“You’re a real Casanova,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just get your own damn apartment and stop leeching off of other people.”
Roscoe opened his mouth but didn’t say anything as he shifted his eyes to the side.
“You do have a job, right?”
“Of course I do,” he said, a little quieter. “I just, uh, can’t seem to hold on to ’em down for long.”
“Ah! There it is,” I said, pointing at him. “I can barely afford to feed myself, let alone a five-hundred-pound monster.”
“Four hundred and forty pounds!” He looked down and patted his gut. “Damn, how’d I get so fat?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically before scooting off the chair to a stand. “Couldn’t possibly be the fried steaks, pancakes, sausage and eggs you horked down earlier.” I walked by him and opened the fridge. “Where are the leftovers?”
Roscoe answered that question with a gurgled belch. “Well…”
Air hissed through my teeth, and I let the fridge door shut on its own.
“I had to refuel after bein’ a good lay and all.”
I grabbed my backpack off the floor, making certain I had my money with me this time. “I’ll have to finish cleaning the kitchen later. Get out.”
Roscoe’s ears fell, and his watery eyes went wide. “So, I take it yer not gonna let me stay?”
“Hell no. And that stupid face isn’t going to work this time. When I get through this interview, I’ll meet up with you later, and we’ll discuss… something.”
His tail wagged.
“That wasn’t a yes, Roscoe.”
The energetic appendage slowed before hanging limp between his legs.
I was still in shock. The interviewer must have thought I was nuts after I asked her for the third time if she was for real. I actually got a job. A real job. It paid like shit, of course, but there was a future.
It was hard to suppress the desire to dance out of that office, but I did whisper an excited, “Yes!” when I hurried out the frontdoor. Persistence, it seemed, had finally paid off, and it couldn’t have happened at a more crucial time.
“Look at you all chipper.” Roscoe’s voice boomed from behind as I rounded a corner.
“I thought you were going to work.”
“I don’t work ‘til six, remember? And you locked me out of yer house. Where else am I supposed to go?”
“Do you have to walk so damn close? I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
He laughed and turned to a man in a suit who walked past us on the right. “Hey dude, I’m bangin’ this guy.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I hissed, walking faster, but his longer strides made it hard to put a reasonable distance between us.
“C’mon, no one cares,” he belted out as I made a sharp right turn into an alleyway. “You gonna tell me how yer job interview went?”
“I got it.”
His flirty grin faded. “Ah, that’s… That’s real good.”
“Why did you say it like that?”
He patted me on the back and turned away. “I’mma head to work early. You want to meet up later for some fun?”
“Whatever,” I said, more annoyed by the reaction than I should have been. Why did it even matter?
