Authors: Stephanie Witter
2B Or Not 2B?
Book 1 in the Roomies Series.
by Stephanie Witter
Copyright © 2014 Stephanie Witter
Published by Anchor Group Publishing
Cover by Cover It Designs
Edited by Melanie Williams
PO Box 551
Flushing, MI 48433
All rights reserved. Published by Anchor Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
To Wendy for being my cheerleader whenever I need one or when I want to simply delete a whole story. I was lucky the day you decided to help me with my stories. I hope this one will make you laugh before I go back to writing more serious things.
"You could at least let me believe you'll call me!"
I looked up and saw a leggy brunette leaving an apartment, whining and yelling with a high pitched voice to a guy who looked mildly amused by the scene. I did too, to be honest. The girl's makeup was all ruined from an obviously wild night with the guy. Her shiny brown hair was in knots around her sharp face, and her clothing—a skimpy brown dress—was all wrinkled. With stilettos tight in her hands, she scrambled past me without a look back.
I shook my head and chuckled. I turned around
, and my eyes locked on him―or on the number next to his head. 2B. That's the apartment I was looking for. I snickered and waved at the guy. With his buzzed light brown hair, light blue eyes, a thin but visible scar running from his temple down his strong jaw, and complete with a muscular body, he was impressive and could almost intimidate me. Almost. I had yet to find someone able to do such a thing. But his raw edge was smoothed by his long eyelashes—a shade darker than his hair—and thick eyebrows, and his stubble accented the squareness of his jaw. Additionally, his lips—all round and full—were made to smile, not sneer.
One of his thick eyebrows shot upward. He scratched his broad chest over his white tee-shirt smeared with red lipstick on the left shoulder.
While watching him bit his nails, I answered his silent question by shooting my own eyebrow upward and held up the newspaper in my hand.
He straightened his back and shook his head, crossing his strong looking arms over his chest. He probably thought I'd coward
, but I wasn't one to back down. I mimicked him again and pushed it by leaning against the railing in front of him. His body was guarding his apartment.
"No way. I'm not taking a girl for a roomy," he said, his rich voice calm
, but firm.
I couldn't place the slight inflection in his words, but his little accent was boyishly charming
which was totally in contrast with his appearance.
So, he didn't want a girl in his apartment besides having them there to bang
. I forced myself not to look down at myself with my black jeans and equally dark tee-shirt. I didn't like to wear flashy colors because of my weight. I wasn't obese or anything, but I was slightly overweight. I didn't like to be reminded of it when a guy looked at me not because he found me pretty, but because wearing white pants made my legs look like twice their size. So I stuck to the darker shades and rocked them. After all, my fair hair in a pixie cut brought enough color to my face.
"Because you're afraid it'll drive away the girls you shag?" I asked, my voice giving away my amusement at his rejection. I was weird like that. After all, I was sure I could break through him
, and I needed to. My parents didn't want me out of the dorms for my second year in college, but I couldn't take one more year with a girl breathing, or snoring, in the same space as me. I could deal with a roommate in a separate bedroom, but I needed my space.
So this apartment, the 2B, was my last chance
, or I'd have to live with my parents and suffer through one hour in traffic to go to my classes. No way. I needed my independence like every nineteen year-old girl. Of course, I should have listened to my best friend when he told me countless times this summer that I had to move my wobbly butt and look for a place for the school year. And here I was two days before the beginning of the semester, talking with a womanizer after I visited five apartments with a smelly guy, a girl with a nail fetish, a hypochondriac girl, a guy too lazy to open his mouth and look elsewhere than his World of Warcraft game and, lastly, a girl who banished me because I was blonde. There were too many freaks in this city, and it meant something when I considered myself like one.
His mouth dropped open without a sound. His light blue eyes travelled up and down my body
, and I kept myself from fidgeting. He wasn't very tall for a guy, but with my petite height, he easily towered over me.
"You didn't just say that."
I shrugged and waved the newspaper between us. "You're looking for a roommate, and you didn't specify anything besides that you're a student."
"That doesn't mean I can't tell you right now that I won't take a girl to live in my place."
I sighed—losing my patience. It's like kindergarten when boys and girls didn't want to mingle because the opposite sex had cooties. I rolled my eyes. "Don't see me as a girl. See me as a buddy of yours or something."
cast his eyes downward and didn't look back up to my face. I looked down and groaned.
Such a guy
. "My buddies don't have boobs, as far as I know."
"Because you felt them up to be sure?" I chuckled
, against my better judgement.
Once again, his mouth dropped open. I often did that to people when they didn't know me
, and sometimes even the ones who knew me, too. Only my little sister and my best friend were used to my antics and my big mouth. My mouth had no filter, no matter what the situation might be. Early on, I knew I could never try to be in a diplomatic branch of work; I just knew that I'd be able to give enough ammunition for World War III.
He shook his head to get out of his funk, I was sure, and chuckled. He scratched his broad chest
again, and this time I heard a low noise—like pieces of metal clinking against each other. Weird. I cocked my head to one side, but the mystery was not solved.
"You're a weird one, aren't you?" He looked over his shoulder and stepped inside his place.
I didn't waste a second and followed him in. After all, I'd be an idiot to wait any longer and give him the chance to change his mind. I knew it wasn't won for me, but I had a step inside—literally.
The place wasn't at all what I expected when I saw him with his one
-night stand going batshit crazy outside. I thought I'd see plenty of empty beer bottles scattered on the coffee table and dirty dishes overflowing in his kitchen, but I was dead wrong. The guy seemed to be neat.
ere no posters of naked girl on the walls, no porn on the coffee table or next to the blu-ray, and no traces of the last meal in his kitchen. It was simple and without many personal effects, but it was cozy. He had an inviting black leather couch that looked older than me, and a dark wooden coffee table with one darker watermark on the top. The TV wasn't that big and was the most modern item in the room—along with the blu-ray player. The TV was on top of a dark wooden entertainment unit with two drawers where I was sure the movies were. The only other furniture in the little living room was a cupboard made of the same wood as the coffee table.
The open kitchen was tiny, almost too tiny to
seat two behind the counter and seat another two at a small table, which took the last space available. The oven looked old but kept in a perfect shape, and there was no dishwasher. The cupboards, painted in white, brought a nice touch in the place that would have been too darkly furnished otherwise. Meeting the front door, a short hall had three light brown doors, probably the two bedrooms and the only bathroom. I shuddered at the thought of sharing a bathroom where he could see all my feminine products. It was the only thing that bothered me about having a guy as a roommate.
"Weird or someone with mouth diarrhea. Depends on people's point of view," I said
, responding to his remark with a shrug. I could already see myself in the place, reading on the couch all curled up against the dark gray cushions that were calling my name.
… umm … I don't even know your name." He walked to the kitchen and took two cans of Pepsi from the fridge. He held one up to ask me if I wanted one, and I nodded.
"My name is London. London Reed,’’ I replied, opening my can and breaking my pointer fingernail. I cursed under my breath and took a sip.
"London? Like the city?"
I narrowed my brown eyes on him and locked them on his laughing light blue ones. "Yes, like the city." I took another sip. "Apparently
, that's where I was conceived."
He choked on his drink and dried his chin where a light brown trail of
Pepsi was running down. He missed a drop, though. Now, not only was his white t-shirt smeared with red lipstick, but also with Pepsi. His place might be neat, but he was not. He sports it well though because I knew that he probably didn't have that much sleep. Sex does miracles for people sometimes. But not for the girl who thought herself to be more than a one-night stand, though.
"Okay, London," he said
, eyeing me like I might morph into a psychopath or something. "I have nothing against you, but I don't see this working for me."
I took another sip of my soda and put it down on the kitchen counter. He relaxed, thinking I was about to leave his place.
Think again, buddy.
"What's your name?"
He glanced around his apartment, like his name was written somewhere. I rolled my eyes and fidgeted with the newspaper still in my hands. My fingers were turning black from the ink. My sweaty palms weren't helping either.
"Byron Davis," he finally answered with a clipped voice that brought a smile to my face. The guy was nervous. I liked to make people nervous because I felt more sure of myself, and all the insecurities that I might have were relegated to the background.
"And you mocked my name."
He stood straighter and put his can down not far from mine. "What's wrong with my name?"
"Byron? Like Lord Byron?" Not seeing a reaction
, I added, "The English poet?"
He waved me off and walked to the couch. He sat down and sighed.
God, this couch was screaming my name. My feet were killing me after this marathon of a day, and my back was no better. "I'm not uneducated. My mother loves that poet."
I walked to him and laughed. "So you're really named after him? Did you know he had a reputation
of being bisexual?" I cracked up all over again, thinking about the face of the girls he brought here if they knew he was named after a potentially gay guy. It would be priceless.
"Maybe I have something against you after all," he mumbled, closing his eyes and massaging his temples.
I calmed down and took a look at the time on my iPhone—the latest one, still shining from its newness. It was already five o'clock. I had to wrap this up quickly if I wanted to be on time at my parents' with the good news. It was the moment to show why I wanted to be a lawyer. Granted, I wanted to work in the criminality branch, but a lawyer had to debate. Consequently, I knew I was not bad at it.
. It was out of line, but this is the sixth apartment I’ve visited. Yours is perfect. It's close to the campus, it's neat, spacious enough, and you look quite normal." When I said this, my eyes glided to his thin scar. It should look ungainly, but it brought something to his face—something not quite dangerous, but singular. I could understand if girls dig it.
"I should thank you because if
can tell I'm
, then I should be honored."
Yeah well, I had gone too far this time around. I bit on my full lower lip and licked away the last trace of my strawberry lipstick. I hoped it
was not on my teeth now. "I was too much, I know." I sat next to him, keeping a respectable distance from his body. "If you don't want to have a girl for roommate because you're afraid I'll be attracted to you or want to have sex with you, you can forget those ideas." I turned to the left to face him, my leg up on the couch between us.
He turned his head toward me
with his eyebrows raised. The worry lines between them were still there. "Because you've got a boyfriend?"
"No, because not every girl want
s to have sex with you!" I felt quite annoyed to discover he was so cocky. I mean, of course he oozed sex, but that didn't mean everyone with boobs and a vagina would want a piece of this hunk! And well, I didn’t, but I did want a part of his apartment. "And I like a more … preppy guy." And it was the truth. The last guy I "went out" with was a jock, but with a preppy look that I was completely into. He was my long-time crush. I mentally slapped myself, ready to put my mind back on track. It wasn't the time to go back to this funk I supported for over a year. It had lasted way too long just for one guy.
He took a good look at my
fire engine red converse, my bootcut black jeans, my black tank top, and finally my face and light blonde pixie cut hair with long bangs hiding my wide forehead. "Really?"
I scrunched up my little nose
, already naturally slightly turned up, and locked eyes with his. "Really. You want pictures of the guys I had sex with? After all, it's a way to choose your roommate."
"That's also why I don't want a girl here."
I pursed my lips, not understanding what he meant. "I'm not following you."
"Girls always make
a spectacle out of everything. It's always screams, tears, and pouts. I don't want or need that kind of drama."
I chuckled. If I believed his description of girls, I would have doubts I
really was one. "Yeah, because girls are all the same. It's like guys. You are all dirty, lazy pigs. It's well known."