Lucky Number Four (4 page)

I turn to see a brooding, masculine blond guy
in a robe, pajama bottoms, and bare feet. I can’t believe my eyes!
Julie and I drooled over him in a magazine last month as we were
being made up for her wedding. A few feet away from me stands one
of the most famous models in the world. This must be a dream.

“Hey, Liam, come meet our new roommate,
Pandora,” Drew says cheerfully as Liam scowls more.

“I need coffee. I was up all night, and I get
no respect for my rest,” he mumbles as he exits the room.

“Ignore him, Pandora. Liam pulled an
all-nighter for a shoot last night, and if Drew had behaved
himself, Liam wouldn’t be as peeved as he is. Liam really is a
sweetheart. As is Colin. He’s from England and is a love.” Emily
grabs my hand as if she knows I’m ready to flee this place. “When
can you move in? Oh, I forgot to show you your room, didn’t I?”

I pinch myself—no, not a dream. It’s time to
go. I have enough drama in my life with school, work, and my crazy
family. No way am I living with three giant
male
models. I
figure the third one is tall too, because geez, there are no short
models.

“Thanks, Emily, but I have to run or I’ll be
late for class. It was nice meeting you and Drew, but I think I’ll
have to pass. I know you’ll find someone who’ll fit in here. This
place is a little too big for—”

“If it’s about cleaning the place, don’t
worry. They have a housekeeping team who comes in three times a
week. It’s included in the rent. Oh, and the cable, and the phone,”
Emily says in a rush and then smiles as if she just sealed the
deal.

She still has a hold of my hand, and I give
it a light pull. She lets go as I grab my backpack and move past
her before she can react.

“Sorry, I must run. Nice meeting you,” I say
as I walk to the front door and tug it open—only to find a tall,
sandy-haired, drool-worthy man attempting to put his key in the
lock.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR.

His smile is killer, but it turns to
puzzlement as I push past him, saying a quick hello. I do have
manners after all. I sprint to the elevator, thankful it’s still on
the floor, and collapse against the wall as the doors close.

Thinking back, I don’t really remember much
about my classes today. I was distracted all day with my mind
returning to the events at the loft. I had imagined what it would
be like to live with three, drop-dead gorgeous, complete eye-candy
guys. Not that any of them would have the slightest interest in my
Medusa hair and me. I’m sure they date tall, beautiful female
versions of themselves. Oh, well. I guess it’s going to be a fun
night of scouring the want ads on the interwebs when I get
home.

The minute I step into the apartment, I feel
the vibe—the “we’re not having sex in our bedroom” vibe.

I quietly close the door again and back away
from it when I hear, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH, YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS,
Kevin! More!”

Homework in the apartment lobby it is
then.

We have to convince her to move in. That small amount
of time with her made me feel something….again. Now to convince the
others that she is our LUCKY NUMBER FOUR! She is the perfect
package, and we must treat her delicately so she doesn’t run away.
What if she won’t move in? What if I never see her again? No, that
can’t happen. A few phone calls will take care of this. I can’t
wait to see her again.

My eyes feel like they’re full of sand, and
the incessant ringing of my cell is giving my headache a headache.
Groaning, I squint, looking at the brightly lit screen, and moan
(yes, it’s different from a groan) after seeing who it is.

“Hi, Mom!” I say, trying to sound awake,
alert, and happy.

“Dora, sweetie, what’s wrong?” my psychic
mother asks. Yes, she really is a psychic, medium, or dead talker …
or whatever you want to call her really. Luckily, she can’t read
immediate family members, so I’m safe. She’s relying instead on
mother’s intuition, which is usually right on target. One of the
reasons I want to be a therapist, counselor, or psychologist is
because I’m an empath, which means I feel other people’s emotions.
It took me a few years to perfect “my gift” to the point I wouldn’t
walk around depressed all the time. It hit as I embarked on the
wonderful journey they call puberty, and with the crazy hormones
and the emotional bombardments, I was an utter mess.

Luckily Henry, my mom’s spirit guide,
informed my mother of my condition and she helped me deal. When I
was younger, I used to walk up and hug random strangers and end up
with wet shoulders on a daily basis from their violent shedding of
tears. Try explaining that to your friends. Julie and Kevin were
the first to know, but our other friends, well, they took a while
to come to terms with the fact that I was different. More different
than being redheaded, left-handed, unable to tan, and having the
ability to play connect the dots with my freckles.

“Nothing is wrong, Mom. I just woke up,” I
reply, hoping that will be the end of her prying.

“Just woke up? People die in bed! It’s after
eight. Aren’t you supposed to be at work? You’re sick, that’s it! I
will be right over with chicken soup—”

“Mom! Mom, listen I’m not sick. I don’t have
to work today. Steven wanted one of his shifts covered, so he took
mine today. And I haven’t slept past eight since I was nine,” I say
rolling my eyes, then focusing on an ugly brown stain on my
ceiling. Where did that come from? What the hell is it?

“So I’ve had this feeling since yesterday
that something really rattled you.”

Shoot, I missed the first part of her
sentence while I was pondering the ceiling. I hope she believes I’m
not sick…at least, not yet. Maybe that stain is some kind of
fungus.

Oh hell, I’ve missed more. Concentrate, Dora,
concentrate.

“Are you listening, Dora? I’m going to drive
into the city and pay you a visit if you don’t answer me,” my mom
threatens.

It’s a threat I take seriously, especially
since my mom doesn’t drive well in the city. Last time, she flipped
off a policeman who cut her off, laid on her horn, and ended up
with a ticket. I mean, red lights on a police car mean
pull
over
. I don’t care who you are.

“Yes, Mom, I’m listening. I’m fine, yesterday
was fine, and tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be fine. Now give my love to
Dad and the grandparents. I have to get up and get ready.”

“Get ready for what? You’re off today. You’re
sick, I knew it. I’ll call your dad at work and tell him I need the
car—it’s an emergency,” my mom’s worried voice comes through
louder.

God, I wish I had listened.

“Mom, I still have school this afternoon, and
I’m going to look for…” I say, almost telling her I’m apartment
hunting, which until I find one, is not going to be told to anyone,
especially her. “A new coffee pot … I kind of broke ours.”