by Ava Ashley
"Teehee," giggles the pothead. "Wassup, homie? I'm...." He pauses for a moment, trying to focus, then breaks off into another high-pitched fit of giggles before he can remember his name.
"I'm Savannah." The girl's beautiful face scrunches up for an instant, like she regrets saying that, but she recovers quickly. She extends her hand formally in greeting. I look at it—I'm a little amused to be honest—and then take it. I'm expecting a wimpy little flop, but she's got a good grip and gives me a firm handshake. It's unexpected from someone that size, with such a delicate little hand, but she holds her own.
"This is the living room." I wave at the couch, television and coffee table off to our right.
"Nice view, maaaaan." The pothead has loped over to the window and is staring down at my view of a dumpster in an alleyway in pure rapture. I raise my eyebrows.
"And this is the kitchen," I say, leading them in to the small kitchen. P-p-peter leans over the sink, like he's examining the drainage or something.
"What's the b-b-biggest thing you can p-put down there?" he asks, in his pedophile-sounding voice, "I-i-in the garbage d-d-d-disposal?"
"What's the—?" I give him a look. "Look, I'm not a neat freak but I'm not going to live in a sty, either. I'm not home that much and I'm looking for the same in a roommate. No weird stuff. Pay your rent on time. Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."
"Sounds good," says Savannah, coming back over from checking the stove. A girl who looks like that and knows how to cook? Mmmmm.
Chapter Four
Savannah
The newspaper description didn't paint an unfair description of the place. It's really a bit of a dump, nothing at all like home. Forget about a ten-range stove with electric power and a self-cleaning oven. Forget about a twelve-man couch and floor-to-ceiling platinum TV screens, augmented by in-wall surround-sound stereo speaker systems. Forget about granite counter tops and crystal chandeliers. But seriously, if you are going to have kitchen appliances from the seventies, would it really hurt to de-grit the burners now and then? This is clearly such a bachelor pad.
The first thing I do when I move in is going to have to be a thorough cleaning of this place. I may not have money anymore, but give me some Lysol and a Brillo pad and I can still make the place shine like a poor man's treasure.
I'm surprised to feel a little excitement at the thought. Then again, it is exciting. I'm finally on my own and sure, I have to fend for myself. But I'm a big girl and I'd rather do my own dirty work than sit in a crystal prison for the rest of my life, as I would be if I married that cheating scumbag, Nate.
I also can't deny that the eye candy roommate isn't a little exciting. He's tall and muscular and it took me a second to recover when he opened the door and I was suddenly presented with his chiseled, bare chest and low-slung shorts, drawing attention to the muscular V-line framing his eight-pack. His strong arms, the kind that could do justice to even the toughest pickle jar, not to mention cause some serious damage on the streets, are covered in a flawless set of full sleeves. I skip a breath and have to catch myself in order not to let it show.
Now that's a man.
But there is no point in thinking about it, because there is no way that anything is happening here. There is no way that anything is happening with him, or any other guy for that matter, when the stakes are so high. Getting involved with me isn't like getting involved with another pretty eighteen-year-old. Runaway or not, I'm still the engaged daughter of Flint Santos and the blood price on the head of whoever dared to stain my purity, unwitting or not, would be astronomical. There is no way anyone, even this physically flawless Adonis, could escape the consequences.
No, I'm just here for a room. Besides, Cooper is already involved with someone. Or more likely, given her revealing last night's clothing and overdone makeup that screamed ‘trying too hard’, he is a charmer who beds women for the game of it and has notches on his bedpost that number in the triple digits.
Even if I wasn't forbidden to love anyone but Nate, who's a self-absorbed jerk that there's no way in hell that I can love, Cooper is not relationship material.
"Here's the bathroom," says Cooper, leading us out of the kitchen. "There's only one, so we have to share." He pauses, then looks directly at me as he says, "I'm a busy guy. I don't have time to wait for someone who's going to be in there forever. Get in and get out."
I surprise myself with the strength of my own nerve when I answer with, "No problem. I'm quick in the shower."
Only now I'm thinking about him and the shower. And thinking about him thinking about me in the shower. And then I'm thinking about him and me in the shower and suddenly I could use a cold shower.
I focus, instead, on the bathroom. It's definitely a fixer-upper. The first thing I'll have to do is dump a bucket of bleach in that toilet. It's not that it's actually dirty. Cooper seems to have kept everything quite clean in here, but it's just old and faded and not the white that it can be. Likewise, I see the potential in the sink and the shower, despite the fading tiles and dull faucet fixtures. The mirror is a bit of a goner, with a jagged crack all the way down the middle, but I'm sure I'll figure it out. If not, it's just a mirror. There are more important things.
Not that there's really much of anything that could dissuade me from taking this place, considering that the four hundred dollars per month rent is pretty much all that I can afford. Honestly, even with the ultra-cheap, four hundred dollar rent, I really better hope that a job pans out soon.
I take in Cooper's reflection in the mirror, my eyes traveling up his sexy body to his equally sexy face.
I also really better hope that I can keep a firm grip on myself.
Chapter Five
Cooper
I try not to look at the girl, since she's really not a safe roommate choice and her caramel brown eyes and plump, rosebud-shaped lips are distracting me from my roommate hunt. But my big head isn't always the one running things.
This girl is hard to stop looking at. And then there's the way she handles herself so seriously, with her head held high and shoulders back. She's not built as a fighter, but she has the spirit.
"Where's the bedroom?" Savannah asks, then blushes. "I mean, the room that's up for rent?" For just a minute, she breaks out of her tough persona and looks down at her feet, crossing a hand over her body and holding her other elbow in it. For just a moment, she looks a little shy, but still goddamn breathtakingly beautiful, and I have the conflicting desires to protect her and to take her, deep and hard and all at once.
No. Down, boy. I'm definitely going to need to give Wednesday's girl a call tonight, maybe a little early. I'll have her before my second training. She won't mind the sweat.
"Right. It's over here," I answer, leading my unimpressive group of potential roommates to the spare room.
"Niiiice, dude." Pothead flops down face-first on the bed, arms spread-eagled, and doesn't move.
"Does the d-d-door lock?" Peter shuts it to look at the backside of the knob, closing us into an uncomfortably small space for four grown bodies, especially of complete strangers.
"The key didn't come with the place when I got it, but I'm fine with you getting a lock." Though it won't be you getting a lock, at least not for this room. There is no way he's moving in, I already want to wring his neck and we're not even through the tour yet.
Then again, pothead still hasn't moved from his spot on the bed and I'm just not getting any sense that this guy has his shit together enough to pay rent, much less on time. I'm not in for that headache and I'm also not cool with him dealing out of here, if he develops a little entrepreneurial spirit. The last thing I need is the hassle of cops knocking down my door. I've had my share of government goons—I was one once and have no need to deal with them again.
"Is the furniture included?" asks Savannah, looking in the small dresser that's shoved in a corner of the room, in lieu of a closet.
"Yeah, it is," I reply. If she moves in here, it's going to be the
longest exercise in fucking self-control that I've ever done. All I want to do with her and that dresser is sit her perfect ass on it while I pay some of that other kind of lip service to those perfect breasts. I've been with some attractive women in my time, but this one is something else.
"And internet?" She looks me square in the eyes, like she's haggling.
"There's a library a few blocks over," I say, staring her down just the same. She doesn't flinch or waver, even for a moment.
"Have you ever had bedbugs?" she asks.
"Bedbugs?" I smirk. No, but I'd like her in my bed. "No."
"When is the move-in date?" she asks.
"It's free immediately," I answer.
"And the lease term?" she asks.
"Month to month," I answer.
"I'll take it," she says, still not breaking eye contact. She's the most cocksure chick I've ever met, at least at that moment.
"I'll let you know who I decide on," I say.
Savannah raises an eyebrow in response and turns her head to give Peter, who's neurotically playing with the window lock and checking the mosquito netting, a long, slow look. Then she looks back at me and nods at the pothead, now on his back on the bed, playing with his fingers.
"Again, I'll take it." She crosses her arms over her chest. I like the balls on this girl. I also like the breasts on this girl, which are only better-presented when her arms crossed over her chest press them up towards the neck of her t-shirt to make space.
"Alright. Out!" I say, straight at Peter.
"B-b-b-but—" he says, eyes flicking back and forth from me to Savannah at a crazy speed.
"The room's no longer available," I say, "You, too." I give the pothead a little help, taking his wrist and hauling him off the bed. I smooth it over with a hand, not doing much to counter the wrinkled sheets, and give it a solid thump.
"All yours, babe. Get that deposit to me by tonight."
"My name is Savannah," she says, coolly. "Here is the rent now."
She hands me a wad of cash, clipped together with a pastel pink, swirl-shaped paperclip, and slides her backpack off of her shoulders and onto the bed.
What am I getting myself into?
I show the two losers out and have to admit that I'm happier to be living with her, even though I'm going to need to up my training intensity and take a lot of cold showers, than I would be living with either of them.
I come back in and pour myself a glass of water. On second thought, I pour her one, too.
I rap on the half-shut door to her bedroom with my knuckles.
"Come in!" she calls. I push the door open with my shoulder.
"Water?" I ask, holding out one of the glasses.
"Thanks," she says. She takes a small sip and lets out a little sigh. "It's hot out."
"Yeah, this summer's been brutal. For all the wind we get in Chicago all of the rest of the year, you would think we could manage at least a little breeze when it’s ninety-plus degrees out" I say. "Need any help with moving in your stuff?"
"No, I'm all set," she says.
I look around, in case I'm missing something. But no, the only new additions to the room are one hot girl and one backpack. One hot girl, who seemed to immediately regret telling me her real first name, has less stuff than I've seen other girls take to the gym, and is coming from something so bad that living in a dump with a man who's a complete stranger is appealing.
I wouldn't even have had to have any of my Navy SEAL training or military instinct to know that getting involved with this mysterious girl is asking for trouble.
Chapter Six
Cooper
I'm slamming into the bag harder than usual, each punch trying to push the girl out of my mind. But every time, just like the bag, she comes swinging right back in. Still, it feels good to pound away at something and get some of that energy out. It feels good to exhaust my muscles, though that takes a solid amount of work considering that I am at pretty much peak fitness. There's something calming about the slow exhaustion spreading through my body as I dart around the bag, pummeling it from all angles.
My shirt is completely drenched in sweat by the time Vlad grabs the bag and pulls it to the side.
"Is there something I need to know about?" Vlad asks, in his usual calm manner. Vlad isn't one for big displays of emotion. He has an almost completely inexpressive face ninety-nine percent of the time and you can barely notice the difference in his mood from when a fighter loses a match or when one wins one. He is the physical embodiment of the discipline over emotion principle of Mixed Martial Arts fighting. It is no wonder that he is known as one of the best fighters in the MMA. There is power in his stillness, and though there aren't many guys that I would confide in, or trust, Vlad is up there.
"No," I say, pulling my elbows in and turning away from him. I take a few sideways jabs at the air, bouncing on the balls of my feet.
"I will repeat myself," says Vlad, slowly and calmly, "Is there something I need to know about."
This time, it is not even a question. Vlad has been training me since I came back from my last Navy SEAL mission, the one that ended everything, and he brought me to fighting. He taught me the sport and probably saved my life. Hell, I was all kinds of messed up when I came back from my last tour.
Just thinking about it brings back the memories. I'd been a tough kid, growing up in a tough world with poor chances of ever breaking out of my small, unpromising existence. I was the son of a teen mom with the dad long out of the picture before I was born—hell, probably before she even started showing. I grew up living in a trailer, hearing my own mom's moans when she brought back strange men with potbellies and cigarette breath in the middle of the night. I grew tall on Spam sandwiches with white bread, because wheat bread and meat that didn't come out of a can weren't part of the food stamp program. Instead of being on a fancy soccer team with cleats and pristine white uniforms, I kicked around empty beer cans outside, bare-footed, with my friends. By the time I was in high school, I wasn't too interested in books or learning or anything but girls and fighting. I took bets on myself in fights in order to earn a quick buck, so I could take out more girls.
But I lived in a pretty small town and word got around fast. By the time I was sixteen, no one in their right mind, even the stoners, would bet against me in a fight. I never lost, even then. I needed something else, because I damn well knew that I liked girls and I knew that the prettier the girl, the more likely that she'd at least expect dinner. Don't get me wrong. I never had a problem getting girls to want me through looks and charm alone, but I didn't want to commit to one girl for a regular bang. I'd rather spend the money than spend the time, or waste the opportunity to get with other chicks. So I knew I needed a job.
I started working mowing lawns for rich people the summer before junior year of high school. One of those yards that I mowed belonged to a top officer in the marines. The same top officer who, when I was twelve, was at a career fair that the government put on in our neighborhood—if you can call the sad collection of trailer homes that. I stopped by partly out of precocious curiosity and more out of a hope for free food, around lunchtime. His wife and daughter came to bring him lunch. His wife was a manicured wife, one of those perfect status symbols with the head-to-toe designer mom-wear and little quilted, paisley handbag. The daughter was the single most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life. I forgot all about my pursuit of a free lunch and focused, instead, on getting closer to my new crush. Just as I was heading over to introduce myself to her, her mother said, "Sarah, let's go." And just like that, they disappeared out of my life in a cloud of dust stirred up the wheels of their shiny, blue car.
Until one especially hot day that summer when, after finishing mowing the backyard of that ritzy ranch house, Sarah came out of the house with a glass of ice cold lemonade.
"I thought you might be thirsty," she said, handing me the glass with a smile. She had grown up well. She was just the right kind of petite with just the right amount
of curve, not one of those twigs with hipbones you hurt yourself on and thighs that don't beg to be grabbed. She was sexy, but also so beautiful that you almost didn't want to fuck her. You just wanted to hold her, instead, and then make slow love to her.
By the end of the summer, we were pretty hot and heavy. Every other thought I had was about Sarah. I started checking books out of the public library, a place I'd never stepped foot in before, in academic subjects. I wanted to better myself for her, so that I could offer her the kind of future that she deserved. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the girl I was going to marry.
But her dad didn't agree. To him, I was just a piece of white trash from a trailer home, good enough to recruit to the lowest ranks of his battery but not good enough for his daughter by a long shot. Getting good grades and jumping to the front of my classes didn't impress him. Learning strategic thinking and college-level mathematics wasn't enough, either.
I knew what I had to do and I did it.
Once I’d joined the military, I worked my way up through the ranks really quickly. I excelled at hand-to-hand combat and my physical skills paired with my ability to predict my opponent's every move made me unmatchable. I made it to Navy SEAL in the shortest time on record, since before I was even born. The day I became a SEAL, I proposed to Sarah. She said yes. It was the happiest moment in my life.
Then I went on tour. We wrote all the time, with her sending me emails three or four times a day, just to tell me how much she loved me and how much she couldn't wait to marry me. I came home for a week-and-a-half, during which we made all the wedding arrangements and I paid the deposits on the location—a nice venue, with catering and everything else that she wanted. It was more money than I'd ever spent on anything, but my salary as a SEAL was high and my girl would get everything and anything that she wanted. My next tour was just a quick one, nothing too crazy compared to what I had handled before, and we were going to get married as soon as I got back.