I wonder if the whore’s floor has an ensuite.
CHAPTER FOUR
EBONY
Irap my knuckles against the wooden door of room twenty-four lightly, debating whether I should just use the key Kaitlin gave me. As someone who has had to protect what little space I’ve had over the years, it feels like an invasion of privacy to just barge in. A hollering feminine squeal from beyond the door has me forgetting myself, pushing the key into the lock, and bounding into the room; no sooner have I crossed the threshold, my feet get tangled in a pair of jeans strewn across the floor. The flip knife I keep stored in my boot that I hadn’t realised I’d grabbed for is held tight in my hand as I’m launched head first into a dining table. My ribs take the worst of it, and I gasp for air as I connect with the wood.
“Motherfucker,” I growl out, doubled over as it becomes clear what I’ve interrupted. A young blonde guy, shirtless, tan—his lean swimmer’s body defined with abs and muscles in all the right places—stands tall beside the sofa, running his hand through his hairand gripping it at the nape. He squares his shoulders and grins at me, likely knowing how good he looks all rumpled with whatever activities they were just indulging in. I stand up as much as my battered torso will allow, my gaze bouncing between the two of them.
The young dark-haired woman with flushed cheeks scrambles to wrap herself up in a blanket; unlike her romp buddy, she has the decency to seem sheepish as she tries to work out who the fuck I am and why the fuck I’ve just barged into her apartment. Both acceptable questions. At my age, you’d like to think I could tell the difference between the sounds of bloody violence and sexual excitement.
“I’m so sorry, I…” As introductions go, I guess this could have been worse.
The guy holds a throw cushion over his crotch as he bounces on his feet, that cocksure smile never wavering, seeming at home in this awkwardness.
“Urm, would you mind?” the brunette asks sweetly, flicking her fingers in the air as she tries to rearrange her blanket without flashing me.
“Shit, of course.” I turn and give her the privacy she needs to shuffle into her clothes, pointlessly cataloguing every item on the shelves over the stove in the kitchenette space, so I don’t concentrate on the mental visual of what I stumbled into.
“Well, that’s certainly a way to make an entrance,” the young guy quips, running a hand through his mussed locks again as he rounds me sans the cushion and now wearing black boxer shorts. He bends to pick up his clothes, and I glance up at the ceiling so I don’t get an eyeful of his pertarse. Stepping into his jeans, he takes note of my knife, weirdly okay with the fact that I’m brandishing a blade—albeit one that probably wouldn’t do much damage, but still pointy enough to make a guy bleed should he find his way on the wrong side of my mood.
“Introduce yourself with the threat of a maiming on a regular basis do you, short stuff?”
I smile awkwardly, embarrassment colouring my cheeks a peony pink as I sheathe the blade, bending to tuck it back into my boot as he moves back over to the girl to lay a gentle kiss on her harassed lips.
“Later,” he whispers into her ear, his deep brown gaze locked with mine as she sighs dreamily. Grinning devilishly against her cheek, he grips her chin between his fingers, clearly enjoying the moment as her body shudders under his touch, as he waits for her response.
“Yes, sir,” she pouts as he severs the connection. Pulling his t-shirt down over his chest and slipping into his boat shoes by the door, he turns, fingers at his temple he salutes us. “Ladies”, he croons, his deep voice whiskey smooth as he pulls the door shut behind him.
“Yeah, he’s kind of awesome,” a giddy voice squeaks beside me, and I remember where I am.
‘Ogling your new roommate’s boyfriend. Nice move, Ebs.’
“I wasn’t, I mean, he is…” I stutter awkwardly, excuses scrambling to be heard as I fumble with the words.
“All’s good. Mateo Trent is a hard man to keep a hold of. For the purposes of full disclosure, he isn’t officially mine just yet. We’re still in that fuck me against a counter while he feeds me strawberries stage,”
“I don’t know what you class as dating, but I’m prettysure that’s it,” I remark, watching as she plucks a strawberry from the satin-bow-wrapped basket on the table and offering me one. I realise my poor laundry list of fuck-up boyfriends aren’t experiences I’d ever base dating knowledge on, but I’ve read enough romance novels to know that what I just walked in on wasn’t a casual hookup. The heat of their exchange is still lingering in the air like an electric charge bouncing against every surface, looking for its release.
Fuck, I need to get myself a boat-shoe-wearing hottie willing to buy me fruit treats and bend me over furniture.
Thoughts of the days when two scruffy boys would surprise me with a slice of my favourite strawberry shortcake fills my brain, and the daze of desire dissipates. I long for the day when I can make new memories without their faces invading my thoughts.
Breathe, Ebony. A boy like that is the last thing you need,my mind offers, and I’m grateful for the backup.
“How long have you guys been dancing around the inevitable?”
“Two months,” she coos doe-eyed.
I choke on the piece of strawberry now lodged down my windpipe. A spluttering mess as I try to right myself. I shy away instinctively like a kicked puppy when she reaches out to pat my back. With a mighty cough that makes my ribs twinge, I’m able to breathe again. Death by dessert averted, I lean against the kitchen divide and take a steadying inhale as though nothing had happened, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t press me about my reaction.
“That boy has me all turned around, and I can’t say I hate it.” She beams.
I have never felt comfortable enough to be that relaxed with anyone in six years, always wondering what it was they wanted from me. I yearn to have the ease that I saw between them. Feeling joy without the worry of being manipulated doesn’t come naturally to someone so overtly suspicious of everything.
‘Not everyone is out to get you. It’s the trauma that stifles you and stops you from making connections.’My therapist offered lots of little titbits like that—eternally one with the earth and most at home where she can dig inside your problems to find your inner happy. She had no place rooting around in the messy jumble of my issues. My inner happy is being held hostage by a litany of mental issues carved in a boulder hanging heavy around my neck.
“I think he’s nearly there, I mean, I think he likes me—there’s definite potential,” she adds to fill the silence as she searches my expression to unravel what I’m thinking.
