Roomies (A Standalone Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (11 page)

“I can’t have a sous chef
making more than my executive,” Jim says, “that’s a steaming vat of resentment
I’d prefer to keep out of my restaurant.”

“I know, Jim,” I tell
him. “That’s why you keep my below what you give to Wilks. With Cannon gone and
your head and sous chefs cut back on pay, you’re going to be saving a lot of
money and I’m not out enough cash to screw things for me, either.”

“What’s the catch?” Jim
asks, leaning forward. “You’ve never once said anything positive about Wilks.
Why is he suddenly the golden boy? I don’t see what you get out of this.”

“I never told you about
Wilks because, well, honestly, I didn’t want you to figure out that he’s better
than I am and do exactly what I’m telling you to do now.”

“Why are you doing this?”
Jim asks again.

“I want to keep my job,”
I tell him. “I was getting a blowjob from this freak I’ve been nailing a few
weeks in the parking lot of Yankee stadium—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”

“Just listen,” I tell
him. “I started to realize that I’ve spent all my life trying to get that quick
release, that instant gratification and it wasn’t until tonight that I realized
that’s not really what I want. It’s never really been what I want, but that’s
because I’m a coward. It’s just easier to take advantage of people than to put
the best person forward and try to make things work with them.”

Jim laughs. “That must
have been one terrible blowjob.”

“Actually it was
fantastic. She does this thing with her tongue—pierced, by the way—where
she’ll—”

“I got it, I got it,” Jim
interrupts. “You’d actually be willing to do all this just to keep your job?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, “but
it’s not just about that. With me as executive, you’ll have the regulars and
you’ll get solid reviews, but with Wilks, you’ll get something more. You’ll get
an innovator and I’m willing to bet you $10,000 that if you give him enough
room to do what he wants to do, this place is going to be packed every night
from here until you retire a wealthy, wealthy man.”

“You’ll be down something
like $60,000 a year,” Jim says. “Are you sure you’re okay with that? I mean,
why not just go somewhere else and do the executive thing there?”

“Because I’d rather stick
with something that I love,” I tell him.

“I can’t just fire
Cannon, though,” Jim says. “He’s been here as long as you have.”

“Yeah, but he’s
worthless. I’m actually good at what I do and you were ready to let me go.”

Jim chuckles. “Is he
really that bad?”

“He’s terrible,” I
answer. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I have to have him redo a dish
before it’s anywhere near good enough to send out.”

“And why is it that you
didn’t tell me about
that
before
tonight?”

“I figured that if you
were going to try and replace me with someone, it’d be the sous chef. As long
as that’s Cannon, I never really felt like I had anything to worry about. He’s
never been a threat.”

“So, I’m just supposed to
believe that all this is genuine and you’ve suddenly turned benevolent because
a blowjob in a parking lot made you realize that there was more to life than
screwing people over?”

I laugh. “Well, when you
put it that way, anything’s going to come across suspect.”

“And you’re not yanking
my chain about taking a massive pay cut?”

“If it’ll help get things
turned around, then that’s what we need to do. When Wilks starts bringing in
the hordes, you can always give me a raise.”

Jim scoffs.

“That must have been one
life-changing blowjob,” he says. “All right, we’ll do it. I’ll let Cannon know
at the end of his shift, and we’ll get Wilks started tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I tell him and
walk to the door. “You might want to make sure you tell Cannon outside the
restaurant. He’s one of those predators that plays victim until someone really
calls him on his shit. That’s when he explodes like a toddler’s diaper and all
the shit starts oozing out.”

“Thanks for the visual,
Dane,” Jim says, smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

For the first time since
I can remember, I leave the restaurant in a good mood. I don’t mean to screw
over Cannon, but the guy is pretty fucking useless on pretty much every level
imaginable.

Oh well.

Now, I get to go home and
do something I’ve been trying to convince myself I didn’t want to do.

Tonight, I’m going to
tell Leila that I want to be with her.

I get to tell Leila that
I’m single again—though, I’ll probably leave off the “again”—and that I want to
see if there’s anything between her and I other than this growing hot pull in
my chest.

The funny thing is that I
still don’t really know her all that well, but what I do know is enough for the
certainty that I want to know more.

I can’t wait.

First thing’s first,
though: I’ve got to drop off the car.

That process takes over
an hour as the moron at the front desk can’t find the paperwork. Finally, he
checks the open file that’s been right in front of him at least as long as I’ve
been standing here, and we get it all taken care of.

The guy lets me call a
cab, and I’m on my way home now, nervous, but feeling for the first time in a
long time that I might just be onto something amazing.

I climb the stairs and
imagine the worst possible scenarios.

Most people would tell me
to be optimistic right now, but every time I’ve gone into something with high
hopes, those hopes are dashed in the most horrendous way possible, so right
now, I’m imagining her screaming at me, calling me an asshole and a womanizer,
telling me that I’m never going to be anything more to her than a rent check.

I can’t help the fact
that I’m still smiling.

When I get to the door, I
take a breath and take one final moment to imagine her hitting me over the head
with a frying pan and kicking me in the ribs while I’m lying on the floor.

If my inverse-square law
of hope has any validity, that thought should seal the deal.

I unlock the door and
open it to find Leila and some guy sitting on the couch, making out.

I should probably clear
my throat or say something, as neither one seems to have noticed my arrival,
but I can’t do anything.

It’s been about an hour
and a half since I decided I want to throw caution into the death machine and
make the move to be with Leila, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her
with someone.

Inverse-square law my
ass.

I try to slowly back out
of the door and leave the two in peace so, hopefully, they never know I was
even here, but of course, that’s when my phone rings.

Leila and the guy who was
trying to swallow her face jerk and look over at me while I fumble for my
phone.

“Dane!” Leila spits.
“When did you get in?”

“Just a second ago,” I
tell her, still trying to pull the stupid fucking phone from my pocket. “I’m
just going to take this outside,” I tell them both, finally, and walk back out
the door, closing it behind me.

Once outside, I finally
get the phone wrested from my pocket and look at the number.

It’s Wrigley.

This should be interesting.

“Yeah?”

“Dane,” she says, “I need
to fuck someone and it needs to be now. You’re not mad at—”

“I’m on my way,” I tell
her.

I was off to such a fresh
start.

Chapter Eleven

The
Favor

Leila

“Mike,” I tell him, “we
can’t do this. You’re my best friend in the world, and I don’t want things to
get weird.”

“Who says they have to
get weird?” he asks. “I’m not talking about changing anything about our
relationship. I just want to know if I’m really that bad of a kisser.”

“It’s weird just talking
about it,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re a fine kisser. Can we leave it at
that?”

“I guess,” he says and
turns back toward the television.

I know what he’s asking,
and I know he’s really not trying to pull one over on me, but still: Mike is
way too good a friend to even take a false step down that road. If things went
pear-shaped between us, I don’t know what I’d do.

For a very long time,
Mike is all that I’ve had.

Then Dane came along, but
I can’t even think about that right now.

He’s off somewhere with
that skank with the ridiculous name.

That’s all right. He
doesn’t owe me anything; we’re roommates. That’s what I keep telling myself,
anyway.

“You know I’d do it for
you,” he says.

“That’s because you’re a
freak, Mike,” I laugh and jab him with my elbow. “Just watch the movie and keep
it in your pants, will you?”

“I never said I was going
to take anything
out
of my pants,
although I see where
your
mind is.”

He can be such a child
sometimes.

“All right,” I tell him.
“If I kiss you once and give you notes, will you drop it and never ask me to do
anything like that again? I mean it. This is awkward enough as it is. We’re not
going to start some weird sex clinic—”

“Easy there, girl,” he
says, somehow thinking that talking to me like I’m a horse is going to help his
cause. “I’m just talking about a kiss—
one
kiss. Give me some notes on how I can do better and we won’t even talk about it
again.”

“No tongue,” I tell him.

“Oh bull,” he says. “How
am I supposed to know if I’m doing it all right if you don’t let me slip you a
little tongue?”

“
Eww
…”
my body involuntarily shivers, and my eyes start to water like I’m stuck in a
sewage pipe.

“Gee, thanks,” he says.

“You’re like my brother,
Mike. This is too weird. No kiss, the whole thing’s off.”

“Aw, come on,” he whines.

He’s not only whining,
but he’s actually pouting: the bottom lip is out and everything. It might be
cute if it weren’t so stupid.

“No!” I tell him.

“But mom,” he whines
again.

“Yeah, like
that
makes it better.”

“Fine,” he says,
straightening up and speaking normally again. “How about one kiss, thirty
seconds—”

“Thirty seconds? Are you
insane?”

“What the hell am I going
to learn from a peck?”

“I don’t see why it’s
such a big deal anyway,” I tell him. “So you’re a bad kisser. It’s not the end
of the world.”

“How do you know I’m a
bad kisser?” he asks.

“Because of the way
you’re acting,” I tell him. “No self-respecting anything would put on such a
bitch fest.”

“I’m not bitching,” he
says. “I’m just tired of kissing my date good night and getting that look that
just says, ‘that’s it? Seriously, I sat through dinner for that?’ It’s
humiliating, Leila. Just one kiss, thirty seconds or less and a little bit of
tongue—before you throw something, I don’t mean puppy tongue or rim tongue—”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Whatever. I’m talking
just a normal amount of tongue as if we were out on a date and I’m trying to
convince you with my mouth that
your
every problem can
be solved by my penis. Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes!” I squeal, half in
laughter, half in horror. “You’re making this so much worse than I thought it
was going to be. I am not kissing you. Next time you walk a date to the door,
just put out your hand and give a good, solid handshake. I’ll tell you what:
I’ll help you practice
that
. Everyone
needs to know how to give a good handshake.”

“Leila…”

“Seriously, it’s not just
good for dates, but it’s good for business.”

I hold out my hand and,
when he doesn’t grab it, I place his hand into mine and give it one good shake.

“See?” I ask. “Good
pressure, only one up and down motion and release. That’s a good handshake.”

“I shake hands with the
best of them,” he says. “I think we both know that.”

“Watch the movie.”

“Leila!”

“Watch the movie!”

He crosses his arms and
starts grumbling.

He’s actually sitting
there grumbling.

“If I kiss you on your
terms, will you shut up and drop the whole thing from here until the end of
time?” I ask.

“Yes!”

I sigh and fold my arms.

“Does that mean you’re
going to do it?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Can you
keep your mouth shut before and after?”

“Of course,” he says.
“This is great, Leila, you’re such a—”

“What did I just ask?”

“Oh, right,” he says. “So
how do we do this?”

“You really are bad at
this,” I tease.

“Shut up,” he says. “I
mean, do we stand or do we sit? I’m assuming we’re not going to be rolling
around on your bed or anything?”

I can actually feel the
reflection of my death stare coming off of Mike’s face.

“That’s a no. Why don’t
we just do it here,” he says.

“Don’t say that,” I tell
him, covering my ears.

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say ‘do it,’ it
makes me feel like flies are laying eggs in the back of my throat.”

“Now that’s a good visual
for me to start with, kissing you,” he says.

“Shut up, Mike,” I tell
him.

“What’s the ruling on
hands?” he asks. “Like, where do
I
—”

“Nowhere near my body,” I
tell him. “In fact, you should probably have them behind your back.”

“Behind my back?”

“Just nowhere on my
body,” I tell him.

“I was hoping to test out
my hair-caressing—”

“Do not finish that
sentence,” I interrupt. “I’m already going to need an anti-emetic as it is.”

“Anti what?”

“Something to make me not
throw up,” I tell him.

“That’s cold.”

“Whatever. Let’s just do
this before I lose my nerve.”

“All right,” he says,
moving closer to me on the couch.

He closes his eyes and
starts to lean in and without even thinking about it, I naturally move away
from him.

He opens his eyes again.

“What?”

“I want you to tell me
the rules one more time. I’m not going to listen to any excuses if you cross
the line here.”

He rolls his eyes. “One
kiss,” he says, “thirty seconds or less—”

“I will be timing it,” I
tell him. “There’s a clock on the wall right there, and if we’re coming to
thirty and you’re not pulling away and apologizing for badgering me into doing
this, I’m going to leave a big red print of my hand across your cheek, got it?
Now what are the rest of the rules?”

He sighs. “Thirty
seconds, one kiss and a little tongue is permissible, but nothing over the top
or down the throat.”

“Where are your hands?”

“Somewhere else,” he
says.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning not on you.”

“That’s right.”

“Can we just do this
thing? I’m starting to lose my nerve.”

“If you lost your nerve,
I think I’d be pretty okay with that.”

“All right,” he says.
“Tell me when to start.”

“No moaning or any
other—you know what? Don’t make any sound at all. I don’t even want to hear you
breathing.”

“I’ve got it!” Mike says
with a laugh.

“All right,” I say,
watching the second hand on the clock. “And, go.”

He leans in and our lips
meet.

It’s weird, but it’s not
terrible, I guess.

What the hell is he doing
with his tongue?

I pull back a little,
trying to give him the hint, but he doesn’t get it, so I bite his tongue a
little.

That gets him to pull
back.

Twenty seconds to go.

This is taking forever.

All right, he’s doing a
little better, but it’s like he’s trying to say something the way his lips are
moving.

I would close my eyes and
try to pretend like this is someone other than Mike, but I’m not breaking my
gaze at the clock.

Mike tilts his head to
the other side and I’m pretty sure that if I had a brother, this is what it
would be like to kiss him. This is, in no way, a turn-on.

Ten seconds left.

It’s almost over. The
worst is already done, now it’s just a matter of hanging in there for a few
more seconds.

Five.

Four.

Three.

A sound from somewhere
else in the apartment startles me and I pull away.

Shit. It’s Dane.

He’s standing at the door
with the oddest look on his face.

“Dane! When did you get
in?” I ask.

“Just a second ago,” he
says, clearly having a lot of difficulty pulling the ringing phone from his pocket.
“I’m just going to take this outside,” he says and is out the door before I can
say anything else.

“Oh crap,” I say, putting
my hands on my forehead.

“What?” Mike asks. “So he
saw us kissing. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t know,” I tell
him. “He looked like he just walked in on me killing his dog.”

“Does he have a dog?”

“No, he doesn’t—you know
what I mean. Things have been pretty weird with us, and I think this is just
going to make it worse.”

“Why would this make it
worse?” Mike asks.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

The truth is that I’ve
wanted to talk to Dane ever since that night when things started getting weird.

I thought my feelings for
him were a drunken thing, but the more time that’s passed, the more I find
myself watching him and looking forward to him being home, even if we hardly
ever talk.

“So?” Mike asks with a
cartoonish smile on his face.

“So what?” I ask.

“How was the kiss? Do you
have any pointers?”

“The kiss,” I say. “I
totally forgot.”

“Great,” Mike says,
sinking into his seat. “If I can’t get
you
to even remember, I’m in trouble.”

“Why the emphasis?” I
ask.

“What do you mean?”

“If I can’t get
you
…” I answer.

“Oh,” Mike says. “Well,
it’s been what? Ten years since you’ve kissed a guy? I just figured after that
long, I could pretty much do anything and still get a good response from you.”

“It has not been that
long,” I tell him. “And we’re way too close as friends for you to get a really
good
response from me.”

“Well, do you have any
notes? I mean, if you can’t remember—”

“Yeah, the tongue was way
too much. I felt like you were trying to paint the top of my mouth or something
and it was just weird.”

“Weird because we’re
friends, or weird because—”

“It was weird because it
was weird,” I answer. “I don’t know what the whole blowfish thing you were
doing with your lips was all about, but you can stop doing that, too.”

“What about when I turned
my head so our noses were on the other side, that was a good—”

“I really wasn’t all that
impressed,” I tell him. “It was pretty obvious that you were trying to give me
an
eskimo
kiss.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a
racially insensitive term,” Mike says, sulking.

“That’s what they call
it. I didn’t make up the term.”

“So, was there anything
you liked?” he asks.

“Liked is kind of strong
for me…”

“Oh, come on!”

We go back and forth a
while. I give him some fundamental tips, but make it beyond clear that we’re
never kissing like that again.

I rewind the movie as, by
the time Mike’s done asking questions, we’ve missed at least half of it and we
spend a quiet evening sitting on the couch.