Roomies (A Standalone Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) by Claire Adams Page A

cover myself. It actually doesn’t sound
half-bad.
    My other option is going
out there.
    Out there where I’ve got
at least five bosses, though I’ve only ever met four, who each make my life
unbearable in their own special way.
    Just outside this door,
I’ve got a roommate that still bugs the hell out of me who I pretty obviously
came onto just before his mostly naked sex-buddy popped her cooch out of his room in a pretty literal sense.
    I’m in the bathroom for
half an hour.
    By now, as I haven’t had
the shower running, I have yet another reason not to go out there. Now, not
only am I the drunk chick who makes inappropriate advances on her womanizing
roommate, but I can only imagine what he thinks I’m doing in here.
    There’s a knock on the
door about ten minutes later.
    “Hey, you all right in
there?”
    “Just taking a bath!” I
call back.
    I know that we don’t have
a tub. We have a standup shower.
    “Oh,” he says.
    It’s an excruciating
amount of time before he says anything else.
    “Okay.”
    Maybe if I don’t flush
when I come out, he’ll know that I wasn’t in here doing unspeakable things. Of
course, that’ll only work if he’s standing near the door when I do flush.
Otherwise, he’s just going to assume that I did, and when the hell did I become
so damn neurotic?
    I flush the toilet.
    I have no idea why I
flush the toilet.
    Is it better for your
roommate to think that you just spent half an hour in the bathroom doing… that,
or for him to walk in and find an unflushed toilet with pee in it?
    Am I the only woman who
thinks about these things?
    Oh well, I’m pretty sure
it doesn’t matter anymore, and all I can really do is take a breath and hope
for the best.
    When I come out of the
bathroom, I don’t see Dane.
    Maybe he’s in his room,
maybe he left. Regardless, I think it’s pretty clear he was out of
flush-hearing-range.
    I really need to get out
more.
    I’m almost back to my
room when I hear him. I can hear his voice through his door.
    At first, I start to
think that his little biscuit is in there with him, but he’s responding to an
inaudible second party.
    I press my ear against
the door the moment I hear my name.
    “…kind of weird. I mean,
last night, she was coming onto me and today, I don’t even know where to start.”
    Great. This is just
great.
    “No, nothing happened. I
mean, Wrigley came out of the room with her vag hanging out, but I really think she was going to kiss me.”
    Wrigley is a stupid name
for a person.
    Of course, given the
entrance, I’d probably think her name was stupid whatever it was.
    No, Wrigley is a stupid
name. Last name: That’s fine. First name: I mean, are you joking?
    “Yeah, she was drunk.
What does that have to do with anything?”
    If I left the city today,
I wonder if I could join up with the Amish. What’s the rule on that? Does
anyone know?
    “Yeah, whatever,” he says
on the other side of the door. “I’ll see you in a few hours at l’Iris .”
    I knew that’s the place
he was talking about. He even pronounced it correctly.
    I’m sure he’s going there
to meet up with Wrigley.
    Stupid, dumb-named,
crevice-flaunting Wrigley.
    Wait.
    If he’s off the phone,
what are the chances that he’s about to —
    The door opens and I
almost fall into the room.
    “Leila!” he says, jumping
back. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m sorry,” I say.
    I’m stuttering. Why am I
stuttering?
    “I got a bit lightheaded
on the way back to my room. I drank way too much last night.”
    I’m trying to look casual
as I lean against the door jamb. I have a feeling that I’m not pulling it off.
    “Yeah,” he says. “You
were pretty out of it last night. Actually, I think maybe we should talk about
that.”
    “Why?” I ask, having no
recourse left but pure denial. “What happened? I don’t really remember anything
after I got home.”
    “You don’t?” he asks.
    It’s a plausible story,
Dane. Just go with it, ya bastard.
    “No.