As it happened, it was not just like living with a really beautiful, useless picture.
More like living with a Tasmanian devil, judging by the first five minutes of our so-called “roomance” (roommate-romance, as my mother, Sparrow, cheerfully—and creepily—put it).
A week after Hunter had cornered me outside the archery club, I officially moved into his West End apartment. Mom and Persy helped me with my suitcases and boxes. Belle had wanted to come, but she had “a thing.” Knowing my friend, that thing was attached to a man she was going to eat alive and discard after a few weeks of fun. The minute the three of us tumbled out of the private elevator and took in the apartment, we dropped whatever we were holding, our mouths slacking in unison.
At first glance, it was everything I’d expected it to be: scarcely and tastefully furnished, floor-to-ceiling windows, new kitchen appliances, not to mention a bird’s-eye view of Boston that made me fall in love with my hometown all over again. The colors were navy and deep burgundy, giving the place a rich-yet-trendy vibe.
However, on second look, the place looked like every raccoon in North America had raided it. Hunter’s clothes adorned most of the furniture—the couch, on top of the TV, coffee table, floor, even in the sink—and there were open takeout containers everywhere, including on top of the garbage can.
The modern, gray-accented open-plan kitchen was a whole new level of mess. Everything looked sticky. Food cans were open and dripping. I even saw a trail of ants marching their way from the floor up to an open jar of chipotle sauce on the kitchen island.
“Well,” Persy chirped cheerfully. “He said there’s a cook, so for sure there’s going to be a housekeeper, too. Besides, you have him by the balls. You can threaten him to keep the place tidy, or else you’re moving back with your parents. Right, Mrs. Brennan?” She placed a cardboard box on the sliver of open space on the coffee table, planting her hands on her hips.
“Actually, no. We’re making Sailor’s room a sex dungeon.” Mom gathered her red hair into a topknot with one hand, wheeling my suitcase to the hallway in the other.
I shot her a death glare. “Mom. Super, deeply gross.”
She laughed with her entire face. It made my heart squeeze. “We are planning to turn it into a second office. My paperwork is getting out of control, and there’s no point moving into a bigger condo.”
“Why not make Sam’s room a second office? He hasn’t been living at home for years.”
“Because I don’t worry about his social life,” Mom answered frankly. “And so, he is welcome to come back whenever he wishes.”
“Which would be never.” I scoffed. Sam was a notorious Bostonian bachelor with a taste for partying, Warren Beatty-style.
“My point exactly,” she concluded.
Great. Now I didn’t have a place to run back to if when this thing imploded. By the looks of this apartment, it already had.
I had no doubt my parents’ decision to convert my childhood room into a home office was to keep me here. They loved me dearly, but had begged me to be more social. If it were up to me, I’d be shooting targets and lazing around with the Penrose sisters until the end of time.
“You know what?” I turned around, facing both of them, trying to appear more upbeat than I actually was. In reality, I’d almost popped an artery. It had taken Hunter exactly ten seconds to piss me off. “I’m going to tidy up myself, arrange things the way I want them to be—set the tone for the next six months.”
In the week between the time Hunter propositioned me in the parking lot and now, our fathers had met numerous times to negotiate the terms of this insane, legally binding agreement. Mom and I had met Gerald and Jane Fitzpatrick so we could all sign the contract. Gerald was cold as a fish and Jane nice, but reserved. Hunter was absent from those meetings, and I had a feeling it was because Gerald was either worried he’d say something embarrassing, or because he didn’t want Hunter to feel like he had control over the situation.
“You sure?” Mom frowned at me. “We don’t mind staying, and you could use the extra help.”
“Positive, Mom.” I was already pushing them out the door. I knew they weren’t going to cooperate if I told them my plan.
Mom wasn’t hard to get rid of. She understood my independent streak and my need to do things my way, because I took after her in that department. Persy was another story. She was a do-gooder, innocent and agreeable to a fault. I sometimes wondered what drew me to my best friend, who was the same age as me, eighteen. We were polar opposites in both appearance and personality. She had long, wavy hair the color of sand, huge blue eyes, and the soft, traditional beauty of a rose in bloom. She was attending college like her parents wanted her to, and didn’t have one rebellious bone in her body.
I was wild, driven, and tunnel-visioned. I hid my scrawny body in ill-fitting clothes, loose tops, boy-sneakers, and jeans. Whereas Persephone, named after the Greek goddess who’d been stolen by Hades to live and rule the underworld with him, was quiet but confident, I was insecure to the bone. I loved Persy to death because we both possessed the two qualities I cared about the most: we were innately loyal and stayed away from the rumor mill.
In fact, that’s how we’d become friends. When I started elementary school, gossip about my father ran through the hallways like the Mississippi River. Troy Brennan was Boston’s infamous “fixer,” and it was said he had a substantial amount of blood on his hands. In spite of that, Persy and her older sister, Belle, sought me out and made sure I had someone to play with at recess and sit with in the cafeteria.
Belle was everything Persy and I weren’t: a nymph, a fallen goddess. Cunning and adventurous with a vicious tongue. Street smart and daring. The two of them by my side meant I wasn’t bullied, picked on, or harassed during my school years.
“Are you sure?” Persy screwed up her little nose.
“Yes.” I pushed her through the door. “Go!”
I spent the next three hours tidying the apartment up as best as I could, unpacking, putting things away in my room, and using the spare room to arrange my archery equipment, as per my agreement with Hunter. We hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers, but a deal was a deal.
As night rolled in, I collapsed onto the opulent, satin-upholstered sofa and groaned, my hair matted on my forehead. Two, perfect circles of sweat graced my shirt under the armpits, hardly an aphrodisiac.
I’d begun to drift off, despite my best efforts, when the doors to the private elevator of our penthouse floor slid open and Hunter walked in, carrying a few shopping bags.
“Yo, roomie, what’s shaking?” He jerked his chin in my direction, swaggering into the depths of the living room. He took the two steps down from the landing to the living area, discarded his bags on the coffee table, and sat on its edge, planting his elbows on his knees. His scent drifted into my nose: fabric softener and rich-boy musk that made my mouth water, no matter how much I hated him.
I peeked under my lashes, preparing myself for his gut-punching beauty. If I thought a week away from him would subdue his impact on me, I was sorely mistaken. His gray-blue eyes looked like winter stones, glimmering playfully, his cheeks ruddy from the evening wind, his lips swollen and full, and his tawny blond curls a perfect mess. Everything about him was male, sharp, and muscular.
“Got you a present.” He threw something into my hands.
A small envelope. When I opened it, I saw a Target gift card. Yes, the actual store. I rolled my eyes and smiled tiredly. “Thanks.”
“I like what you did with the place.” He looked around, picking up one of my feet from the coffee table and removing my holey sneaker. I watched in horror as he let the dirty shoe drop to the floor, took my socked foot, and began to dig his thumbs into it. At first, I tried to yank my foot away, but after hours of working—and years of training in general—my muscles were tense and rigid. The massage felt too deliciously good not to accept.
“What the hell are you doing?” I scowled, watching him put my foot atop his muscular thigh and massage it thoroughly. His thigh was so hard, I wondered what the rest of his body felt like.
STD. It feels like catching an STD, you moron.
There was no denying he was good with his hands, and I wondered how many girls had fallen for this trap.
“None,” he said, reading my thoughts as he smirked at me knowingly.
“W-what?” I stammered, hating myself for becoming an inarticulate mess.
His father shouldn’t have put all his trust in me. If he could see me with Hunter right now, he’d know how helpless I was—not that I was going to go lax on his son, but I was definitely not bulletproof to his charm.
“You’re wondering how many times I’ve done this as foreplay. The answer is never. I’m doing it because you look like crap and need a break, and because you cleaned our apartment even though the housekeepers arrive tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid but too exhausted to get riled up about it. “You really know how to compliment a girl.” I was tired of hearing how unattractive I was to this guy. Besides, everything he did—even the glorious massage—was braided in mockery, like he didn’t take anything seriously, ever.
“Would you like to be complimented?” He popped an eyebrow, digging his fingers deeper into my heel.
My eyes rolled in their sockets, and I let out a groan as the delicious pain unknotted my muscles. “I really don’t care.” I dropped my head to the back of the sofa, closing my eyes. “Where were you, anyway?” Now was a good time to start investigating him and show authority.
“Shopping.”
“With who?”
“My sister, Aisling.”
Funnily enough, I remembered his sister. His brother, too. I must’ve deleted Hunter permanently from my mind because he was a boy my age, gorgeous, and about as unattainable as planet Mars. Those things somehow made him an automatic enemy in my eyes.
“You’re going to love her. She’s appalled by everything male and fun, just like you.”
“I resent that statement.”
“You resent everything.”
Biting my tongue to keep from lashing out at him—solely because I knew I’d already gotten my vengeance for the day—I changed the subject.
“How do I know you weren’t out and about with some other girl?” I opened my eyes. He blew air through his cheeks, hiking his long, strong fingers from my foot to my ankle, kneading it in circles.
“For one thing, you’d know if I’d had sex, because I’d be rocking the after-orgasm glow.”
“I can’t believe I’m humoring this, but what does your after-orgasm glow look like?”
“I’m afraid I can’t fake it.” He winked, removing my leg from his thigh and returning it to the table gently. My heart missed one lonely beat at the loss of his touch before Hunter took my other foot and gave it the same treatment, removing my banged-up sneaker and massaging it heel to toes. “You’ll have to give me an orgasm to find out.”
“Hard pass,” I said.
He regarded me with amusement, trekking his fingers up my ankle. Silence engulfed us. Finally, he said, “Who’s gonna take care of Hunter Jr., then?”
“Your hand?” I suggested. “Or an apple pie, if you’re into cultural clichés.”
I wasn’t so hot on talking sex with Hunter—or with anyone at all, for that matter—but I didn’t want him to see how flustered I was, and he was obviously testing me. Belle and Persy would die if they heard I’d talked sex with the sex king himself. The minute I told them about my agreement with Hunter, they’d bombarded me with every piece of newsworthy gossip I’d somehow missed about my new roommate. Belle also mentioned something about wanting to ride him like a stolen bike.
“How about we strike a deal—if I play the doting saint all week and stay out of your way, I can sneak in a few fucks with a rando? I’ll have to bring her home because Da has people following me—I’ve already seen them around—but you can always help a bro out and tell the building staff they’re your friends.”
My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, the blood in my veins heating with anger. “What?”
“Oh. ’Kay.” He lifted his palms. “Not a few fucks. Just the one. Twenty minutes. But this is my final offer.”
“No,” I said.
“Fine. Ten minutes. And I’ll make sure she keeps her voice down. Now that’s my final offer.”
He was going to be a terrible businessman.
“That’s not how final offers work, and the answer is still no.”
“What?” His smile dropped. “Why not?”
“I told you, I’m taking this agreement with your dad seriously.” I stood up.
It wasn’t a good idea to let him touch me while we were negotiating. It bothered me that, just like with all the other girls, his touch disarmed me of my logic. I gathered said logic back into my arms like shattered, miniscule pieces of what used to be a solid statue, trying to rearrange my thoughts.
Hunter got up, too, towering over me. My head reached his lower pecs. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze.
“Word?” He changed his tune from pleasant to deadly serious. “You’re going to cockblock me for real?”
At least now I knew what had inspired the massage and the Target gift card.
“It’s not like I’m going to tell Da you’re sneaking chicks up for me. It’ll be our dirty little secret.”
“I don’t want any secrets with you.” I threw my hands in the air, exploding. “I don’t want anything with you, period. Your dad is right to follow you. You’re willing to toss your future away for sex.”
“I’m not supposed to choose.” He tousled his hair, the color of forged bronze. “Why do you have to be a narc? And while we’re on the subject, why are you weird? Why archery and not, say, Zumba? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re making everything harder.”
“By being honest?” I laughed hysterically, advancing toward my room.
He chased after me, again, his steps long and feral, making my heart leap to my throat, thumping its way farther up. I couldn’t remember the last time my pulse had pounded so quickly. Hunter jumped ahead of me and blocked my way to the hallway, resting his elbows on either side of the arched passage.
“Insecurity doesn’t look good on you, kid.” He smirked, taunting.
I felt the blush creeping up from my neck to the top of my head and knew my eyes were shimmering with humiliation and rage.
“You ugly, ugly kid. Are you a boy or a girl? Oh, never mind. I’ll take what’s yours, anyway”—the words that chased me to the end of world.
He reminded me of her.
He was the male version of her.
Of the girl who wanted to break me, so I’d vowed to break her first.
I wanted to throttle Hunter. He’d been so sure I was going to let him do whatever he wanted when he cornered me in the parking lot. He knew if he slept with another girl outside the apartment, his father would catch him. I was his only chance, and I wasn’t cooperating.
“Fuck you.” I bared my teeth.
“A few more weeks like this, and I’ll actually consider it, Carrot Top.” He thrust his face in mine menacingly. “What is it that you want? Money? Power? I can hook you up with one of my high-profile friends. Just say it, Sailor. Spit it out and you’ll have the paparazzi monitoring your every move. You’ll be the new Serena Williams. Everyone has a price.”
I shook my head. “Not me.”
“That’s fake news. You’re here, meaning you were already bought by my father. Now, what can I do to up my bid and switch your loyalties from him to me?”
Drop dead, I wanted to scream. Only that wasn’t true. If he dropped dead right here and now, I wouldn’t switch loyalties. I would, however, dance atop his corpse while thanking God for saving me from six months of torture.
Knowing our first encounters together were going to dictate the rest of our relationship, I yanked him by the collar of his shirt, bringing him closer to my face so we were nose to nose. I could breathe in his mouth. Cinnamon gum, mint, and a dirty, carnal kiss I would never let happen.
If he was shocked by my antics, his face didn’t show it.
“Listen to me carefully, Hunter Fitzpatrick. I may seem like an insecure, average-looking geek to you. And you know what? That’s who I am. I own it. But make no mistake, this insecure geek comes from a long line of people you do not want to screw with, and their savagery rubbed off on me as well. I will not hesitate to pierce your pretty, spoiled-prince heart with one of my pointy arrows. But you’re right. I do have a price. My success is my price. Beating Lana Alder at this game is my price. You have nothing to offer me in that department. You will be celibate, sober, and congenial. We will attend our family functions, play house, and be whatever our parents want us to be. And then we’ll part ways and never speak to each other again. Am I clear?”
Rather than answering me, he shook off my touch, turned around, and stalked down the hall to his room. He threw his door open and slammed it behind his back. I waited in the hallway with my arms crossed, knowing the real explosion was seconds away.
Hunter was right. He did cave to his impulses and react thoughtlessly.
“Three,” I whispered, holding three fingers in the air. “Two, one.” I curled them one by one, my eyes trained on his closed door. Every fiber in my body shook with adrenaline, fear, and amusement.
“Showtime.” I snapped my fingers.
Hunter burst from his room, his cheeks flushed, his eyes darkened. Two full moons.
“The fuuuuuuuuuck!”
He drew the letter U to oblivion and back. His hands were filled with junk: the open tin cans still leaking suspicious sauces, his dirty clothes, a pair of designer shoes, and a joystick. “You dumped all the garbage in my room. Are you crazy?”
“Nice This is Sparta moment. All of this belongs to you.” I sloped my chin up, my voice stern. “Thought you’d appreciate getting it back, since it was thrown all over our mutual space.”
He stared at me in shock, like I was a wild, battered animal he had to tame, a rodent vandalizing this expensive penthouse. “You’re insane.”
I smiled sweetly. “Been called worse.”
“Now I get it.” He dropped the garbage to the floor, pointing at me. “You’re my punishment for what I did. He chose the craziest bitch in Boston to set me straight, the old bastard.”
Maybe Hunter was right. Maybe his father had heard just how much of an unbearable, career-centered party pooper I was. Although technically, I couldn’t be called a party pooper, since I never attended any.
“Make sure you keep the place tidy, Hunter. With or without housekeepers, I don’t want to live in filth, not even for one hour. Have a good night, roomie,” I finished, walking into my room and slamming the door in his face.
1-0, away team.
