We both know the answer to that one: big boobs, single, the end.
“Easy. Big boobs. In it for the D, and I don’t mean defense.” Oz finishes the hot chocolate from the hand-painted heart mug with a long drag, setting it down next to the sink. “So, what the hell are you doing with that girl, Zeke?”
Why the hell is he asking me this? We don’t have conversations like this, ones about sweet, naïve girls who drink hot cocoa instead of liquor, do nothing but nice things for people, and have kind hearts. We just don’t. We talk about sports, and wrestling, and wrestling practice, so I don’t know why he’s butting into my business.
He’s in a relationship, so that suddenly makes him an expert?
Fuck.
That.
His bulky arms are crossed now, serious expression taking residence on his face. The overhead light in the kitchen makes the black tattoo sleeve on his arm more pronounced.
His dark eyes bore into me; he’s expecting an answer.
“We’re just…friends.”
“Friends?” He looks confused. “I didn’t know you did that.”
“You didn’t know I did what? Speak English.”
He throws his hands up. “Friends. I didn’t know you did friends, let alone friends with tits.”
This isn’t the right moment to point out that Violet doesn’t have any tits, and it’s not something I’d want to point out to him anyway—girlfriend or not, he’s kind of a pervert.
“Fine. I use the term friend loosely,” I concede.
Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I am actually doing with her. Am I attracted to her?
Maybe.
Okay, yes. I am.
And she’s growing on me every second we spend together. Anything more than that? I have no interest in exploring what that attraction means.
I’ve never given much thought to what I wanted in a girlfriend, because I’ve never had any intention of having one. Dating. Being in a relationship.
Shit, I barely have a relationship with my parents, and we’re related—so why am I thinking about Violet? Why am I letting her in my house? Inviting her to this fucking fundraiser?
“Violet.” Oz chuckles. “Even her name sounds like fucking sunshine and shit.”
It does. I begin rolling her name around in my head, playing it on a loop.
“James is going to be bummed,” Oz speculates.
“Oh, well in that case, let me chase after her so I can propose.” Like I care what Jameson Clark wants for my personal life.
Oz laughs at me. “I’m just saying, she’d love having another chick here to break up the testosterone.”
I snort through my nose. “James has more testosterone than the three of us combined.”
My roommate grins from ear to ear, pushing away from the counter and flexing. “I’m going to tell her you said that; coming from you, she’s going to take that as a compliment.”
“I’m sure she will.”
The first thing I hear when Jameson returns to the house from chasing Violet down is the distant sound of the front door slamming shut. Then I hear two boots drop to the hardwood floor, one at a time. The pads of her feet trudging down the hallway.
Arm pushing into my room without knocking.
I put a finger to my lips, shushing her from my spot at the desk. I don’t need her waking up Kyle, who’s curled into a tiny, breathing ball that’s been squirming every ten seconds.
Jameson’s eyes widen when she sees him.
“Knock much?” I whisper-hiss. “It’s not enough that you’ve infiltrated the house, now you’re breaking and entering people’s bedrooms?” I’m as quiet as I can possibly be through clenched teeth.
James stands indignantly at the foot of my bed, gazing down at Kyle. Whatever lecture she was about to deliver gets derailed by the sight of his slight, peacefully slumbering body.
Lucky little bastard.
She turns to face me, walking to stand beside me.
“Uh…what is going on with you lately?” Her low, easy laughter fills my bedroom. “Nice girls in the house. Volunteering. Now you’re babysitting a little kid? What the hell is happening?”
“Would you get out of my room? The kid here is trying to sleep,” I whisper frantically, raising a World War II history book, waving it in front of her face. “And I am trying to read.”
“You can’t kick me out,” she whispers back. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”
I glare at her, glare at her straight brown hair and bright blue eyes. She’s wearing a boring gray t-shirt and the same damn pearl necklace she always has on, even when it’s just a well-worn shirt.
“Technically I own this house, so I can kick you out if I want,” I argue futilely.
Another annoying laugh in the dimly lit room as she crosses her arms, studying me. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh really? And why is that?”
She ignores the question.
“Look, I didn’t come in here to talk about me. We both know you and I have our own issues. I’m here to talk to you about why you just kicked Violet out of the house.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“I’m the one who followed her out into the cold. She didn’t even have her jacket on when she left, so yeah, you kicked her out.”
I don’t have to sit and listen to this bullshit. “Kicked her out? For the fucking record, Miss Know-it-All, I didn’t make Violet leave, I said she was about to leave. She made the choice to go.”
“Give me a break.”
“Everyone being here freaked her out—I was doing her a favor.”
“You announced that she was leaving. That’s making her leave.” Suddenly she gets serious. “You know what Zeke, all this time, I keep waiting for you to want more for yourself.”
Jameson, oblivious to my nonverbal cues to get the hell out my room, lowers her voice and steps closer.
“What were you doing with her here, Zeke? What are you doing with that girl? She’s seems really kind, and giving and gentle and—”
“Everything I’m not? Yeah, yeah, I get it. If that’s what you were going to say, fucking say it.”
Jameson slowly nods. “That’s what I was going to say.”
“Don’t you think I know what I’m doing? Please.”
James shakes her head. “No Zeke, I honestly don’t think you do.”
“Nothing. I am doing nothing with that girl.” I snort, voice raising an octave. “Why do you even care?”
Jameson hasn’t been around long, but she’s already started meddling; every now and again she gets in our household business. Manages to insert herself where she’s not wanted and raises my hackles, gets me riled up.
This is one of those moments; she’s in my bedroom and in my business.
All up in my shit.
The last place I want anyone to be.
The worst part? She’s not letting up. Won’t stop talking and won’t walk away. Jameson Clark is holding me hostage in my own freaking bedroom.
“If you like Violet even a little—and I suspect you do, because otherwise you never would have brought her here…” Her voice is low. “If you like her even a teensy weensy bit Zeke, don’t play games with her. She seems so sweet, and if you string her along…I feel like it would ruin her.”
“Ruin her?” Why would I ruin her when I like her?
“I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t use the word ruin, it seems harsh—it’s just she’s bright and adorable and you tend to surround yourself with storm clouds.”
“Wow James. Don’t you think that’s a little melodramatic? Even for you?”
She laughs quietly. “Oh Zeke, I’ve only said half of what I wanted to say, but I’m going to bite my tongue for now.”
I look at her then, really look at her: earnest eyes, long shiny hair—she’s not as plain and boring as she looks. If Jameson Clark had a sign around her neck, it would read No bullshit. She studies me, always doing weird shit like that. Analyzing people. Watching them.
Assessing.
She walks to the door, hesitating.
“You and I both know pushing Violet out tonight was a huge mistake, so don’t bother denying it. In fact, I predict…” She bites down on her lower lip in concentration. “I predict you lie in bed tonight once your little buddy there is gone, and for once in your life, you’re going to feel shitty about the way you treated someone.”
I lean forward, hands braced on the armrest of my desk chair. Narrow my eyes.
“Oh yeah? And why would I do that?”
She smiles—one of those pitying, patronizing smiles that says she thinks she knows better.
I’ve seen her give that same smile to my roommate a hundred times.
“That’s an easy one.”
My brows go up; this oughta give me a good laugh.
“Because you like her. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”
Violet
“Got any homework?” His voice stops me from walking past his table. For once, Zeke Daniels is at the library of his own free will, not waiting be tutored, not with a group of his wrestling buddies.
Alone.
“Yes. I-I always have homework.” I’m stumbling on my own stupid words and I hate myself for it.
Nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal, Zeke leans back in his chair, arches his spine, extends his leg, and pushes out the chair across from him.