Rooter (Double H Romance)

by Smith, Teiran

  “Give me the script.” He snaps his fingers.

  “I can’t afford it,” I mutter, feeling helpless.

  “Sophie, you need the pills. Give me the script.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t let you buy my medicine.”

  “Give. Me. The. Script.”

  I gape at him, on the verge of tears. “You barely know me,” I say and then remember he actually does know me pretty well. “Well, I barely know you. You’re not paying for my prescription.”

  He yanks my purse away and takes out the prescription.

  “Rooter, no!”

  I watch as he jogs into the pharmacy. I’d run after him if I could. All I can do is sit, stewing and biting my nails. I appreciate his willingness to help me, but I also value my independence, greatly. His taking pity on me over my lack of money is embarrassing.

  Fifteen minutes later, he’s back in the car and hands me the bag.

  I must pay him back. “How much was it?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He starts the car and backs out of the space.

  My jaw drops. “I want to pay you back.”

  “Sophie, I said don’t worry about it.” The stern tone of his voice tells me this conversation is over.

  “Thank you.” I hold up the bag. “Again.”

  He shrugs. “No problem.”

  I watch with veneration as Rooter drives, careful to avoid any bumps in the road. I’ve never seen him drive a car. He owns a truck, but rarely drives it. I doubt he’s this cautious when he does. He holds the steering wheel with his left hand and rests his right hand on his leg. When he turns the radio on, it comes on blaring. Rooter jumps, almost hits his head on the roof, and swears before turning it down.

  I cackle. I like my music loud and I’d forgotten to turn the radio down last time I drove. My CD of choice, a former boy bander turned solo act, is playing.

  Rooter eyes me, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

  “It’s a good song,” I protest.

  He puts the radio on and turns it to the local hard rock station and bobs his head to the music. “Now this is good music.”

  “It is.”

  “You like this?” He gapes at me.

  “I’m nondiscriminatory when it comes to music.”

  The right corner of his lip rises and he nods once as though he’s taking in another new tidbit of who I am.

  When the song finishes and the station goes to commercial, I turn the down the volume. “This makes three times you’ve helped me.”

  Rooter shrugs, acting as though it’s no big deal.

  But it is. Especially since his confession. I get an idea. “Since you know so much about me, it’s only fair you tell me a little about yourself.”

  A moment passes, and he glances at me, unsure. “You don’t want to know me, Sophie. Take my word for it.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Another moment passes.

  “I’m waiting.” I purse my lips.

  “Give it up, Sophie,” he groans.

  “If you can find out things about me, I can do the same.”

  He laughs. “Go ahead. Maybe you’ll learn something that’ll convince you to stay away from me.”

  A wave of anger and exasperation come over me. “Obviously that’s not what you want.”

  “It’s what’s best for you.”

  “But it’s not what you want,” I challenge.

  He looks at me, deflated, and shakes his head and looks back at the road. The muscles in his forearm flex as he squeezes the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

  “I’ll decide what’s best for me. All I’m asking is to get to know you.”

  “Sophie, I’m a bad guy.” He clenches his jaw.

  “You keep saying that, but I beg to differ. You came to my defense after Mike tried to attack me. You took me to the doctor today and paid for my prescription. Bad guys don’t do things like that.”

  We’re a block from my house when he slams on the breaks and pulls over. The vein in his forehead protrudes and his face is red. His irritation is obvious and yet, I still see gentility.

  “What is the matter with you?” He snaps and throws his hands up in frustration. “How are you not freaked the fuck out right now? I’ve basically admitted that I’ve been stalking you for three years. I’m a fucking one percenter, Sophie! Any other girl would run in the opposite direction, terrified.”

  He has a point. But it doesn’t change the fact I’m not scared. Even I don’t understand it. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He leans his head against the headrest, rubs his denim covered thighs and exhales. A moment later he puts the car in drive and pulls away. Not another word is spoken as we make our way to my house.

  Rooter takes my purse and the prescription bag before helping me out of the car, taking care not to jostle me too much. Once at my front door, he hands me my keys so I can unlock it. When the door is open I reach for my purse and pills, but he motions for me to go inside.

  “What happened,” Miranda says and jumps up when she sees me. Her eyes twitch to Rooter when she sees him come in behind me.

  “It’s a bad sprain,” he informs her.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” She asks me and looks at Rooter again.

  “It happened really fast,” I explain and shuffle to the sofa. “Rooter was there when it happened.”

  “Where?” She asks.

  “In the front yard on my way to work.”

  “She needs a glass of water to take her pills,” Rooter tells her.

  “Sure,” she says, looking surprised, and walks to the kitchen.

  Rooter takes my crutches and helps me onto the couch.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You gonna be okay here?” He looks toward the kitchen where Miranda is.

  “Yeah, Miranda will help me.”

  “What’s your number?” He asks and pulls out his phone. I tell him and he programs it into the phone. “I’ll text you with mine so you’ll have it if you need anything.”

  “You don’t want me to know you, but you’re giving me your number so I can call you for help?” My phone pings from within my purse.

  His lip twitches. “I’m aware of the irony, but I want to make sure you have the help you need.”

  “I’m sorry, where’s the bad boy persona you keep warning me about?” I joke.

  He rolls his eyes. “I gotta go,” he says when Miranda appears before us.

  I give him a rueful smile. “Thanks, again.”

  “See ya, Sophie.” He turns and leaves without acknowledging Miranda.

  Miranda hands me a glass of water with a questioning eye. “You two friends now?”

  I open the pill bottle and dispense one into my hand. “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure?”

  I pop a Vicodin into my mouth and wash it down with water. “He thinks I’m better off not knowing him.”

  Miranda crosses her arms. “I think he’s right.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m getting really tired of people telling me what’s best for me.”

  “He’s in a biker gang that does bad shit, Soph. You are better off not knowing him.”

  “He’s also a guy who has come to my rescue, three times now. And while you were in the kitchen getting my water, he gave me his number in case I need any more help. So you’ll have to excuse me for disagreeing.”

  “I’d bet the only reason he’s helping you is because he wants in your pants.” She taps her foot the exact way Loraine used to do when she was unhappy about something.

  “If that was true, he wouldn’t tell me I’m better off not knowing him.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

  I slam the glass down splattering water all over the coffee table. I grab a dirty paper towel from the end table to wipe up the mess. “What does that mean?”

  “That guy is bad news.”

  I feel my pulse in my forehead. “That guy has a name.”

  “What kind of name is Rooter,
anyway?”

  I throw my head back and sigh. “Leave it alone, Miranda. Please.”

  “Fine. Do what you want. But mark my words,” she points toward Rooter’s house, “that guy, Rooter, is trouble. If you get involved with him, it’s going to lead to trouble.”

  Miranda stalks out of the room. She means well with her concern, but she needs to chill the hell out. She’s my best friend. I like Rooter and I want to talk to her about him the way normal best friends would. I want to tell her how it felt in his arms when he carried me and describe to her the look in his eyes when he told me he knew about my past. I want her to share my excitement with me. It’s not like she hasn’t dated her fair share of bad guys. She’s being a total hypocrite.

  Later than night, while lying in bed, I see the light come on in Rooter’s bedroom. I pick up my phone from my nightstand and contemplate texting him. I stare at the screen, ready to type, but can’t think of what to say. I’ve already said thank you, so I simply write: Good night, Rooter. My index finger hovers over the send button for a few seconds before pressing it. I peek out my window to his, waiting to see if he’ll reply. A few seconds later he does: Good night, Sophie. I stare at the screen and then clutch the phone to my chest.

  This is just the beginning.

  Chapter 6

  Jealousy?

  The next morning while sitting at the dining room table, I get a text from Rooter.

  Rooter: I saw Miranda left. Will she be gone long?

  Me: She went to work. She’ll be home after 5:00.

  Rooter: U gonna be okay while she’s gone?

  Me: I think so.

  Rooter: Do u have everything u need?

  Me: For now.

  Rooter: If u need anything, text me.

  Me: Okay. Thank you.

  That he thought about me and checked on me makes me giddy. His concern for me gives me butterflies and I smile.

  I wait to see if he’ll text back. After a couple minutes I assume the conversation is over, but continue to hold my phone, looking at the screen. My suspicion is confirmed when I hear his bike roar to life and he pulls out of his driveway. Another couple of minutes pass when my phone pings with another text. I know it’s Rooter by the sound because I’ve set his ringtone to a revving motorcycle engine.

  Wait… He just left his house. How can he be texting me?

  Rooter: Will u be alone with Mike all day?

  Me: I’m not sure.

  Rooter: If u have any trouble with him text me. I can be there in fifteen minutes.

  My heart skips a beat and a goofy smile spreads across my face.

  Me: And you call me a walking contradiction…

  The guy told me he’s been stalking me for years and that he’s a bad guy I’m better off not knowing. Yet, he goes out of his way to protect me and take care of me? He’s giving me a severe case of whiplash.

  A couple minutes pass and he doesn’t text again. I regret my choice of text, worrying it might make him over-think things. Not wanting the conversation to end on that note, I text him again.

  Me: Thank you for everything, Rooter.

  The morning passes and I don’t hear from Rooter again. Mike leaves around noon, and surprises me when he asks if I’ll be okay alone. I say yes, although to be honest, I’m not sure. My ankle hurts like hell. The only movements I’ve made are to the couch and the bathroom.

  Starving, I painfully hobble to the kitchen to figure out something for lunch. There isn’t a morsel of food in the house. I lean against the counter and contemplate my options. I could order Chinese or pizza for delivery, but both would require a minimum purchase of twenty dollars. Since I won’t be able to go back to work for at least a week, I can’t afford it.

  I consider texting Rooter to ask him to bring me lunch, but he already paid for my prescription, which I’m sure was expensive. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. He probably wouldn’t let me pay for my lunch either.

  Suddenly, it occurs to me that Ryan doesn’t work today.

  Ryan works with me at the Grand as a bartender. The first time I met him, I thought it was love at first sight. He’s tall and lean and covered with random tattoos. He’s British and when he speaks with that deep voice… But then I found out he was gay in the most mortifying way.

  I’d had a tad too much to drink and confessed how hot I thought he was. He gave me a sincere smile and said, “Thank you, love, but I have a boyfriend.” Sensing my humiliation he covered with, “But if I ever decide to bat for your team, you’re the first girl I’m calling.” We’ve been buds ever since.

  We don’t hang out as much as I’d like to. Mostly just at work. He spends the majority of his time with his boyfriend, Seth. That Mike is a serious homophobe doesn’t help matters. The one and only time Ryan was here, Mike made his distaste perfectly clear. He even ordered Ryan not to look at him because he didn’t want “a flaming fag having fantasies” about him.

  Since Mike isn’t home I text Ryan and ask if he’ll bring me a bite. Thirty minutes after placing my order, he shows up with bags in hand. Even though I told him Mike is gone, he looks around for him the second he walks into the house.

  “He isn’t here,” I assure him.

  He smiles. “Good, because I have zero patience right now and I’d totally massacre that homophobic, woman hitting tosser.”

  I laugh hard and accidentally bump my foot on the coffee table. It hurts badly enough that tears form in the corners of my eyes. Ryan rushes over and drops the bags on the table.

  “Shit, babe, you okay?”

  I lean over, clutch my ankle. The pain has rendered me speechless so I nod. We sit in silence for a minute until I regain the ability to function. I glance at the clock and realize I missed my dose of Vicodin.

  “Do me a favor?” I ask. “My Vicodin are in my purse.” I motion to my bag on the dining room table.

  While I swallow the pill, Ryan lays out the food out on the coffee table. It’s not what I ordered. I shoot him a questioning glare.

  He shrugs. “I know you prefer the real chicken club.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t afford it,” I explain.

  “That’s why it’s my treat.” He flashes his megawatt smile.

  Anyone who doesn’t know Ryan would never guess he’s gay. He’s not the least bit effeminate. He has masculine style and mannerisms. Even the way he sits. He looks like a guys, guy. No pun intended.

  “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “I wanted to do it.”

  “Thank you. You’re the best.”

  Ryan takes an obnoxiously large bite and chews with his mouth open because he knows I hate loud eaters. “Yeah, I know,” he says after he swallows. “Randy said to take as much time as you need, but he knows your money is tight. He mentioned having you work in the office if you can’t work on the floor straight away.”

  My eyes go wide. I know I don’t have anything to worry about as far as my job is concerned. When I spoke with Randy, he told me not to worry. However, he didn’t mention working in the office. I make a mental note to call him tomorrow.

  “Really? That would be great, but it’ll still be at least a week. I can barely get around the house.”

  I take my first bite of the chicken club and am at once thankful for my friend’s generosity. I do prefer the real sandwich. I hate eating the cheap sandwich because I know it’s processed and ground up chicken parts soaked in food coloring to make it appear appetizing.

  “So I have news,” he says and sticks out his bottom lip.

  “Yeah?”

  “Seth is moving out.”

  “What?” I ask, but I’m not shocked. “What happened?”

  “Mark happened.”

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah, some wanker he works with. They’ve been working closely and,” he puts his fingers up in quotes, “they just couldn’t deny their feelings any longer.”

  I can’t hide my lack of surprise so I simply tell him I’m sorry rather than I told you so.
r />   “Thanks.” He gives me a sad smile.

  “You don’t sound very surprised.”

  With a mouth full, he shakes his head, indicating he isn’t. “He’s packing right now, so I was super thankful when you texted.”

  “It’s a stupid question, but is there anything I can do?” I take a sip of my drink.

  He shakes his head and dries one of his eyes with his middle finger. “So, anything new with your biker?”

  “He texted this morning to make sure I’d be okay and told me to text him if I need anything.”

  Ryan scrunches his eyebrows together. “But yet, he thinks you should stay away from him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Makes sense,” he says sarcastically.

  “Right?” I chuckle.

  He motions to the food in front of us. “So, why didn’t you have him bring you lunch?”

  “I thought about it, but I don’t want him helping me all the time.”

  “It may be the only way he’ll come around.”

  That thought has crossed my mind. I don’t expect Rooter to come knocking on my door asking to hang out although I desperately wish he would.

  “I guess I’ll have to be the one who does the coming around.”

  “And if he won’t allow it?”

  That, too, has crossed my mind. “Then I’ll be persistent,” I giggle.

  After Ryan has cleaned up our mess, he and I sit on the couch watching salacious daytime television. Mike walks in, takes one look at Ryan and opens his mouth to say something. Likely something rude to my friend. He must think twice about it because he shuts his mouth and goes upstairs to his room without a word. Still rude, but much better than it could’ve been.

  “I wish he would’ve said something,” Ryan says. “Would’ve given me an excuse to punch something.”

  I rub his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.

  “Speaking of punching someone,” he continues, “do you mind if I spend the rest of day here? If I go back to the house, I’m sure to beat the living hell out of that knob head. That or get completely pissed which could very well lead to me beating the bloody hell out of the both of them.”

  “Of course you can,” I say with a sympathetic smile and pat him on the leg. But then Mike comes downstairs and saunters into the kitchen. “But maybe we should hang out in my room.”