Rooter (Double H Romance)

by Smith, Teiran

  Seriously? How the hell can you miss if you’re sitting down?

  My urge to pee has suddenly taken a backseat to my disgust and irritation. I march to Miranda’s room.

  The worst part about living with Miranda and Mike is the mess. I like a clean house. I don’t understand what’s so difficult about picking up your empty pop can and putting it in the garbage can. But the absolute worst part is the bathroom. Miranda has a habit of getting toothpaste all over the counter. I mean, the entire counter. Mike can’t ever seem to hit the water when peeing. Basically, I never go into the bathroom unless I’m wearing shoes. But today it has hit an all-time high on the disgusting meter. Last week was Miranda’s week to clean the bathroom. It never got done. Big surprise.

  I am not happy.

  Not one little bit.

  “Miranda,” I holler and open her door without knocking. She’s sitting at her desk with her iPod on. I dart over and yank one of the ear buds out of her ear.

  She jumps. “What?”

  “Have you seen the bathroom?” I ask with my hands on my hips.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to it over the weekend. I’m going to clean it.”

  “It needs to be cleaned right now.” I demand and stomp my right foot.

  “I’m painting my nails.” She holds her hands up to show me her perfectly manicured pink fingernails. Not even her perky cuteness, with her hair bunched up on top of her head is enough to calm me.

  “I don’t care! There’s shit all over the toilet!”

  Her eyes go wide. “What?”

  “Go see for yourself!” I wave toward the bathroom.

  The moment she sees the mess she gags. “Mike!” She shouts.

  “He’s not here,” I inform her.

  “He’s going to have to clean that. I’m not going near it.” She goes back to her room and I follow.

  She may have better manners than to crap on the toilet and leave it there, but her room is an absolute pigsty. Dirty clothes cover a third of the floor while her hamper remains empty. There are three empty glasses, one on her nightstand and two on the dresser. Almost all of her drawers are open with various items hanging out of them and her bed is unmade. I don’t know how she lives like this. She takes such great pride in herself and in her appearance that she sometimes showers twice a day which includes clean clothes, fresh makeup, and newly done hair. How can she care so much about personal hygiene and so little about cleanliness in her room, or the rest of the house for that matter?

  “The shower, sink and floor need cleaned as well,” I remind her.

  She points toward the bathroom. “I’m not going in there until he cleans that up. That’s nasty.”

  “Who are you telling? Just when I’m sure it can’t possibly get any worse, I’m proven wrong.”

  “Look at it this way,” she goes back to painting her nails, “it’s a good education for when you get married. All men are pigs. Chris was just as bad.”

  Chris is her boyfriend. They’ve been going out for little over a year. I’m not a huge fan of his. He’s hot, and he knows it and it shows. I’m not entirely sure what, other than his looks, Miranda sees in him. He treats her like crap until he wants sex, then it’s all “Baby, I love you.” Yuck.

  Then it hits me. She said “was just as bad.”

  “Was?” I ask with an arched brow.

  “I caught him with a stripper.” She doesn’t sound surprised. “And not a classy one from a gentleman’s club. We’re talking straight out of the gutter, not even hot, white trash.”

  “Ew!” I push back her comforter to make room to sit on the bed. “When did this happen?”

  “Last weekend. He butt dialed me in the middle of the night. I heard Brian’s voice in the background and assumed they were home,” she gets up and joins me on the bed, “so I went there, and sure as hell, there they were, the three of them.”

  “The three of them?” I ask with wide eyes. Holy shit!

  “Yep. The slut was on all fours getting fucked by my boyfriend while sucking Brian’s tiny cock.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I stood in the doorway for a minute while Brian screamed “Brandy, Brandy” over and over again. They didn’t even notice me. So I said, “Care if I join?” You should’ve seen Chris’ face.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I never saw anyone move so fast in my life. He jumped off her and came after me, but I was out of there.” She motions animatedly with her hands. “I ran as fast as I could to my car while he chased me butt naked with a flopping boner. All I could hear was “Please forgive me, baby, I love you.” Yeah fucking right. Go love Brandy fuckwad.”

  The visual of Chris running after Miranda with a hard-on, coupled with her boisterous explanation make me want to laugh, but I stifle it. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shrugs. “I was tired of his crap anyway.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask even though she doesn’t appear to be the least bit upset.

  She nods. “It sucks and I’m pissed, but yeah I’m okay.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “The worst part of it was when he blamed it on me. He told me it was my fault for not giving him enough sex.”

  “What?” I ask, stunned. That’s low, even for Chris.

  “Apparently, five times that week wasn’t enough.”

  “What an asshole.” Who the hell cheats on Miranda? She’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. And to cheat on her with a nasty stripper? You’d have to be a complete moron! Now I feel sorry for yelling at her about the bathroom. I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “Well, if you decide you’re not okay, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks,” she says and wraps her arms around my waist.

  “Can I ask, why you didn’t tell me?”

  She leans away and looks at me. “I don’t know. I wanted to, but things haven’t been that great between us lately. I didn’t feel like I could come to you.”

  “Miranda,” I say her name gently, “you’re my best friend. You can always come to me.”

  She looks away, sad. “It’s just that, I know you’re upset with me for always defending Mike, even when he hurts you.”

  I turn her chin so she’s facing me. “Mike aside, you are and always will be my best friend. You have always been there for me. You’re all I have in this world, Miranda.”

  She gets a little misty eyed. “You know I love you, right?”

  I take her back in my arms. “Yes, I know. And I love you, too.”

  We sit and hug for a moment and then I get an idea. “How about we order a pizza, pop in a chick flick, and veg out together tonight?”

  She looks at me with her pretty, sad brown eyes and bounces up and down. “I’d love that.”

  “I’ll order the pizza, while you pick out the movie.”

  For the next two hours Miranda and I lay on the couch, legs entwined, like we used to when we were little. Occasional giggles and Miranda’s lip smacking, are the only sounds we make. For the first time in a while, I feel content.

  And then Mike walks in the house.

  “You need to clean the toilet before morning,” Miranda tells him, before he can run up the stairs.

  “It was your turn to clean it,” he protests.

  “Yes,” she agrees, “but you’re the one who crapped all over it.”

  “How do you know it was me?”

  She sits up with a perturbed expression. “Seriously? Only three of us live here Mike, and it wasn’t me or Soph.”

  He groans, irritated. “Fine, I’ll clean it in the morning.”

  “It better be clean before six!” She snipes as he darts up the stairs.

  “Whatever!” He yells back and slams his door.

  “I’m not kidding!” She shouts.

  I stand up and yawn. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Thanks for tonight.” She smiles and turns off the television.

  “It was fun. I’ve missed this.”

  “Me too.”

  I�
��m sitting at the dining room stable, staring at Rooter’s house, drinking a cup of coffee when Mike appears before me.

  “The toilet’s clean,” he says and stands, staring at me, waiting for acknowledgment.

  I’m not going to thank him for cleaning his mess. “All right.”

  He stalks out of the house and slams the door behind him.

  I sigh. I’d love to go back to the way things were before Loraine and John died. Before Mike told me he loved me. Mike and I never really hung out just the two of us, but we had a good time when we were around each other. Sure, we got on each other’s nerves from time to time, but that’s how it is with family. He was like the brother I never had, which is how I viewed him.

  When the three of us were in high school, we’d crawl through the attic window onto the roof and drink Red Bull in the middle of the night. He’d tell us jokes and make us laugh until tears streamed down our faces and our stomachs hurt. He was there when I first got my period and made fun of me when I got my first training bra. There’s really very little Mike doesn’t know about me, and I about him. Why can’t we get back to that? Is it even possible?

  On my way to my car I hear the rumble of a motorcycle. Assuming it’s Rooter, I look to my right and watch him come down the street. I only have twenty minutes to get to work and it takes me fifteen to drive there. Yet I fully intend to find out what he meant by “Consider yourself warned.”

  Rooter pulls into the driveway and turns his head in my direction right as I trip on an exposed tree root and fall face first, twisting my ankle in the process.

  “Ow!” I wail and grab my ankle.

  “Shit, are you okay?” His voice is thick with concern as he rushes to my side.

  I try to stand on my own, but can’t. I hiss in pain.

  “Let me see.” He lifts my left pant leg to assess the damage. He removes my shoe, feels the bone, and rotates my foot a couple times. I moan in pain. “Already swelling. If it’s not broken, it’s a hell of a sprain. You need an x-ray.”

  Before I know what’s happening, he puts his right arm under my knees and his left around my back and scoops me up. He carries me with little effort to the passenger side door of my car and sets me inside as gently as possible. With each tiny movement, it’s like a knife is tearing through my ankle.

  “I’ll be right back.” He disappears into his house. A minute later, he appears with a Ziploc bag of ice. “Keep this on your ankle,” he orders and jogs to the driver’s side and hops in.

  I hand him my keys and watch silent awe as he pulls out of my driveway. I put the bag of ice down to retrieve my phone from my purse.

  “Keep that ice on your ankle,” he orders.

  “I need to call work and tell them I’m not coming,” I explain while still digging through the mess in my purse trying to find my phone.

  He takes the purse from my hands. “Keep the ice on your foot.” The moment he looks inside the bag he sees the revolver. “She packs,” he mutters to himself, seemingly impressed as he continues to rummage through my purse. “How do you find anything in this trash pit?” He asks with a chuckle.

  I’d laugh in return, but I’m in too much pain. And I’m scared. He should be looking at the road, not in my purse.

  Finally, he gives up and retrieves his phone from his back pocket and starts typing something. “What’s your boss’s name?”

  He knows where I work? “Randy.”

  “I need to talk to Randy,” he says into the phone and I continue to stare. “Hey, Randy, I’m calling for Sophie Holt.”

  He knows my last name, too?

  “She’s on her way to urgent care. Might’ve broken her ankle.” He listens to whatever Randy is saying. “I’ll have her call you when she’s out.” He hangs up.

  I stare at him with a slack jaw.

  “You have a nice boss,” he says flippantly.

  “You know where I work?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he admits cautiously.

  “And my last name?”

  He turns to me with an arched brow. “Does that scare you?”

  “No. It just seems you know quite a bit about me,” I say, wondering what else he might know.

  Rooter’s expression is intense, and he clenches his jaw. “You have no idea.”

  I gulp and stare, astounded.

  “Does that scare you?”

  My already racing heart speeds up. “No.” Actually, it turns me on. A lot.

  He looks away and makes a right at the stop sign. “Well, it should.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He chuckles eerily. “You have heard of my club?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors.”

  “Rumors,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “that’s what you think they are?” He’s trying to intimidate me, but it doesn’t work.

  “Life has taught me to only believe what I see firsthand.”

  We come to a railroad track and he slows way down in an obvious attempt not to jostle me too much. Rooter looks out of place behind the wheel of a car. Especially in my grandma-esque two thousand and four Toyota Camry. “Well, let me tell you, first hand, they’re not all rumors.” He shoots me a stern look, trying to convey a message.

  “Is that what you meant when you said,” I raise my left hand to make a quote, “Consider yourself warned?”

  He looks back to the road. “That’s part of it.”

  “If you’re so bad, why are you helping me?”

  Chapter 5

  Another Argument

  Rooter hesitates, lets out a deep breath and his shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”

  “I have a hard time believing you do anything without a reason.”

  He shakes his head infinitesimally and raises an eyebrow. “You’re perceptive, you know that?”

  I lean in his direction, ignoring the searing pain it causes. “So what’s your reason for helping me?”

  He pulls over and turns to me with a conflicted expression. “Fuck it,” he throws his right hand in the air, “here goes. I’ve been watching you since I moved in three years ago,” he admits.

  My eyes go wide and my breath catches. Holy shit. He’s been watching me for three years?

  “The first time I saw you,” he continues, “was when you thrashed the girl across the street.”

  He’s referring to Janelle. She rents the house across the street from us. There’s no parking on her side of the street, so when she moved in she claimed the spot in front of our house. Miranda parked there one day and Janelle went off. A fight ensued and poor Miranda, unsurprisingly, was on the losing end, so I stepped in and ended it. A quick left hook and a knee to her nose was all it took.

  “The second time I saw you, you came to help Mrs. Frank in the garden. You had the face of an angel.”

  I gape at him in total disbelief.

  “I watched as you came and went, visiting the Frank’s. You washed their cars and helped around the house. But the day you moved in I decided to learn more about you.”

  I can tell there’s more he wants to say, but he stops there, allowing me to process the information.

  “You watch me?”

  “More than you watch me.”

  Shit! He knows. I stare at him, mouth agape. Without another word, Rooter puts the car in drive.

  Rooter pulls into the Urgent Care parking lot, parks, and shuts off the engine. He turns to me with a mixture of sadness and worry etched into his face. “Sophie,” his voice is so gentle, “I wasn’t kidding when I said I know a lot about you.” He turns in his seat to face me. “I know about your childhood. About your mom. About how you left home after she put a gun to your head.” He pauses long enough that I think he’s done, but then speaks again, softly. “I know about the rape.”

  Tears pool in my eyes and a lump forms in my throat. He knows about the worst moments of my life. My chest aches. How does he know all these things? More importantly, what else does he know? The pain in my ankle takes a backseat to the wave of emotion I’m experiencing. �
��You know a lot about me.”

  He nods. “You’re like a walking contradiction. So strong, and yet so frail.”

  With those words, it seems he understands me better than anyone. I wipe a tear away with the back of my hand.

  “Now are you scared?” He asks.

  “No.” I should be. A normal person would be.

  Rooter shakes his head, gets out, walks to my door and helps me out as gently as possible. He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the Urgent Care entrance.

  “How can I be afraid of you when all you do is help me?”

  An X-ray confirms my ankle isn’t broken, but severely sprained. The doctor wraps it, prescribes Vicodin for the pain and recommends RICE: rest, ice, compression, and elevation. I can’t work for two weeks.

  I hobble to the car on crutches with Rooter at my side. We haven’t spoken since we walked into the Urgent Care facility. The silence is awkward as he pulls out of the parking lot. I start to say something, anything, when his phone rings.

  “Yeah,” he snaps into the phone. “I’m tied up right now. I can be there in an hour.”

  He hits a manhole which sends a shooting pain to my already throbbing ankle and I lean my head back and grimace. He turns to me and mouths he’s sorry.

  “I’ll call when I’m on my way,” he says to the caller and hangs up the phone.

  “I never knew sprained ankles hurt this bad. Miranda had one once, and I thought she was such a wuss.”

  He laughs. “A wuss?”

  We both laugh. I love the sound of his. It has a higher pitch than that of his speaking voice. The laughter is a pleasant departure from the awkward silence.

  Rooter pulls into the pharmacy parking lot and turns to me. “Where’s your script? I’ll go in and get it.”

  “I’m not filling it.”

  He faces me, incredulous. “What? Why?”

  “I’ll just take ibuprofen.”

  “Ibuprofen won’t touch that.” He points at my foot.

  I slouch and gaze into my hands. I know the ibuprofen won’t work, but I don’t have insurance and money is a finite resource for me.