Текст книги "Roomies"
Автор книги: Claire Adams
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ROOMIES
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
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Chapter One
Room Available
Leila
“Thanks, I still have a few people to interview, but I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
Yeah, right. Even after the guy’s out the door, I’m still choking on his cologne.
I’ve been in Manhattan for less than a month and my internship isn’t cutting it. You’d think that, even as an intern, working for one of the major stock brokers in the world would be enough to cover a simple, two-bedroom apartment. You’d think wrong.
The big boss at my company makes something like 2,500 times my salary. Now, I don’t really expect to bring in the millions as an intern, but I should, at least, be able to hold onto an apartment.
You know, I’m really starting to think that my landlord only rented me the place for the eye-candy. The way he stares at my chest when he talks to me should have tipped me off, but I was just happy to talk to someone who heard my salary and didn’t laugh in my face.
Right now, I’m going around opening all the windows, hoping to air the place out before my next appointment arrives.
I’m waiting a while.
My final appointment of the day, a Dane Paulson, is already five minutes late.
Maybe he passed the other guy in the hall and had to be wheeled out of the building. I can’t begin to explain how, but opening the windows has only made the lingering stench worse.
I’m in the bathroom, putting drops in to lessen the stinging in my eyes when there’s a knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” I shout.
The last thing I need is for a prospective renter to think I’m some crazy, emotional woman, crying about nothing. Either that would scare him away or make me appear that special kind of vulnerable that the worst kinds of people prey upon.
Neither one is an acceptable option.
I’m at the door one minute and three tissues later.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door. “Here to see the apartment?”
The man on the other side is tall, tattooed, and handsome. His black hair is cut short enough to nicely merge into his scruff. He’s leaning against the door jamb like an antihero from a noir film. He’s got that self-important look with his chocolate brown eyes staring at me that makes it appear like he lives here already and is wondering why it took me so long to answer the door and let him in.
I hate him already.
“Yeah,” he says, acting as if he’s chewing something which, as far as I can tell, he’s not. “Are you Lily?”
“No,” I tell him. “I’m Leila.”
He leans back and looks at my door as if there’s some kind of useful information posted on it, then he looks back at me.
“I thought the ad said your name was Lily.”
“Well,” I tell him, “it’s not. Would you like to come in?”
He doesn’t answer, but just kind of struts in, his thumbs in his pockets. “Nice place,” he says.
“Yep,” I tell him.
“That’s quite the smell,” he says. “Let me guess: modeling party?”
If it’s a line, it’s about the worst one I’ve ever heard.
“No,” I tell him. “The guy ahead of you seemed to think it necessary to actually bathe in his—what are you doing?”
He’s by the countertop, leafing through the newspaper I haven’t read myself.
“I was out late last nigh. I was hoping to get a peek at the sports section.”
Yeah, I already hate this guy. Sadly, though, I’m desperate.
I have some money from my modest inheritance, but it wouldn’t last long in a place like this. And this is one of the more reasonably priced apartments in the city.
What I really want is to get a full time position at the brokerage firm so I can save up for a nice house; you know, somewhere far away from tattooed guy and the one who swims in cologne. I’d try for a place like that now, but I’d much rather get settled into my job before I blow all my money.
“Take it,” I tell him, acting like he’s not being incredibly nosy.
He doesn’t bother looking up from the paper. “That’s all right,” he says. “My team lost.”
For the next few seconds, we just stand there: him, still going through the newspaper, me, pretending I don’t want to chuck something at his head for the impropriety.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally looking up from the sports section. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dane, Dane Paulson.”
“Leila Tyler,” I say and hold my hand out to shake his.
He looks at my hand, then turns his head toward the apartment. “So, what is this place: 700, 800 square feet?”
“750. Your room would be over here,” I say and start walking, but he doesn’t move.
“Nah, that’s all right,” he tells me. “I like it. I’ll take it.”
“It’s not that simple. I’ve had a number of interviews and some pretty solid prospects. I’ll need to know what kind of income you bring in, I’ll need to check your references. We haven’t even had our interview—”
“I just moved here, actually. I follow the music.”
A musician: fantastic. Not only would I have to deal with him, I’d have to deal with whatever instrument he can’t really play and all the nonsense catchphrases that go with it.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I think I have enough—”
“Guitar, mostly,” he says. He stops looking around the apartment like he’s planning a break-in and looks at me for a moment. “Sorry, most people ask what I play when I tell them I’m a musician.”
“Sorry for my lack of etiquette. It’s been very nice meeting you, but—”
“120,000,” he says.
“What?”
“Dollars,” he answers. “I make a little over $120,000 a year.”
“That’s wonderful. Now, if I can just show you the beautiful craftsmanship in the hallway—”
“I could move in tonight. I mean, I don’t know what your schedule is like, but fuck it. Why wait?”
“Listen, Mr.—”
“Paulson,” he says.
“Mr. Paulson,” I rejoin. “I think it would be best if you just left. I’ve decided not to rent the room.”
“Look,” he says, “I know $120,000 isn’t that much in New York City, but it’s more than enough to cover my half of the rent. That is the deal, right? We each pay half, have separate bedrooms, but the rest of the place is shared?”
“That would be the deal,” I tell him, “but you’re not listening.”
“What do you pay here? It’s got to be, what, $3,000 a month?”
“It’s something like that. But I just don’t think it’s the right fit.”
“All right,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you change your mind, I’m still new enough to the city and would never know if you were fucking me.”
My mouth drops open a little. “Excuse me?”
“Fucking me,” he says. “You know, cheating me on my share of the rent.”
Right now, it’s down to him, cologne guy and the woman who walked in alone and accused me of wanting to sleep with her boyfriend. Lovely.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.
“Sounds good,” he says as if certain the room is his.
“Okay,” I tell him, no longer caring whether he wants to see the open room or not, “I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds great,” he says and smiles. He turns and heads for the door. “Oh, by the way…”
“Yeah?” I ask, frustration thick in my voice.
“Would you mind just leaving the sports page on the counter? New York newspapers are thicker than what we had back home. I can never find the damn thing.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I tell him.
He’s out the door a minute later, and I’m on the phone with my friend Mike.
“They can’t be that bad,” he tells me, somewhere around minute fifteen of my diatribe.
“You have no idea,” I tell him. “Today was a cakewalk. Yesterday, I had four twenty-year-olds come in here, not so much to look at the room as a living space, but a spot for their weekly swingers’ club meetings. Don’t even ask me what that entails, and I’m not saying that because I haven’t been very well-informed. Then, there was the cat lover.”
“Cat lover doesn’t sound so bad,” Mike chuckles.
“Oh, did I not mention that she brought the cat, and that the cat was actually an old cardigan with a thin leash around it?”
“Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “We’re still going out tonight, right?”
“Nine o’clock,” he says.
“Beautiful.” It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. “I think I just need to get out there and get shitfaced.”
He laughs. “You always say that, but after cocktail number one… well, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen you finish cocktail number one.”
I ignore him. Tonight’s a night to get hammered and make some bad decisions. “I’ll see you there.”
I hang up the phone and try to visualize what life is going to be like. You know, as soon as I’ve clawed my way out of the hell that has been this week.
* * *
By the time Mike and I are at the club, I’m starting to forget about the relentless cavalcade of freaks and psychos.
Ultra-repetitive dance music can do that to a person.
Just to prove that I’m not such a cheap date, I order my customary cocktail—a tequila sunrise—and a sidecar.
I’m not entirely sure what a sidecar is, but it always seemed like the thing to order at a bar.
“I’ll bet you a shot of vodka I end up drinking at least one of those,” Mike teases.
He’s lived here his whole life. In fact, he’s the one that got me the interview for my current position.
Mike and I met when I was seventeen and I came through Manhattan on a school field trip. He helped me find my hotel after I got lost trying to find Tiffany’s.
What can I say? I loved the movie.
“You’re on,” I tell him and down the sidecar in a single tilt.
It’s a terrible idea—I realize that before I finish the thing—but it gets Mike’s attention.
“So, how much of the sunrise do I have to drink before you give me my shot?”
“Hell, I’ll buy you the vodka now just to see what you taking a shot looks like.”
“Drop the money,” I tell him.
As his back is turned, I take in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to vomit right here.
He turns back to me, shot in hand.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s see it.”
“I’m not drinking it straight, though,” I tell him. “You’ve got to at least get me a chaser.”
He turns his back again and I sit down on the bar stool.
I think I’m already feeling the alcohol setting in.
I’ve never been much of a drinker.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “What’d you get me?”
“Cola,” he says. “Now, let’s see this shot.”
I scoff and take both the shot and chaser in my hand.
“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Hold it in and don’t let it out until you’re drinking the chaser.”
“You’re acting like I’ve never taken a shot before.”
“Have you?”
I’d rather not answer that question, so I take a deep breath and down the shot of vodka. It’s a sensation unlike anything else I’ve experienced.
It’s not a pleasant one.
“Here,” Mike says, patting my cola hand, spilling a little in the process. “Sip it slow so you don’t get a ton of carbonation in your stomach.”
I do as instructed, trying to make my expression portray nonchalance. That falls apart as I take a short breath before the vodka taste is completely out of my mouth.
“Hold your breath,” he says. “Drink the soda.”
He’s laughing.
Mike and I became pen pals when I got back to Waterloo.
He’d given me his phone number and address in case I found myself lost again. We’ve always been closer friends than anyone I ever spent time with back home.
When dad died, he was the one who got me through it.
Now, though, he’s laughing at me, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.
By the time I get halfway through the cola, Mike puts his hand on the glass.
“That’s more than enough,” he says. “You don’t want to get sick.”
“I thought that was the point of the chaser.”
“The point of the chaser—” he sighs. “Who cares? You did it! You took your first shot!”
The people at and around the bar look over at me with surprise and confusion. It doesn’t help matters that Mike’s holding his hands above his head like I’ve just accomplished the unthinkable.
“Now,” he says, “do you still want that sunrise? Really, I’m really looking forward to those two shots.”
I was hoping he’d forgotten about the other drink.
“Two shots?” I ask.
Maybe if I keep talking, I won’t gag.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve still only finished one of the drinks you ordered. If you don’t drink the other one, it’ll take you one shot to be even, one shot as the spoils of my victory.”
“First off, your math there is a little fuzzy. Second, I can’t drink that now,” I tell him. “It’s been sitting on the bar, barely guarded, just waiting for a roofie.”
“You are so full of shit,” he says, “but that’s all right. I’ll take the free drinks.”
I didn’t bring that much money.
New York still kind of freaks me out, so I only brought enough for cab fare, club cover and a couple of drinks. If I don’t want to walk home or have Mike pay my way, I’m going to have to down that other drink.
“All right,” I tell him, “but if I end up passed out in the back of some guy’s van, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he teases.
He’s kind of a smug bastard, isn’t he?
I force a smile and reach for the drink when the bartender grabs my hand.
“Maybe you should slow it down a bit,” she says.
“I’m good,” I lie. I am a cheap drunk.
“Well, I’ve seen you in here before and this is the first time I haven’t ended up dumping your drink.”
Mike just looks at me with that big, stupid grin.
“He’s my designated driver,” I tell her.
Mike’s not happy to be volunteered for such a position, but he seems content enough to see what I’m like drunk.
To be honest, so am I.
Chapter Two
Paper-Thin
Dane
“I don’t know,” she says as we’re walking out of the club. “My roommate really doesn’t like it when I bring guys home.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, then,” I say. “I’m still waiting for the callback on my new place. We could always go back to my hotel room, but—”
“Fuck that,” she says. “Did you ever see that show where they took a black light into a hotel room and had some guy explain all the different fluids and shit?”
“Yeah,” I say. I wanted to ask “Which one?” but it doesn’t really matter. I know where she’s going with this.
“All right,” she says. “We can go back to my place, but you’ve got to be quiet.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” I mutter, trying to hide my smile.
“What was that?” she asks.
“I said that it’s not going to be a problem,” I lie. Eh, it’s close enough to the truth.
It’s bad form to brag about one’s prowess. It just makes you come across deluded. Better to let her find out, that’s what I always say.
“All right,” she says.
She’s buzzed, not drunk. I’ve never liked getting with a drunken chick. Too much hassle, nowhere near enough reward.
We get a cab. The driver cringes when Buzzed Girl undoes my pants in the backseat, but the man doesn’t say anything about it.
“Do you want me to go down on you?” she asks.
Now there’s a stupid question.
“Yeah,” I say, “why not?”
I’m sitting in the back, pants around my ankles. I refuse to drop my boxers in a cab, though. You never know what kind of shit happened on these seats.
To prove my point, she’s slipping my cock through the slit in the fabric, and I’m looking in the rearview mirror at the driver. This isn’t my first time in the back of a cab.
Sure enough, she’s about halfway down my dick on her first time down when he looks up and spots me watching him. I just smile and shrug my shoulders. The guy’s got to be lonely driving all night, may as well give him a show.
“Do you like that?” she asks.
I’ve never been a fan of that question in this context. Chances are, if I’m not telling you to stop, I’m not complaining.
“That feels great, babe,” I tell her. I don’t really like the term, but it’s a lot easier than trying to remember her name.
“Get another drink or two in me, and I bet I can deepthroat that,” she says.
It’s not a terrible idea, other than the risk that alcohol and gag reflexes can cause when put together.
“We’ll see,” I tell her. “I’m more interested in what you taste like.”
Yes, it’s a line, but it works.
In response to my “selfless act,” she’s all the more adamant in her action. Tonight’s not a bad night.
She pops me out of her mouth a moment to lick my sac. This is why I shower three times a day. I never know when it’s going to happen; only that it is going to happen.
“That’s fucking great,” I mutter, hoping the driver can’t hear me. I don’t like talking during the act any more than I like responding to that ridiculous question she asked a minute or two ago, but if that’s what she wants, that’s what she wants.
The driver glances up at the mirror, and I can see his eyes squint into a smile.
It’s when he angles the mirror down to get a closer look at exactly what’s going on that I put my hand on my companion’s shoulder. I’m fine with the driver having an idea what’s going on, even catching a glimpse here and there, but having another guy staring at my junk is just awkward.
“What’s wrong?” the woman asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Eager to please, loathe to offend: it is a beautiful thing.
I nod toward the mirror, and whatever-her-name-is throws a fit big enough to convince the cabbie to give us a discount for the trip.
I’m still hard when we pull up to her building.
We get out of the cab, and I grin as I wish the driver a good night.
I doubt his is going to be anything compared to mine.
Buzzed Girl is all laughs as the doorman opens the door for us, and I’m just hoping she’s not one of those chicks that’ll spend all of our time giggling and talking about how she never does this kind of thing.
I get that the super-innocence thing is a turn on for some guys, but I’m not one of them.
I like a woman who knows what she’s doing.
We get to the elevator and, although we’re not the only people in the car, she’s standing in front of me, rubbing her butt against the front of my jeans.
Yeah, I’m ready.
“Tell me about your roommate,” I say.
She stops grinding.
“What?” she asks. “Why?”
“I mean, if she hears us, what’s she going to do? I mean, she’s not going to call the cops or anything stupid, is she?”
“No,” Buzzed Girl says. She starts laughing again. It’s not a pleasant noise. “She hasn’t yet.”
Ah, a little depravity. That’s what I was looking for.
“Do this sort of thing often, then, huh?”
“What do you think?” she asks, rubbing up against me.
The whole scene makes the elderly man standing next to me shift anxiously. I can almost hear him praying for the elevator to just reach his floor so he can get out.
“There’s just not a good answer to that,” I whisper.
For once, I’m the one trying to be discreet.
“I guess you’re about to find out,” she says.
She turns around to face me, and I can see the man next to me turn his head.
For a moment, I’m worried this chick is going to drop my pants right here in the not-so-private elevator, but she eases that particular fear with a deep kiss, her arms wrapped around my neck.
I’m a fan of kissing. It’s probably my favorite part of the whole game, you know, except for everything else.
That said, this chick is biting my lip hard enough that I push her away.
“Fucking ease up,” I whisper. “Planning on taking that home with you?”
“Only if I can bring the rest of you, too,” she whispers in my ear.
With those words, my goal for the evening has just become trying to nail her roommate.
It’s a lofty goal, but unless this chick can come up with something less clumsy to say to me, I don’t know that I’ve got much choice.
I pride myself on my game, and having a partner who’s not pulling her own weight is a turnoff.
If the roommate thing doesn’t work out, though, I guess I’ll manage.
“Two more floors until we reach heaven,” she whispers, palming the front of my jeans.
“Shh…”
She thinks I’m worried about the other people in the elevator.
In reality, I just want to get her to stop saying such ridiculous shit.
The elevator slows to a stop, and I’m wondering what god this man standing next to me pissed off so much to end up on the floor right beneath—you know, whoever this woman still groping me said she is.
He hurries out of the elevator and Buzzed Girl turns around, rubbing herself against me a little bit more before we get to her floor.
The sweetest sound in the world is that elevator door opening again.
“You have no idea what kind of shit you’re in for,” she tells me.
It’s a challenge.
We’re on her floor and she’s testing me to see how I’m going to react to such a bold statement.
Believe it or not, that kind of thing is enough to make a lot of guys nervous.
“We’ll see,” I tell her.
As we approach her door, she grows quiet, serious.
I was beginning to think the woman didn’t have any spatial awareness. It’s good to know that’s not completely true.
She unlocks her door and puts a finger to her bottom lip.
I wonder if it’s too soon in our forty-five minute relationship to gauge her interest in a threesome with her roommate.
“So, tell me more about this roommate,” I whisper as we get into her room and she shuts the door behind us.
“Oh, she is so boring,” Buzzed Girl says. “All she ever does is go to the gym and do yoga. She’s such a flake.”
Be still, my beating heart.
“So you feel threatened by her,” I say.
If I have any chance of making this happen, this is how it’s going to go down.
Buzzed Girl’s eyes narrow.
Tonight is going to be a good night.
* * *
I don’t have the slightest idea what Buzzed Girl said to Yoga Chick, but now I’m lying back on the bed, closing my eyes for a moment so I don’t just immediately trigger.
Yoga Chick has one of her legs behind her head to allow Buzzed Girl better access to her pussy. All the while, Yoga Chick is swallowing my member.
Buzzed Girl’s a little competitive, but that’s not a bad thing—at least right now it’s not, as she’s replacing her mouth with a couple of fingers on Yoga Chick’s clit and the two vie for better position between my legs.
I’m not taking sides.
Buzzed Girl works her mouth up the side of my erection while Yoga Chick plays with my tip, her tongue warm and soft as she slides her mouth up and down my shaft, clearly trying to get Buzzed Girl to go back between her own legs.
There’s a power dynamic here that’s simply fantastic.
“Who’s better?” Yoga Chick asks, frustrated at Buzzed Girl’s continued trips up the side of my length.
“Now, there’s a question that I’m clearly not going to answer,” I tell her.
I’m the only one laughing.
Yoga Chick takes that as a confirmation of her own victory and moves up, putting one leg on each side of my mouth, lowering her slit enough for me to get to work.
Buzzed Girl, thinking herself to be the victor, snorts derisively at her roommate and doesn’t take her mouth off of me as she reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a condom.
The way she’s positioned, there’s just enough space between Yoga Chick’s ankles and ass for me to watch Buzzed Girl undo the wrapper with one hand.
“Oh yeah,” Yoga Chick moans, in a clear attempt to make her roommate jealous. “That’s it, baby,” she goes on. “I love the way you eat my pussy.”
Not to be outdone, Buzzed Girl slips the condom over me and climbs on top.
She’s moaning now, and the two continue to grow louder.
Maybe they think it’s some kind of secret, but this is what’s really turning them on: the competition.
I’m just glad to be a part of it.
“I’m going to come!” Yoga Chick yells, and I’m just hoping she’s not a squirter for reasons which should be obvious, given her positioning.
“I’m going to come!” Buzzed Girl yells back.
I’m starting to wonder if they’re just trying to verbally outdo one another, right up until the moment I can feel both sets of legs shaking and the muffled sounds of their groans as they kiss somewhere above me.
This is one of those times I wish I could congratulate myself for a job well done, but honestly, I’m not sure I have more than a mechanical part in any of it right now.
When the two finally separate, I can barely hear them, as Yoga Chick’s thighs are still quivering against each side of my head.
That, mixed with their continued vocalizations, is almost loud enough that I don’t hear it.
“Breann, I told you to turn your cellphone off,” one of them says to the other.
I wish I could tell which one says it, but my field of vision is somewhat restricted at the moment.
“It’s not mine,” whichever one is Breann answers.
“Shit,” I say—if you can call what I’m doing right now talking. “It’s mine.”
Yoga Chick raises herself off of me just enough to ask, “What?”
“That’s mine,” I tell her. “I’m sorry, but I really have to get that.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Buzzed Girl says, still grinding her hips against mine, pushing me into her again and again, so deep.
“It could be about my apartment,” I tell her. “If I don’t answer, someone else might get it.”
Yoga Chick sighs and lifts herself enough for me to angle my upper body toward the edge of the bed.
Buzzed Girl takes this as an opportunity to get one up on roommate and only rides me harder.
I pull the phone out of my pants pocket, just hoping that it’s not my mom calling to see if I’ve found a new place to live yet.
I’m not a total neophyte to the city, but my last apartment, well, let’s just say things kind of got complicated with the roommate.
“If you don’t get the apartment, you can stay in my room,” Yoga Chick says, running her hands down the front of my body.
“Oh, hell no,” Buzzed Girl retorts. “If he’s staying with anyone, he’s staying inside of me.” She giggles.
The slip was clearly intentional.
“Shh,” I whisper. “This is Dane Paulson,” I answer the phone.
I can only hope that whoever’s on the other end can’t hear Yoga Chick lifting Buzzed Girl—by the ass, mind you—off of my cock or the mostly-self-satisfied tone she exudes as she works me inside of her.
“Dane, yeah,” an only vaguely familiar voice answers, “I just wanted to let you know that my first three choices were unavailable, so it looks like the room is yours.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound anywhere near as relieved as I am to hear the news.
As fun as this whole thing is tonight, I really don’t want to be anywhere near either one of these women in the cold, sober light of day.
“Oh, that’s it!” Yoga Chick gasps as I start working my thumb over her swollen bud.
“What was that?” the woman on the phone asks.
I really need to get better with names.
“Nothing,” I answer. “When should I plan on moving in?”
“Screw it,” she slurs. “Move in tomorrow.”
The line goes dead a moment later.
I can’t quite be certain with the amount of distraction going on at the moment, but the woman on the phone sounded kind of drunk.
Oh well, verbal contract and all that. Right now, I’m more interested in watching as Buzzed Girl places one of her thighs over Yoga Chick’s shoulder while Yoga Chick, straddling me in what amounts to a modified version of the splits, holds her roommate in place with both hands on the latter’s ass and proceeds to go down on her.
All things considered, life is pretty great.
