P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” I wrestle a smirk.

  Life’s way too fucking short to take seriously all the time. Work hard, play harder, and try to have a good time at all costs.

  “Nick said you were cool,” she says. “He didn’t tell me you have the same sense of humor as a C-list eighties comedian.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now that’s an insult.” I place my palm across my heart, pretending to be offended. “And can you blame the guy for overselling me? He’s cheaper than dirt. He’d do anything to save a buck. I’m just glad I can finally get that fucking Old Milwaukee shit out of my fridge.”

  “Nick wouldn’t lie to me.”

  I almost choke on my spit. “We’re talking about the same guy, right?”

  She releases the handle on her suitcase and folds her arms across her chest. “I’ve known him for almost two decades. He’s never lied to me once.”

  “That you know of …”

  “What are you trying to do here?” Her brows meet. “Are you testing me? Trying to feel me out? Test my limits? I think I did the same thing once … when I was a toddler.”

  “Ouch.” I head to the stairs, feigning an emotional wound. “You done now? Can I go take my shower?”

  “Don’t mess with me, Sutter,” she says. “Just because I’m nice, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I’m an expert at reading between the lines. I’d highly recommend that you not underestimate me.”

  I’m at a rare loss for words. And I’ll admit—I completely underestimated her. I figured she’d be some typical Brentwood Basic Bitch with zero personality, sky high ambition, and dungeon-level self-esteem.

  But … nope.

  “So …” Her manicured brows rise and she steps toward me, squaring her body with mine. “How about we start over?”

  “What?”

  Extending her right hand, a smile claims her pretty face. “I’m Melrose. And I’m your new roommate. It’s so wonderful to meet you.”

  She’s being fake. Acting. Something. I don’t know if she’s trolling me or if she genuinely wants to start over, but I don’t think that’s how this works.

  But two can play that game.

  “Melrose, so lovely to meet you. Nicholas thinks the world of you. I’m sure I’ll adore you just the same,” I say in an over-the-top, saccharin sweet voice as I meet her hand with mine.

  “Much better.” She winks.

  Something tells me she might be the first girl to ever beat me at my own game.

  But I’ve never been good at losing so … challenge accepted.

  Chapter Three

  Melrose

  Heading to Nick’s room—my room—I unzip my first suitcase and try to locate an empty drawer or a section of closet space to call my own. I didn’t bring much … yet … just the necessities. Everything else I own is still at the guesthouse in Brentwood and with Nick’s furniture still being here, it’s not like I needed to bring more than the basics.

  Plus, I didn’t want to overdo it on the off-chance Nick’s roommate was a total creep. I’ll do anything for Nick—but I won’t spend the next six months with some weirdo just so he can save a few thousand bucks on rent.

  If I get so much as an inkling that Sutter’s videotaping me in the shower or stealing my panties, I’m out.

  But something tells me Sutter’s not that way.

  Obnoxious? Yeah. Totally.

  Ted Bundy? Eh. I think not.

  Nick’s closet is filled with t-shirts, all of them sloppily hung on a mix of wire and plastic hangers, everything in no particular order. Shoving his clothes aside, I clear a couple of feet of space for myself and begin hanging tops and dresses.

  When I’m done, I catch a framed photo of the two of us on his nightstand from the corner of my eye. I recognize the picture from our junior year of high school, when the guy I was dating dumped me a week before prom after Skylar Saunders’ prom date fell through and she confessed over school cafeteria pizza that she’d always thought he was cute.

  I was dropped like a hot potato without any kind of hesitation, but in my defense, ninety-eight percent of the guys at La Paloma High would’ve done the same thing. Everyone wanted Skylar. And I drew the short straw because as luck had it, she wanted my boyfriend.

  Nick wasn’t planning to go to the dance that year—he was never into formals and for a rhythm guitarist, the boy couldn’t dance to save his life—but at the last minute, he managed to scrounge up a tux and show up at my door with a corsage in hand and his dad’s vintage Shelby Cobra idling in the driveway.

  But there we are, posing next to his father’s car, trying not to laugh at how awkward it was that his hands were hooked around my waist and my back was flush against him and we looked like an actual couple.

  I smirk. There isn’t a single childhood or teenage memory of mine that doesn’t include a little bit of Nick in it somewhere.

  The whoosh of water flowing through the old pipes of the house startle me back into the moment. Sutter must be taking a shower in the one and only bathroom … yet another detail Nick neglected to share with me.

  As an only child, I’ve never had to share a bathroom with anyone in my life. Even in the guesthouse with Maritza, we each had our own en suite. I’m not saying I’m above it or anything, just saying it’s going to be an adjustment.

  He’s totally going to love the fact that belting out show tunes in the shower is the only way I can wake myself up in the morning. Envisioning him covering his ears with his pillow while I perform my own rendition of Cabaret at the top of my lungs puts an enormous grin on my face.

  Heading back down to the entry to grab my second suitcase, I chuckle to myself when I mentally replay our little pissing match from earlier—and that’s exactly what it was.

  In a way, he was testing boundaries and establishing his dominance—at least trying to. We were two feral cats pissing everywhere, and in the end, he backed down.

  But something tells me it won’t be the last time.

  He’ll test me again.

  And again.

  And I’ll win again.

  And again.

  Eventually he’ll get it through that thick skull of his that I’m the last person he wants to mess with.

  Adjusting the handle on my second suitcase, I begin lugging it up the wooden stairs. I’m five steps up when the bathroom door swings open and out walks a very naked Sutter in a cloud of steam, his hand (barely) covering his massive junk situation.

  Glancing down the stairs, he smirks when he sees me, and then he gives me a wink and a military salute before disappearing into his bedroom.

  Ah. So this is how he wants to do this?

  All right.

  Game on, Sutter.

  Chapter Four

  Sutter

  Paint the town?

  All that jazz?

  What fresh hell is this?

  It takes me a second, but when I come to, I realize it’s six in the morning and my new roommate is singing show tunes in the shower that separates our rooms.

  “For the love of God, woman.” I roll over, groaning and sandwiching a pillow around my head, but it does very little to block the sound.

  The girl’s got some pipes. I’ll give her that. I bet she’s one of those Hollywood-manufactured “triple threats,” the ones whose parents shelled out tens of thousands of dollars over the course of their adolescence to ensure they could sing, dance, and act at a level that would land them enough audition exposure that someday, maybe someday … they might be the future Ariana Grande.

  Groaning, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pop some earbuds into my ears. Within ten seconds, Steely Dan is crooning in my ear and it’s like that stupid Broadway show isn’t even happening in my bathroom.

  I play to Hey Nineteen first.

  Then Deacon Blues.

  Bad Sneakers and Show Biz Kids.

  Yanking an earbud out once the fifth song begins to start, I listen to the situation going on outside my door and determi
ne the singing and the shower have yet to stop.

  Tossing the covers off, I crawl out of bed with some unapologetically massive morning wood, trudge to the bathroom, and pound on the door.

  “Who is it?” she calls in a sing-song voice that could rival a Disney princess any day of the week.

  “You about done? I’ve got a job-site to get to.” Resting my hand on my hip, I exhale. I’m supposed to arrive by eight leaving a minute later than my usual time can sometimes be the difference between arriving on time and sitting in an extra fifteen minutes of traffic.

  I never had this problem with Nick.

  Nick would roll in around three AM most mornings, sleep all day, and do his showering sometime between lunch and dinner—at least I assume. The house always smelled like soap when I’d get home from work in the evening.

  “I need to let this conditioner sit on my hair another eight minutes,” she says.

  Pressing my forehead against the door, I breathe in the scent of flowery, fruity body wash and shampoo that trails beneath the door.

  But a second later the lock pops and the door swings open revealing a startled Melrose standing in front of the mirror, body covered in a thick robe that leaves everything to the imagination and hair wrapped in a turban.

  “You can’t just bust in here,” she says, hands clinching her fluffy lapels. “Seriously. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Been meaning to fix that lock,” I tell her once I realize what happened. It was an accident. I swear. “Why the hell is the shower still running and you’re standing here in a robe?”

  “The steam is good for my pores.”

  She must think I’m a bona fide idiot.

  “Do you always wear a towel on your head when you condition it?” I ask, glancing at her sideways.

  “Always.” She fights a smile.

  A second later, the steam begins to lift and the small room cools, but the shower still runs.

  “You used all the hot water,” I say, hands on my hips as I release a hard breath.

  “I did? Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She turns to the shower, twists the knob, and squeezes her body between myself and the doorway. “Total accident. Won’t happen again.”

  Her back is to me as she heads back to her room, but I’m sure she’s wearing a shit-eating grin the size of Texas.

  Balling my hand into a fist, I press it against my forehead and take a deep breath before striding across the hall and knocking on her door.

  “Yes?” she answers a second later, still wearing her giant bathrobe.

  “I know what you were trying to do this morning,” I say. “Don’t do it again.”

  Her perfect, white teeth rake across her full bottom lip as her mouth curls. “Don’t mess with me, Sutton, and I won’t mess with you. It’s that simple.”

  My eyes narrow. “Is this because I walked out of the shower naked last night? I forgot my towel. What was I supposed to do, wrap the goddamned shower curtain around me?”

  So what if she saw my ass for half a second? Half the cable shows these days show a hell of a lot more than that.

  “You really expect me to believe that little story of yours when you literally walked out of the bathroom naked and winked at me?” Melrose wags her finger, scolding me. “Anyway, don’t you have to go to work or something? Should probably get in the shower. I bet you’ve got enough water now for a lukewarm three-minute shower if you hurry.”

  With that, she shuts the door and I linger, infuriated—and impressed.

  Chapter Five

  Melrose

  “How do I look, Murph?” I do a spin in front of my dog, showing off the skin-tight Herve Leger bandage dress I only reserve for special occasions.

  His little round face tilts and he blinks.

  “You’re right. I’ve worn this way too many times. I’ll retire it after tonight.” I head across my new room and examine my reflection in the mirror. This morning I went for a jog around the new neighborhood, which is surprisingly quaint and residential and not at all the party hub I’d expect Nick to occupy. For lunch, I met up with a couple of friends from acting class, and then I spent the better part of this afternoon curling my hair and brushing out the tendrils until they formed perfect, Hollywood starlet waves.

  Reaching for a tube of look-at-me pink lipstick, I slick a coat across my full mouth before smiling and checking my teeth.

  The lipstick is nothing more than a strategy. For starters, men have tragically short attention spans, especially in a city where gorgeous women are everywhere they look, so if I’ve got this eye-grabbing color on my mouth, it tends to draw their gaze in that direction.

  Second, while they’re watching my mouth, there’s a good chance they might actually be listening to the words coming out of it.

  Lastly, if I’m wearing a color like this, most of these men won’t dare try to kiss me. They don’t want to walk out of the Ivy and risk bumping into their friends with a girl half their age on their arm. These guys like to wear their shameless tastes at whisper-volume.

  It’s in the silent Rolex on their watch. The confident way they order the perfect wine every meal. The subtle art of name-dropping. The million-dollar sports car in a normal shade like black or white or silver. The house hidden deep in the Hollywood Hills, behind windy, gated driveways.

  Of course, there are the types who wear their affinity for the finer things like a badge of honor, pulling up in their yellow Ferrari and wear more bling than the average rapper for a quiet dinner for two.

  I generally try to avoid those types but it never fails—occasionally one will slip in.

  My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I reach for it, swiping my thumb across the lock and tapping the message icon.

  ROBERT: Still on for tonight? 7?

  I reply with a smiley face and a simple “of course” and press send.

  ROBERT: On my way.

  Robert McCauley is local producer with ample connections. We met on the set of that Lifetime movie I worked on a few months back, and he wasted no time asking me out. Only he had to head back to LA shortly after filming began and our schedules never aligned … until now.

  If my cousin, Maritza, was here, she’d be giving me shit for going on a date with a guy twice my age, but it’s nothing kinky or nefarious.

  These guys tend to be a bit classier, a bit more refined. They have the kind of worldly experience the twenty-somethings around here have yet to possess.

  Plus, I’d much rather dress up and be treated to a gourmet dinner than for some guy to take me to a party in Calabasas to hang out with his friends … and then proceed to ditch me when his crush shows up. Or the kind who talk about how successful they are and drive Porsches but have the nerve to ask me to “go Dutch” when the check arrives.

  Amateurs.

  I don’t waste my time with guys my age anymore, and I’m not even sorry about it.

  I take a seat on the edge of my bed, smirking when I think about this morning and the shower incident.

  I’ll admit, I’m not normally so juvenile. Waking him up with show tunes and using up all the hot water is a little beneath me, but I had to prove a point and I had to prove it as soon as possible, before things got too out of hand.

  Anyway, Sutter’s the spitting image of the kind of guys my age who tend to ask me out.

  And he’s the spitting image of the kind of guys I have zero problem turning down.

  The front door slams and the walls shudder for a second.

  Speak of the devil …

  “Come on, Murph.” I pat my thigh and he hops off the bed, following me downstairs. I need to let him outside before Robert gets here, and then I’m locking him in his kennel—for his own protection.

  Not that I don’t trust Sutter, but if God forbid, Murphy got lose or something, I wouldn’t count on Sutter to do me any favors and try and track him down.

  Heading downstairs, I round the corner by the door and nearly smack into the man of the hour.

&nbs
p; “Hey,” I say, tucking a blonde wave behind my ear.

  His skin is a sun-kissed shade of bronze, his dark hair sporting natural highlights. His white shirt, which reads ALCOTT ELECTRIC has a giant rip down the front, exposing the taut ripple of his upper abs.

  Murphy scratches at my leg for me to pick him up, but I already lint-rolled this dress for fifteen minutes earlier and I’m not about to do it again.

  Our eyes hold, but Sutter stays silent.

  “O … kay,” I say, stepping around him. “Come on, Murph, let’s go outside.”

  He trots in step with me and we head to the back sliding door, moving out to the patio. The backyard is tiny, microscopic almost, but it’s surrounded by trees and a faded, wooden privacy fence and you can’t hear traffic or even neighbors.

  Leaning against a painted banister, I wait for my dog to do his thing before checking the time.

  Robert should be here any minute.

  My heart skips a beat. I love dating. I love meeting new people and conversing. I love networking and making connections, especially when those connections can lead to future opportunities.

  This is my jam.

  Murphy trots back to the patio and we head inside. I take a seat on the cognac sofa, crossing my legs and inspecting my manicure for any chips or scratches.

  All good.

  Glancing out the window, I count six cars passing before I decide to run upstairs and grab my vintage Cartier bracelet—a good luck gift from Gram on my sixteenth birthday.

  Robert is probably one of the most connected guys to ask me out to date. His resume is a laundry list a mile long, filled with impressive names and blockbuster hits. But aside from the professional advantage that would come with dating him, he’s handsome and kind.

  Climbing the stairs, I stride to my room and close the door as I crouch beside my suitcase and search the pockets for my jewelry case.

  I have every intention of getting organized this weekend, but I need to get some boxes and things to store Nick’s belongings. The guy asked me to move into his room, but he left it just the way it was—only taking with him an armful of wrinkled clothes in a giant suitcase.