saw each other. I have hips and breasts and a butt now, and I nixed the short black bob that made me look older than my mother years ago.
Still, for a moment, I feel like the flat-chested girl who wanted to punch him in his stupidly rugged face every time he said, “pull the stick out of your arse, Williams.”
“Lucy Williams.” Jace steeples his fingers over his mouth and leans back, giving the impression of a man used to getting his way. To be honest, I have no doubt that’s just what he is. “Never thought I’d see you again, and I sure as fuck didn’t think you’d walk through my door, but please … sit down.”
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Screwmates by Katyi McGee
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Prologue
I knew from the first time I saw him that I was screwed.
He couldn’t be as hot as I thought he was, that wasn’t possible. I’m a visual artist. And that had to be an illusion. No way those brown curls and scruffy face were real. Twenty-eight year-old Colin Farrell didn’t live in Kansas City. Someone would have mentioned it. Also, time travel.
I had just taken off my glasses to clean them. Fatal mistake. I was still blinking in the doorway and trying to maneuver the hem of my plaid button-down to rub on the lenses when Ava, mistaking me for nervous, put the flat of her hand on the small of my back and shoved.
So my first real impression of Marc Kirby came as I tripped and fell to my knees. My chin, slightly pointed (Mom’s side, thanks for nothing) led as it usually does. Point first, I slammed headlong and hard into his dick. And man… it was a big dick.
Best first impression ever.
Typical Ava, cracking up, surveyed the scene (both of us on the floor: him in pain, me in humiliation).
“Madison’s chin, my cousin Marc’s crotch,” she choked out between howls of laughter. “Meet your new roommate, both of you. I’ll leave you to it!” The door slammed behind her.
So. Completely. Screwed.
“I’ll find my own room,” I said, before he had a chance to recover. “Sorry about—your boy parts.” My finest moment, obviously.
Swear to Stan Lee, I’ve never moved that fast in my life. Turning one knob, then another in rapid sequence: his room, closet, bathroom, finally (blessedly), my new room.
For the hundredth time, or at least the hundredth time that day, I cursed my former roomies for changing their minds the day we were supposed to turn in our lease renewal and leaving me in the lurch. You could argue that an unplanned pregnancy on Lizzie’s part and a nervous breakdown on Scarlett’s were unexpected, but I was in no mood to be charitable.
Because here I was now––a new room, a fresh start. A big dick.
I didn’t mean to, but the door slammed behind me about as loudly as it had behind Ava. But whereas hers was punctuation, mine was just—I don’t know, carelessness and humiliation combined, I guess.
Could he really have been as hot as I thought he was?
And could I really have just chinned him in the junk? And then I fled? And slammed the door?
And could chinned really be a verb?
Dying, seriously.
I flopped back on the bed. Thank Odin this place came furnished. I could not even handle going back out there right now to start hauling furniture around. Now was a time for cowering and trying to pretend that didn’t happen, even as I could smell the boy-scents of the apartment and hear him still letting out the occasional groan.
Okay. No prob. I could handle this.
The plan was to just hang out quietly for a while, let him… recover. Then I’d head on out casually like no big deal, and apologize when neither of us were embarrassed anymore. Easy peasy, we’d maybe order a pizza or something, hang out. Start fresh. Flirt a little. Just me and the hot curly-headed faux-Irish guy. Hot Marc. Eating hot pizza. Being roomies. As you do. Just doing the thing.
I woke up approximately five hours later, to full darkness and a pillow covered in drool. No pizza. No hot roomie.
And a whole lot more humiliation.
Because now Marc probably thought I was scared to face him. I wasn’t, not at all. Super brave, that was me. But you can’t say that to someone, so you have to just swagger around and hope they gather the general idea.
Which was what I was all ready to do the next day, only he evidently was at school the whole time I was at home drawing and awaiting him.
Not drawing him, per se. If you happen to put a familiar face on a body with a cape that’s just artistic license.
Grabbing my new key from the counter, I finally headed off to work for my night shift at the screenprint shop around five. I got home, wound down, went to bed while he was sleeping, and woke when he was gone again.
Well, there was still the weekend when school and work were both not in session. Weird waiting so long, but I wouldn’t act like it, I’d be like, “Oh, hey, never see you, how’s it going?” Super casually.
And he’d be all, “Man, our schedules are crazy, right? Bourbon?”
“Bourbon,” I’d reply. And then we’d get to know each other.
Except I never saw him Saturday. Or Sunday.
I texted Ava, nonchalant, like. Your cousin is an invisible roommate haha.
She wrote back almost immediately that he was not only in the middle of earning his doctorate, but went home to help out his mom on weekends.
Well, well. Hot, smart, and a good son. Cool. I could work with that. And really, I don’t even like bourbon, so.
But right then, I had to actually work work, because ComicCon was only a few months away and an aspiring comic artist like myself hustles like a motherfucker at those things. So one week blended into two pretty easily, between my day (night?) job and my art. Then one month became two and then a lot more and it honestly shocked me when one day I saw a stack of his graduation invitations sitting on the kitchen table.
Ten months had somehow meandered by in a parade of frames and frames (bad screening/artist joke, sorry) without ever getting the chance to get to hang with Marc. Don’t get me wrong––I saw him all the time in passing. We just never once fulfilled my pizza night fantasy.
Fantasy? No, that made it sound tawdry. My expectation, that was better. Because who lived with someone for nearly a year and never Netflix-ed and chilled?
Wait.
I meant actually watched Netflix while chilling. I did. I swear. Because, literally, who lives with someone for nearly a year and never has a boring couch night?
So it was weird, maybe, but it was what we did and it was no big deal and actually I hadn’t even thought about our embarrassing first encounter in months. Really.
Except maybe occasionally when I had date night with my vibrator.
But it wasn’t like he ever knew that’s what I thought about.
Chapter One
“Madison? Hey. Madison.”
I sat up with a jolt, my sketchbook falling to the floor.
“My boobs! Did I pass?” I was having That Dream. The one where I show up at school a frazzled mess with pencils sticking out of the messy brown bun on top of my head, my glasses on crooked, and ink stains all over my hands and arms that whisper rude things at passers-by who think it’s me. The one where the self-portrait I sp
ent all week working on has somehow morphed into a picture of the dog I had when I was in elementary school only with my mom’s head on top, and I’m now entirely certain I’m going to get an F.
And that Mom will not be pleased. Did I mention I’m also nude in the dream?
I hate that dream.
A solid four years since I’d graduated from the Kansas City Art Institute, and I was still having that recurring nightmare. A psychologist might have said that was a reflection on how unprepared I felt in everyday life.
But I majored in art, not psych, so that psychologist can suck it. I prefer to swallow my feelings, preferably with Cheetos, and let them turn into low-level anxieties and weird inspiration for canvas and paper and T-shirt designs, like a normal person.
“I’m not sure if you passed,” Marc said, picking up the sketchbook and trying his hardest not to look at my boobs. “But your alarm is going off.”
Sure enough, a loud blaring was sounding from my room. Shaking the fuzzies from my head, I ran to turn it off. This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen asleep on the couch while working on a project. It also wasn’t the first time Marc had been the one to wake me. Maybe eventually I’d learn my lesson and work in my bed. Or move my alarm to the living room. And maybe wear more presentable PJ’s.
These sweats probably date to the year of my birth.
“Orphan Black?” Marc asked when I returned, referring to the image I’d been working on. Don’t correct him, don’t correct him, I thought. Don’t—
I took the spiral book from his hands. “It’s Jessica Jones.”
He snapped his fingers. “So close.”
No. Not close at all. I bit back a laugh. Though my roommate and I were near strangers, I’d learned enough about him to know he was not as pop cultured as he could be. Not that anyone expected a history professor to know the difference between Orphan Black and Jessica Jones.
Correction––soon to be history professor. According to Ava, he’d been finishing up his masters this past year with the intent to teach at the university level. He was too busy learning the difference between the Hundred Years War and the Eighty Years War to be cool.
I sincerely doubt he’s ever heard of the Marvel Secret Wars. Lame. Although to be fair, only hardcore comic nerds knew that one, so your definition of cool needed to be fluid.
But, really. When a man looked like that––so firm and sculpted that it showed even under his suit––he didn’t have to be cool. Or.. Okay, I’m more nerdy than cool. All he had to be was the subject of a few of my late-night, um, drawing sessions. Yeah, drawing.
And speaking of his attire…
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and gave him a once-over. Be cool, Madison. Be cool. But he made me nervous. “You clean up pretty well. What’s the occasion?” And the understatement award goes to… me! But I was totally cool, so.
Really, though, he did clean up well. As far as I could tell from my few encounters with the man, Marc had two types of outfits––business casual and workout. (Workout was my favorite, in case anyone wondered. Post-workout, specifically—the shirt was frequently missing by that point.) Today’s look was decidedly more upscale.
“I had to defend my thesis this afternoon,” he said, loosening his tie. I was prepared to loosen my shirt as well, with as hot as the room was rapidly becoming. Actually, it was just him. Ha! Ha!
“Thesis! Man, that’s big.” I knew almost nothing about the thesis process, but I did know it was a big deal.
In fact…crap. Should I have gone to support him? Had anyone been there for him? Was that something people did for a thesis defense? Was that a thing that roommates did for each other?
Welp. Too late to wonder now.
“How did it go?” I asked instead, trying not to stare––okay, drool––as he tossed his tie on the arm of the couch and began unbuttoning his collar. I was going to have to have a “drawing” session immediately following this conversation.
“Pretty good. I’d been offered a teaching position for next year before I’d presented my argument and no one rescinded it afterwards, so I think, all in all, it was a success.”
“Awesome! Congrats! Woot! Yay!” Be COOL, Madison! “On both the thesis and the job. I hope you have big plans to celebrate.”
Actually, I couldn’t imagine him in a celebration situation, low key as he was, but it was Friday and he’d had quite the day. Surely he had a buddy to go out and drink with. Or a girlfriend. I was fairly certain he had one of those. She frequently left her wine coolers in our fridge and once I saw a bottle of her strawberry-basil bubble bath when I’d helped Marc unload his groceries.
Of course Hot Marc’s girlfriend smells like summer all the time. Le sigh.
“Celebrate?” The spot above his nose crinkled in confusion. It made him seem younger somehow. Less serious. More fun. I bet his students love that crinkle. I wish I was his student. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I do. Lots of celebration to be had. You’re off to work now?”
“Yeah, as soon as I clean up. Maybe, um, draw for a hot minute.” I twisted my lips to one side of my mouth than the other, a habit I had when I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, what else could I say? It wasn’t like I could invite myself to his party, even if I didn’t have a job and responsibilities. Even though I was awfully tempted, purely for curiosity’s sake. “I guess I better go and do that now.”
“Okay. And I’m going to change too. Have to get ready to, uh, celebrate and all.” He grabbed the tie off the couch and smiled awkwardly before heading down the hall.
“Right then. Bye.”
I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me before letting out a sigh of relief. All in all, it had been a pretty decent encounter. We’d exchanged about as many words as we ever had at a time, and no dicks were injured in the process. Maybe there was hope for us as roommates after all.
So I worked full-time for SplatScreen, but I didn’t consider it my real job. The indie shop specialized in custom T-shirts and screen prints. Though we did have a small storefront where people could walk in and buy prints or shirts, most of our jobs came in over the internet, everything from labels for craft breweries to shirts announcing local sports championships.
I’d started at the counter but was quickly moved to the back where I could operate the screen printing machines. Every night I came in at five, an hour before the store closed to the public, then I spent the rest of the evening pumping out orders. I was usually done by ten or so.
If I got done at a reasonable time, I got to play with my own designs, often staying another two or three hours to knock out some new pieces. I liked to consider that my “real” job, but it was more like my goal job. The SplatScreen work itself was easy (boring) and paid the bills (barely) but the two main reasons I kept it was for the free use of equipment and the health insurance.
Those were things my Etsy store and occasional convention booth would never provide, no matter how successful they became. Even with a roommate and a car older than my (mom’s) high school diploma, health insurance would be impossible to pay for on my own, and I couldn’t even imagine being able to afford my own studio. Just keeping a single press in my room would be a lost-deposit waiting to happen.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining an ink explosion to Marc. The horror!
Anyways, it took every extra dime just to keep me stocked in supplies. It is the eternal struggle of many an artist, and I’m not saying my struggle was any more difficult, just that it’s real. The struggle is real. Hashtag, full stop.
And so, for that sad but reasonable reason, I put away the commissioned piece of Jessica Jones that Marc had mistaken for Orphan Black, threw on a pair of jeans and the new Stranger Things graphic tee I’d made a few nights before (#FreeBarb) and headed out to work.
The Closed sign was showing on the front door of SplatScreen as I pulled my car in front of the store, but sometimes it accidentally flipped as people were walking through so I thought nothing of it. T
he lights were on inside, and I could see JD, my boss, talking to a man dressed in jeans and a blue button-down. Obviously we were open.
Except, when I pulled on the handle of the glass door, I found it locked.
With my brow furrowed, I used my key and walked in to find the retail space’s carpet was squishy and damp. Beyond nasty. Beyond. And the smell? Bee. Yond. I was unpleasantly surprised, to say the least.
“Surprise!” Jack said pleasantly. “A pipe burst next door. Take the night off.”
I looked around to notice the wet floor extended through most of the store. “I can’t leave you to deal with this alone.” I had perfect attendance at work, thank you very much, and yes, I was bitter I didn’t get a little ribbon for it like I did in elementary school. “I could still go in the back and knock out some screening jobs, couldn’t I? You don’t want to get behind.”
“There’s too much water back there to run the machines safely. The plumber here is working on the pipe. Everything’s already off the floor, and I have a company coming in to take care of soaking everything up. You’ll only be in the way if you stick around. Plus, it smells like dead ass.”
That was an extremely accurate description of the smell. Perfect attendance or not, he didn’t have to tell me again. I was out of there like last year. A whole entire night to myself on a Friday? That was a three-day weekend. Another thing you don’t get nearly so often outside of school.
But wait. I turned around. And opened my mouth. “You’re still getting paid,” Jack yelled over. Closed my mouth and carried on. Score.
The situation definitely called for some celebration of my own.
I texted Ava, Lizzie, and Scarlet. Dranks on me. Because I am nothing if not chivalrous. One by one the refusals came in.
Ava: banging the new guy rn suggest you find one 2
I know, sister. I know. But who has time to look? Not me. See the whole two job thing. Also, the anxiety. How do you even meet people when you’re out of school and working alone most days? If the answer is the internet, no thank you.