Out of this World (Browerton University Book 5)

by A. J. Truman

  “All rooms in Sweeney Hall have smoke detectors. If you try to disable yours, you will receive a fine.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “That’s why we don’t want you smoking in your room.”

  “But you said…”

  “Apologies.” She blushed. “Fag means cigarette.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sure you will have many instances like this during these next three months. Culture shock!”

  The kids up front laughed amongst each other, turned around to look at him, then laughed some more. He could tell they had all the friends they needed, and Rafe would not be one of them.

  The liaison went on a few more minutes about life on campus, and when it was over, Rafe walked up to her with a question. She tensed up, seemingly anticipating another awkward moment.

  “You didn’t say anything about the meal plan. Or maybe I missed it.” He bonked his head. “Jetlag.”

  “I’m not sure I know to what you’re referring.”

  Even in his tired, anxious state, Rafe marveled at how eloquent Brits were off the cuff. An American would’ve just asked Huh?

  “Meal plan. Where do students eat on campus? Dining halls?”

  “There are none.”

  “What?” Rafe yelled.

  “All dormitory flats are equipped with full kitchens. So you have the luxury of keeping and making your own food.”

  “The luxury,” Rafe repeated. “Was this stated anywhere? This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

  “I believe the information was included on the website. In the program cost, meals were not part of the package.” Her voice trailed up, like a question. Are you really asking me this?

  Rafe’s stomach growled. “What if I don’t have any food?”

  “There’s a café in the student union.”

  He imagined his parents shaking their heads at him. How could he sign up for a program and not look into the meal plan? He was expecting culture shock to be calling an elevator a lift, not attending a school without dining halls. Maybe I should’ve thought about more than hot British accents. Perhaps his reach for independence was a stretch too far.

  He remembered pushing his parents away when they tried going over study abroad programs with him. He’d never been a bratty kid, and had always welcomed his parents’ opinions. But study abroad stirred something within him. It was about being truly on his own, and the idea of that flashed strongly in his mind like an immigrant seeing the Statue of Liberty in the distance. He was an adult. He didn’t want someone else booking and double-checking his adventure for him.

  His stomach growled in dissent, this time loud enough for the program liaison to hear.

  * * *

  Rafe rolled his suitcase down a sloping road into a valley of newly constructed dorms. It was steeper than it looked, and he had to catch himself from slipping since it was slick from a recent rain. He maneuvered down sideways, holding his arms out for balance. His suitcase got caught in the downward velocity of the hill, a snowball gaining speed.

  Bam! The suitcase knocked Rafe in the back of the knees and sent him tumbling down the rest of the hill. He landed in a rain puddle, which seemed about right. Is it too early to go home?

  He found Sweeney Hall, the second dorm in a block of buildings. Kids gave him side-eye for his wet, dirty appearance. Rafe swiped his key and lugged his suitcase to the staircase. With its fresh paint and bright blue carpet, Sweeney Hall had the feel of being untouched. There was nothing quaint about it like he’d imagined his British dorm room.

  He swiped into his suite. It was a hallway with bedroom doors and a swinging door at the end that he assumed held the kitchen. Nothing very suite-like about it. More like a nunnery.

  “Wow.” It was the sliver of good news he needed. A bedroom all to himself with a brand new desk, a full-size bed, and his own bathroom. He’d hit the college dorm jackpot. Maybe his study abroad trip wasn’t a complete disaster yet.

  Rafe didn’t even wait to put sheets or a duvet cover on his bed. As soon as he hit the mattress, he was out. It was two p.m. England time.

  Moonlight sliced through his blinds when he was jolted out of sleep by a violent crash, followed by the sound of a man yelling.

  Chapter 2

  RAFE

  Rafe stayed by the door for a second, not sure about what he heard, still fighting out of his sleep. He reached in his suitcase for something to defend himself with and plucked out a rain boot. It was heavy enough. It could work.

  He crept out of his room clutching his rain boot, not knowing what he was doing or what he would find, but finding the bravery to keep going. He heard another crash and someone cursing in the kitchen. He pressed his hand to the swinging door, clutched his rain boot, took a deep breath, and ventured to his potential death.

  But there was no crime scene. Just some pots and pans on the floor, a broken glass bowl, and a guy crouched over it, surveying the mess. The back of his sweater lifted up and flashed Rafe a sliver of skin and the waistband of his underwear.

  “Bloody hell!” The guy jumped back upon seeing Rafe. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  It wasn’t until the guy stood up and Rafe was able to get a good look at him that he realized he was talking to the most attractive guy he’d ever seen. He had light skin and rusty brown hair with the slightest curl that flopped perfectly on his head. But those were only the first degree of his hotness. He had these blazing blue eyes, the kind that could challenge the sky for textbook definition of the color. And then there was the scruff, immaculately sprinkled over his chiseled jaw. Rafe positioned his rain boot over his crotch, just in case.

  “I’m sorry. I heard…” Rafe pointed to the fracas at the guy’s feet.

  “Were you the wanker who stacked the pots, pans, and bowls in the cabinet? I was trying to make myself a cup of tea. I opened the door,” he slapped the cabinet. “and everything fell out. Now we got some fucking glass on the floor.”

  His accent had a hard, raspy edge to it, basically the auditory equivalent to a quick and dirty fuck in the bathroom of a dive bar.

  Rafe found the broom and dustpan next to the fridge. He got to work sweeping up the broken glass.

  “You don’t have to do that, mate.” He plucked the broom from Rafe’s hands. “This is my mess.”

  “I can hold the dustpan.” Rafe crouched down as his flatmate swept up the detritus.

  “Louisa is going to kill me. This is all her shit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? It’s not your fault.”

  Rafe agreed, but he was at a loss to say anything else. When he was in the presence of really attractive men, he either got super chatty or super quiet. He didn’t know which Rafe was better. His flatmate put back all the pots and pans and shut the cabinet.

  “Thanks for the help. I’m Eamonn.” He pronounced it “aim on.” He shook Rafe’s hand, and Rafe savored the warmth of his skin.

  “Rafe. I just got here. I’m still working off the jetlag.”

  “You’re American?” Eamonn’s lips quirked up into a funny smile, as if Rafe was as exotic to him as he was to Rafe. Which was not at all equivalent. Nothing about America was exotic. “Where are you from?”

  “Arlington, Virginia.”

  “East Coast.”

  “Technically, but East Coasters are mainly New Englanders, and New York and New Jersey. Virginia is mid-Atlantic, so we’re more Southern, though not too Southern.” And here was super chatty Rafe, just in time. “How do you know about the term East Coast?”

  “Because I don’t live in a bloody cave. We get all your movies and TV shows here. Did you dig your way here?” Eamonn nodded at Rafe’s dirt-stained clothes.

  Great. Nice first impression, Rafe.

  He cut his eyes to the dining table, where it looked like Eamonn was in the middle of rolling a joint.

  “There’s no smoking in here. I just had a whole presentation on it. Is pot legal here?”

  “It’s
not a spliff. I roll my own cigarettes, and I’m well aware of these buggers.” Eamonn pointed up to the smoke detectors. “I almost burned down my hall last year.”

  Rafe should’ve hated that Eamonn smoked, but the whiff of cigarette smoke on him was like it’s own cologne, only adding to his attraction.

  “So are you here for the whole year?” Eamonn’s eyes were in a perpetual squint, like he was always on the verge of calling bullshit.

  “Just until mid-December.” He thought about getting that tattooed on his forehead.

  Eamonn nodded exaggeratedly, like there was something funny about that. “I can’t believe we have a fucking American in our flat.”

  “I’m excited to be here.” Right here. Looking at you and your wondrous body and listening to your sexy accent. “I’ve never been out of the country.”

  “Well, we should welcome you proper then. What are you up to tonight?”

  “I, um…” Rafe considered making something up because he didn’t want to seem like a loser who stayed in, but he didn’t want to miss an opportunity. “Nothing.”

  “Then it’s off to Apothecary. Though you might want to change first.”

  EAMONN

  Another year, another bloody night at Apothecary. Eamonn had spent way too much of his time at uni in this pub, but since Stroude was nestled in a town where everything closed at five p.m., he had few options. His new American friend, though, gazed at the pub as if it were a holy temple.

  “You have bars? On campus?” Rafe asked him in wide-eyed wonder. Eamonn got a kick out of his accent. He’d never heard one up close.

  “Yeah. You don’t?”

  “The drinking age in the U.S. is twenty-one. There was a bar off campus that was known for letting underclassmen in, but of course like all good things, it was shut down.”

  “That’s naff.” Eamonn couldn’t imagine waiting that long to go to a pub. Hell, he’d been sneaking into them since he was fourteen.

  Apothecary was built during the pre-Y2K frenzy and hadn’t been updated. It was a bit ritzy with white, sleek, futuristic interior designs and green lights around the curved bar. It made Eamonn think of a spaceship. Eamonn breathed in the familiar musty smell of alcohol.

  He walked through the crowd to a booth in the corner. Heath and Louisa sat across from each other and gave him a big welcome.

  “It’s about time!” Louisa had pitch black hair against pale white skin, and a trail of freckles crossed her nose and cheeks. “Who’s your mate?”

  “This is the fourth member of our flat, Rafe. He’s our token Yank.”

  Rafe turned red at the name and waved hello.

  “Hiya. I’m Louisa.”

  “Hiya, mate. I’m Heath.”

  “Hi! I mean, hiya!”

  Eamonn found that hilarious, though he wasn’t sure why. The guy was as bouncy as his damn hair.

  “Louisa, I broke your glass serving bowl. It’s not my fault! Your pots and pans and bowls are all balanced on each other like a cuntfaced circus act.”

  “I loved that bowl!”

  “It loved you, too.” Eamonn directed Rafe to sit next to Louisa. “Grab a seat. I’ll get the next round.”

  Louisa scooted down her booth and made room for Rafe.

  “Another snakebite for Heath. Another Midori sour for Miss Louisa. And what’ll you have?” Eamonn asked.

  “What’s a Midori Sour?” Rafe asked.

  “Oh, this is Rafe’s first time at a bar,” Eamonn told his friends. “Apparently in America, the legal drinking age is thirty-seven.”

  “Twenty-one!” Rafe said.

  “Actually, there’s an agreement between the U.S. and the U.K. not to allow Americans under twenty-one to drink while abroad,” Heath said. “The bartender will ask to see your passport.”

  “Are you serious?” Rafe covered his mouth in shock. It was quite cute, and Eamonn let it go on for another second before playfully smacking his shoulder.

  “He’s joking with you. Arse,” Eamonn said to Heath. He put a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “We like to take the piss out of each other. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Don’t be afraid to tell Heath to sod off,” Louisa said.

  “Okay. I’ll have a Midori Sour then.”

  “They’re really good. Sweet and sour.” She sucked down the last drops of her drink, which matched the green décor.

  “Louisa should know. She’s had about four of them so far,” Heath said with a raised eyebrow. She raised her eyebrow back and bit off the cherry in her drink.

  Here we go again. Eamonn rolled his eyes. That whole Just Friends agreement was really working out for them.

  Heath stood up and came with Eamonn to the bar. Eamonn never considered himself short unless he was standing next to his best mate. Heath didn’t make matters better when he styled his shock of white blond hair to stick up like a wave about to crash on the shore. Heath might’ve been taller, but Eamonn was the enforcer of the two. Ever since the first month of uni, when some bloke grabbed Heath’s wet clothes from the washer and threw them onto the floor and Eamonn subsequently threw said bloke on the ground, he’d had his friend’s back.

  And having a giraffe for a flatmate served him well on nights like these.

  “Can you see what the hell is taking so long?” Eamonn asked.

  Heath didn’t even have to stretch. His eyes scanned the bar area. “They only have two bartenders working tonight.”

  “Bleeding hell.”

  “You really need three to handle this amount of traffic. About one for every ninety patrons.” Leave it to Heath to make these kinds of snap calculations, which were always spot on.

  “Or you need students to make up their fucking minds before they get up there.”

  Heath had his methodology, and Eamonn had his.

  “What are you doing next Thursday night?” Heath asked.

  Eamonn looked around at the pub. “Same as usual.”

  “Well, maybe before we come here, we can go into London. There’s this massive job fair. I think over 100 companies will be represented there.”

  “And what are we supposed to do? Go from booth to booth begging for employment?”

  “Precisely. With a C.V., too.”

  It was their last year of uni, and Eamonn knew what came next. He just preferred not to think about it. They still had months before they graduated. Eamonn hated the whole process. Oh, here’s three years of some classes. Now choose one thing you want to do for the rest of your life.

  “It’s all bollocks.”

  “Right. Work is stupid,” Heath deadpanned. “Why would Eamonn Charles ever consider something as asinine as that?”

  “You can sod right the way off. I’ve had jobs ever since I was twelve. I delivered papers, mowed lawns, washed dishes.” When Eamonn’s dad left, he didn’t leave a fat check on the kitchen table for him and his two younger sisters. If it weren’t for Eamonn’s Uncle George and his company’s generous scholarship, he wouldn’t even be at uni.

  “Wait. How come you never washed the dishes in our kitchen? How come you leave all your shit there?”

  “Because no one’s paying me.”

  Heath whacked him in the chest.

  “Oy,” Eamonn said. “How would you like a smack in the balls, Big Ben?”

  “If you want to wank me off, just ask. I’ll say no, but still appreciate the gesture.”

  Sometimes Eamonn couldn’t believe this sarcastic arse was the same shy roommate he met as a first-year. They’d come a long way.

  “Seriously, mate. You should think about coming with me,” Heath said, still on about that bloody job fair.

  “Why are you even going? You want to be a barrister. End of story.”

  “There’ll be some firms there. It’ll be a good first impression.” Heath shrugged.

  “Only if they have a fucking stepladder.”

  They finally reached the bar and put in their orders. Eamonn laughed to himself when the bartender handed him two Midori Sou
rs and Heath two snakebites. He nudged his human periscope friend in the ribs. “Hey mate, how are Louisa and the Yank doing?”

  Heath easily glanced over the heads of everyone in there. Eamonn had told him that he should be a spy, until Heath reminded him that he would stick out.

  “They’re talking, probably about some crap American series. Why are you so curious?”

  Eamonn shook off the question, since he didn’t have an answer himself. “No reason.”

  * * *

  Heath had been correct. When they returned to the table, they interrupted a conversation about the American version of The Office.

  “Have you ever been to Scranton?” Louisa asked. “I have to be honest. I find the Steve Carell version better than Ricky Gervais.”

  “That’s it. You’re being deported.” Eamonn handed her and Rafe a Midori Sour. Rafe marveled at his green glowing drink. Eamonn tried to remember what he felt the first time he went to a pub. He probably just wanted to get drunk.

  “What should we drink to?” Louisa asked.

  “Living in a country where we don’t have to wait until we’re twenty-one to drink?” Heath said.

  Eamonn raised his glass and looked directly at Rafe. “To the token Yank, our new flatmate.”

  Rafe blushed, and Eamonn loved how it darkened his cheeks.

  “I was wondering who they’d find to fill our fourth room on such short notice,” Louisa said.

  “Short notice? Was someone else supposed to be here?” Rafe asked.

  The question tugged at Eamonn’s insides. More like threw those insides to the ground like they’d taken clothes out of the dryer.

  “Did you scare some other Yank away?”

  The silence at the table made this moment even more awkward. Heath’s eyes flicked over to Eamonn, but Eamonn didn’t need anyone checking up on him. Rafe covered his mouth.

  “Oh no. They died, didn’t they? I am so sorry.” Rafe shook his head.

  “Nobody died,” Louisa said. “Nathan left school to shoot a film. Ow!” She looked under the table then glared at Heath. “What? I’m not even allowed to say his name?”

  “He’s directing a film?” Rafe asked.

  Eamonn couldn’t talk. He just drank and listened to his beer slide down his throat.