My Roommate's Girl Page 6
“We’ll be stuck in a hotel room,” she clarifies. “With running water and lights and other people. Totally not helpless.”
I force myself to relax my hands. Growing up, I lost count of the number of times we had to sleep in our car because my dad had lost our house or pissed someone off so bad it wasn’t safe to sleep at home. At first I thought it was a big adventure. Then I learned the truth.
“What did your friends mean when they said you were working on me?” Aster asks abruptly. It’s hard to see her face in the dim interior light, but she sounds more alert, a little less inebriated.
I don’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about; I thought she might have overheard us when she came out of the changing room. “I told them you were having a hard time,” I reply. “And I was working on cheering you up.”
“Oh,” she says, too trusting. “That’s nice of you.”
“I’m a nice guy, remember?”
“There are no nice guys, remember?”
“Uh-oh—dark and angry Aster is back.”
“Not dark and angry, Aidan. Just...aware.”
If Aster were as aware as she thinks she is, she’d know I’ve been semi-hard this whole day. She’d know that the slightest indication, a hint of permission, and I’d have her bent over the nearest flat surface, making her aware of a whole host of other things.
But she’s not aware, because she’s only met one real asshole in her life, and she thinks his name is Jerry.
Headlights approach and slow, and we spend the next thirty minutes in the company of a tow truck driver named Fred who drives us down the road to the tiny town of Hamlet and its even tinier motel. By now it’s nearly eleven o’clock and all the residents of Hamlet have gone to bed. Businesses are closed and sidewalks are empty. There’s an elderly lady stationed at the front desk of the motel and she puts down her crossword puzzle when we walk in, delighted to have company.
Aster tries to pay for the room but I push away her credit card and hand over mine, ignoring her offer to pay for half. We don’t discuss if we should get two rooms, and it’s only when we unlock the door to our street-facing unit that I realize we’ve been given a single, with just a queen bed to share.
If Aster had hesitated or looked uneasy, I swear I would have gone back up front and asked for something different, but her footsteps don’t falter. She strolls into the room, parks her suitcase in the corner, and flops onto the mattress. “Oh God,” she moans. “That feels good. Anything that’s not in a car feels amazing.”
I turn my back and spend way too long locking the door and hooking the chain. As though the real threats here are the ones outside this room. I simply can’t see Aster, half-drunk, sprawled on a bed and moaning. I’m human. It’s too fucking much.
I steel myself, then shrug out of my coat, holding it in front of my crotch when I turn back around. Aster has sat up and dumped her coat on the floor, and now she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bent over as she unties her shoelaces. This gives me a ridiculous view of her cleavage surrounded by hanks of shiny hair, and my dick pleads with me to proposition her. To at least try.
But something stops me.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, striding past her to the dingy bathroom. I shut the door and turn on the water to drown out any more moans—any Aster sounds at all—then strip out of my clothes and step under the spray. There’s a bottle of complimentary shampoo and a tiny bar of soap, and I take my time with each, leaving the water ten degrees colder than is comfortable to try to forget how long it’s been since I’ve had sex.
It doesn’t help. After a while I abandon my noble intentions, warm up the water, and wrap a slippery hand around my cock. I brace my forearm against the wall and watch as I stroke myself. I think about the couple from the library, the guy’s moans as his girlfriend sucked him off. I picture Aster on her knees in front of me, her hair wet, her cheeks flushed, lips stretched wide.
I turn my face into my bicep and groan into my skin as I come, spurting into my palm. Eventually my shoulders slump and I can breathe normally again. I clean up and get out, belatedly hoping Aster wasn’t planning to take a shower since there’s definitely no hot water left.
I dry off and pull on my boxers and the T-shirt I had on earlier, then step into the dim room. The only light comes from the ancient television, an old episode of Gilligan’s Island playing. Aster’s tucked under the striped comforter, propped against two pillows.
“Hey,” she says, yawning. “Feel better?”
I toss my clothes onto a chair. “Yeah.” One of my socks lands on the floor and when I bend to scoop it up I notice Aster’s dress is there. On the chair. Not...on her body. My hormones immediately betray me, blood rushing south, balls tightening. Oh fuck. She can’t be...
I peek in the mirror and see her shoulders and head sticking out from under the covers. And then I see she’s wearing the T-shirt she had on this morning, and I can only pray she’s got her jeans on, too.
The room is chilly, an antique radiator rattling away near the door, probably seeing its first action in years. It’s generating noise but not heat, and when I approach the bed Aster flips back the covers for me, revealing two things: there’s only a comforter and a flat sheet, and her long, bare legs.
My prayers have not been answered.
“I’ll, just, um, sleep under the comforter,” I say, smoothing the sheet back down against the lumpy mattress, a flimsy barricade. I slide in under the itchy old blanket, inhaling the competing smells of dust and mothballs.
“Fragrant,” I mutter.
“It’s called ‘local flavor,’” Aster says.
I adjust my pillows so I can see the television. The fitted sheet isn’t doing shit to keep me from feeling Aster beside me. She could be ten feet away and I’d still know exactly where she was and what she was doing. Her whole body shakes when she laughs, and the hairs on my arms stand on end when she yawns, a feathery, feminine sound that feels far too intimate.
She curls onto her side facing me, hugging her pillow under her cheek and laughing at Gilligan as I try to ignore the curve of her ass against the blankets.
I bend the leg that’s closest to her and use my other hand to adjust my aching cock. If I take another shower, she’ll get suspicious. If I lie down flat, she’ll see the bulge at my crotch. I’ll have to stay like this until she falls asleep, then slip back into the bathroom to jerk off again, like a fucking twelve-year-old.
“Hey, Aidan?” Aster’s sleepy voice makes my fingers curl around my cock, hard enough I grit my teeth.
“What’s up?”
“Do you want...?” She breaks off to yawn, muffling the sound with her fingers. “Do you want to leave a bit later tomorrow? So we can sleep in?”
I want a lot of things, but spending more time in a bed with Aster in which we are not fucking is not one of those things. “Let’s leave around ten. I’ve got stuff to do when I get home.”
She props herself up on one elbow, and for a split second I think maybe my dreams are about to come true. That maybe she’s going to reach over here and cover my cock with her hand and say, You’ve got stuff to do right now, big boy.
But of course my dreams don’t come true. They never do.
She frowns. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
She leans past me to check the time on the alarm clock that sits on the cheap nightstand, alongside the requisite Bible and town map.
“Figures,” she says. “It’s after midnight and it’s been a long day.”
“Yep.”
“Hey, you know what?”
“What’s that, Aster?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“So?”
“That means it’s not Valentine’s Day anymore.” She smiles at me as she lies back down and closes her eyes, the rest of her words mumbled. “I forgot all about it. Your plan worked.”
My cock jerks in my hand. The plan has not fucking worked.
She sighs and snuggles into the bed, already drifting off, totally, blissfully, unaware. “Thank you, Aidan.”
I turn off the television so the room is dark, then get out of bed and beeline it for the bathroom. “You’re welcome, Aster.”
11
The following Friday I’m eating a bowl of cereal on the couch when Jerry comes out of his room dressed like a park ranger. He’s got the hat, the boots, and the overstuffed pack. There’s even a canteen hanging from his belt. He comes closer and I can smell the new radiating off his clothes.
I almost choke on my cereal. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going on a camping trip,” he says proudly.
“Er...now?”
I know Jerry has Fridays off because he normally spends them right here studying, but it’s not even nine o’clock in the morning, and Jerry is not a seasoned camper. Jerry is, at best, a glamper. Glamorous camping. The kind where someone else pitches the tent and builds the fire and cooks you a gourmet meal.
“I signed up for a program to help at-risk youth learn real-life survival skills,” he says, sounding like he’s reciting lines from a brochure. “I’ve been reading up on it all week.”
“You’ve been reading about survival?”
“Yep.”
“What, uh, what brought this on?” I finish my cereal and do my very best not to look incredulous.
“You know,” he says, as though I should know.
“I do?”
“Aster!” he exclaims.
“She’s forcing you to camp?”
He adjusts his canteen. “Of course not. She has no idea. But after what I did, I took stock of my life and saw that I’ve been very selfish. I have a lot, Aidan, and that means I have a lot to give. And a lot to give back. So I researched some local volunteer programs and this one had an opening.”
“Did you tell them you had survival experience?”
He falters. “Maybe.”
“Do you have survival experience?”
He laughs awkwardly. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”
I peer down the hall. He’s made it sixteen feet.
“Jerry, if you’re hoping Aster will forgive you for what happened, I’m not sure this is the best way to go about it.”
“This isn’t for Aster,” he explains. “It’s because of Aster. There’s no way she’s taking me back. You know that saying, forgive and forget?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, Aster doesn’t. She either doesn’t know the saying, or she doesn’t know how to forgive and forget. Whichever one is irrelevant. I’m dead to her. She told me so herself.”
“When?” The last time I heard them talking was the night of the break up and all Aster did was cry and tell him to shut up.
“When she gave me back the things I’d left at her place. Or, what was left of them. They were mostly just ashes.”
“She—”
“Anyway, I have to get going. Wish me luck!”
He sounds like a court jester as he walks, buttons and hooks and pieces jangling on his vest.
“Good luck, Jerry,” I say, thinking it might be the last time I ever see him and adding another weight to my guilty conscience.
* * *
I’m still thinking about what Jerry said during my shift at the library later that afternoon. I’m obsessing over it, actually. I can’t picture Aster telling someone they’re dead to her, and I really can’t see her giving someone a box of ashes. That image doesn’t gel with the woman in the car, the one still feeling the sad but pragmatic about end of her relationship.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t seen or spoken to her since we got back on Sunday. The car was repaired, we made the rest of the trip, she thanked me for inviting her and said she had a good time, then...nothing.
When I hadn’t heard from her by Wednesday I’d texted to ask what she was up to, but no reply. On Thursday I invited her to Frisbee baseball, but she said she was busy. Shamus told me he’d asked her too and had gotten the same response.
I’m trying not to stew about it. I don’t want to be a guy who can’t go a week without seeing a girl. I don’t even know how she went from being somebody I really wanted to fuck to someone I really want to see. And still fuck.
But my efforts have failed me. Every blonde head is Aster’s, every sweet laugh makes me crane my neck to find the source. Hell, every time I pass the Jewish deli and see their chicken soup, I think about her.
“Hey, Aidan.”
I’ve been aimlessly pushing around a cart of returned books, and now I stop and see Missy smiling at me, a pink backpack slung over one shoulder. Missy’s the super pretty southern queen bee-type, with curled blond hair and outfits so coordinated she must have someone help her get dressed every morning. In direct contrast with the flawless appearance is her killer ability on the Frisbee baseball field. She’s the fiercest competitor I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, Missy. How are you?”
“Good. Just finished a mountain of reading and now I’m almost cross-eyed.”
“It’s good you got it done.”
“I could really use a drink,” she says, smiling at me. “What time does your shift end?”
“Not for a while.” I’ve turned down Missy lots of times before, but she doesn’t really seem to care. And I’ve never really cared, either. Except my long-neglected dick is noticing how hot she is in her red pea coat and knee-high boots and demanding to know why I’m not just taking what’s on offer.
“When’s a while?” she presses, like she can hear my body’s plea and is willing to help out. “I can come back. I live nearby. Or...you could come over when you’re done.”
“Tonight’s no good,” I hear myself say, my brain overriding my dick for once. This is, after all, exactly what got Jerry in trouble.
“Aw.” She pouts for a second, then brightens. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The makeup games? Shamus talked about them last night and you said you’d be there...?”
I shake my head. “Right, the games. Of course. I’ll be there.” They’ve been in the schedule for a while, and Shamus had reminded us of them yesterday. He’d just done it right after telling me he’d spoken to Aster and my brain had gotten so stuck on the image of the two of them together that I’d forgotten to pay attention to anything else he said.
Missy adjusts her backpack and winks at me. “Okay, I’ll see you then. You can’t resist me forever.”
12
“What are you doing here?”
Aster glances up from where she’s crouched on the gym floor, tying her laces. “I’m playing with you guys today. Shamus invited me.”
She ties a double knot and stands, the blue of her eyes made more intense by her blue tank top. Something weird passes between us, a tension that’s never been there before, then she blinks and it’s gone.
“I’ve missed you,” she says. “A week is a long time.”
“I texted you,” I blurt out. “You didn’t reply.”
She rubs a hand over her face. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?”
She scans the gym, players from earlier games collecting their gear and shuffling out as new people arrive. “It’s so embarrassing,” she mumbles.
“What is?” I drop my bag on the bench and pull off my hoodie, tugging on the team’s white mesh jersey over my T-shirt. I’m desperately curious to know what’s embarrassing, but I’m equally embarrassed to feel that way so I try to play it cool.
“Hang on,” Aster says, zeroing in on my bicep. Normally when girls check out my arms it’s to comment on any one of my stupid tattoos, but I remember too late that there’s a new addition to the display. “Is that a nicotine patch?”
“Ah...” My face heats. It shouldn’t make me blush to admit I’m trying to quit smoking, but the idea that it’s so obviously for her makes it mortifying.
“That’s great!” Aster exclaims. “Good for you.”
She blows out a breath. “After we got home on Sunday, I went into my room and just looked at it. Like, really looked, Aidan.”
“Okay...?” I’ve seen Aster’s room. It’s just a room. A little sparse, but not offensive.
“It was disgusting! That’s not who I am. It’s not who I want to be. Wine bottles and candy bar wrappers and dirty laundry... You were right when you called me dark and angry and depressed. It was pathetic. So I decided to clean up.”
Something about this doesn’t ring true. Doesn’t feel quite right, like the image of Aster giving Jerry a box of burnt belongings. “And that took all week?”
She groans. “You have no idea. Every time I thought something would be easy, it was impossible. We only have three washing machines for the whole building, and two were out of service. I kept trying to take out the recycling when the floor was quiet so no one would see how much I’d been drinking, but the second I stepped into the hall someone would need something. And then...” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Then I tried to put on my favorite pair of jeans and they were tight.”
“Er...tight?”
“Yeah. Like, stop-subsisting-on-alcohol-and-candy-bars tight. It was awful.”
I look at her from head to toe. She’s wearing the mesh jersey over a tank top and the black tights from last time. She’s hot, plain and simple. Except, not plain and not simple. Just hot.
“Something’s wrong with the pants,” I say decisively. “Because there’s nothing wrong with you. Turn around, let me check.”
She swats away my hand when I pretend to spin her. “Maybe I should have called you immediately after the denim debacle. I spent the whole night reading up on diet plans and the next day I went for a run.”
“That’s good. I mean, the running. You don’t need to diet.”
“No, the running was not good. I was sore for two days after. It was painful and embarrassing. Your skunk story has nothing on my week.”
“Are you feeling better now, at least? Is your room clean?”