Ever since high school, I’ve loved fashion—western fashion in particular. Kacey and I have thrifted and styled outfits together for years, even though she’s hopeless when it comes to fashion. As I got older, that morphed into home design and décor, for which I have Pinterest boards full of inspiration. I wish I could start on my home design dreams. I want to be proud of how I’ve cared for this home.
I think that’s because I’m desperate to rise above the reputation my parents saddled me with. The Hawkins family, known for selling or doing drugs, is considered trailer trash in this town. But I’ve never done either and never will. Not only did I earn my nursing degree, but I graduated top of my class. Fixing up this house and working at the local hospital was supposed to prove to everyone in this town that I’m not my parents. If only I could pay my damn bills.
It doesn’t help that my father has never been in jail longer than a few days. They’re never able to pin anything solid on him. So, he’s free to roam the town and surrounding county selling drugs, hosting illegal gambling, and who knows what other illegal activities. My father is the picture of a “good dealer”—he doesn’t do his own drugs. But gambling is his kryptonite, an addiction destroying both our lives.
I hadn’t heard from him after Gran took me in. Not until I turned eighteen. Then he started keeping tabs on me. I didn’t realize it until he got me fired from a job in college. By the time the third guy I dated ghosted me, the pattern was undeniable.
After I graduated, he started coming around, making subtle threats and trying to scare me. It wasn’t long before he was demanding money. It started off as a couple hundred bucks here or there, but his demands have grown to large sums, sometimesin the thousands like this month. I can’t pay much more. My savings are drained, my extra shifts barely cover the bills. The hours and stress are starting to take a physical toll on me.
I’m sure some people would say, “Just stop giving him money and he’ll go away,” but they don’t know Daryl Hawkins. I’ve done everything I can to keep my distance and not cross him. Earning his wrath is thelastthing I want. He isn’t afraid to back his threats up—several people in this town learned that the hard way. While my dad is the reason I needed a roommate, I’m terrified Trey’s presence will only make Daryl want more, but I’m out of options.
I’m sitting at the table utterly exhausted when Trey finishes unloading his things. He gingerly claims the chair across from me, letting out a deep breath as he drops into the seat. He tries to hide it, but I can see he’s in pain.
I don’t say anything; I just pop a strawberry in my mouth and stare at him.
He stares back.
It’s freaking awkward. Which is weird, because it’s never awkward between us. As Knox and Kacey’s best friends, we’ve spent a lot of time together over the last almost-year. Staring contests are kind of our thing. It’s more of a tug-of-war between sexual tension and defiance, but never awkward.
Silence stretches for several minutes until I finally snap. “What?” I clip around a mouthful of pineapple.
“Care to share?” He glances at the bowl in front of me.
“Nope.” I pop the P.
He smirks and we go back to staring in silence.
“So . . .” He draws the word out, breaking eye contact to glance around the room.
This is pathetic. Trey and I are many things, but awkward is not one of them. I actually love hanging out with him—he’s funny and always in a good mood. There have been a few nightsI’ve gone to the ranch in a pretty shitty mood, and he always makes me laugh.
“Listen, I think we need to set some rules.” I pause. “Boundaries.”
“Roommate rules. Got it, shoot.” He clasps his hands.
Uh-oh. I didn’t think this far ahead. I figured Trey would argue like he always does. We can argue about anything and nothing; that’s pretty much all we do. Other than when he flirts with me, and I reject him. I open my mouth, then close it.
He glances at my food again.
Smooth, Jessie. Now this issuperawkward.
“Well, for starters, don’t eat my food.” I pull my bowl closer to me. “If you didn’t buy it, don’t eat it. Exceptions include gifts, offerings, and bribes.”
“Can I buy the rest of that fruit salad from you?” He reaches for his wallet in his front pocket.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “No, you cannot. Next rule”—I point at him with my fork—“no overnight guests. In fact, all guests must be pre-approved by me.”
“Copy and paste Knox’s camper rules, why don’t you?” he grumbles. “Well, are there anyguestsI should expect to stop by for you? Siblings? Boyfriend? Voice coach?”
“Only child and no boyfriend.”
His shoulders relax at “no boyfriend.”
That fact shouldn’t have my stomach doing a flip, but it does.
Wait, why the hell would a voice coach come here? I’m not about to ask. It’s probably a trap for some smart-ass comment, and I won’t give him the satisfaction. I grab a notepad from the kitchen junk drawer so I can write the rules down, ignoring how hard I have to yank the handle to get the drawer to open.
“Last one: Clean up after yourself. The floor is not a closet. If I trip over it, I’m throwing it out.” I’ve never lived with a man, but I hear laundry hampers are foreign concepts to them.
