Page 17 of Shots on Net

He reaches over to the phone and taps it off. The sudden silence is deafening. Scratching at the back of his neck, Zeke shoots me a chagrined smile. “I lost track of time. Didn’t think you’d be home quite this early.”

“I decided to shower here, instead of in the locker room. Glad I did. I can’t believe I almost missed the show.”

The smile grows less embarrassed and more playful. “Nobody can resist the power of Shakira. You must dance.”

“I seemed to be resisting just fine,” I point out.

“Yes, well, just because I haven’t found any bodies doesn’t mean they aren’t there. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of you being a psychopath.”

Snorting, I lean over the counter and inhale. I’m hungry enough to eat Zeke at this point and it smells fucking amazing in here. Unfortunately, I do not smell amazing. Wrinkling my nose at my own stench, I step back so as not to asphyxiate Zeke.

“I better go shower.”

“Alright. Dinner will be served when you return, sir.” He sketches a mock bow, speaking in an English affectation. He’s weird, and nerdy; I really wish I didn’t find it as adorable as I did. He’s my roommate and roommates are off-limits. Turning, I head upstairs to shower, lips twitching up into a smile as I think about Zeke dancing around the kitchen.

He’s as good as his word—when I walk back downstairs, hair wet and shirt clinging to my still damp skin, there are two plates of enchiladas sitting on the island. Assuming the plate with twice the amount of food on it is mine, I sit down and pull it toward me.

“This smells so fucking good,” I tell him, snatching up the fork. “I should probably tell you that you don’t have to cook for me, but I’m afraid you’ll stop if I do.”

He laughs, and a little flutter of happiness kicks around my stomach at the sound. When he sits down next to me, our elbows touch and his knee bumps mine beneath the table. I have to continually remind myself that Zeke isn’t doing this as a sly come-on; in fact, he’d probably be embarrassed if I explained that touching people like that can sometimes be a hint that you’re interested in them.

Carefully moving my arm out of reach, I shove a forkful of enchilada into my mouth and groan. Not bothering to wait until I swallow, I speak around a mouthful of hot food.

“Holy shit, this is good.”

Laughing, Zeke puts a much more manageable bite into his mouth. Employing his manners, he waits until he swallows to talk. “Mexican is my specialty. And by that, I mean that enchiladas are the only thing I can make.”

“Why bother making anything else, when this is perfect?” I ask, and he beams at me.

“That’s nice of you. But I could hear your stomach growling from across the room; something tells me you’d be impressed with anything, right now.”

“Lies,” I mumble, around a mouthful. I’m halfway through my plate already, and still starving. “Is there more? Or is this it?”

“There’s another pan in the oven,” he tells me, laughing at my panic. “You eat like a baby dinosaur.”

This startles a laugh from me, and I choke on enchilada. Turning away so that I don’t hack up a lung onto our plates, I feel Zeke’s hand patting my upper back ineffectually. Catching my breath, I turn back around and point my fork at him.

“Nothing more from you when I’ve got food in my mouth.”

Biting his lip in amusement, he gives me a silent salute. By the time we’ve finished dinner, I’ve eaten nearly an entire pan by myself. I feel pleasantly full, and am dreaming of crawling into bed and sleeping for ten hours. Unfortunately, the thought of bed only serves as a reminder of the reading I need to get a head start on tonight. It’s not going to take much for me to fall behind. Good mood evaporating like smoke, I help Zeke clean up and trudge upstairs to my room like a man sentenced to death row.

Flopping onto my bed, I pull Lady Audley’s Secret from my backpack. It’s thick, and I already hate it. Glaring at it and hating my life, I hardly notice Zeke’s soft knock on my open bedroom door.

“The door is open, Zeke, that means you can come in without knocking.” The rebuke comes out sharper than I’d intended and I flinch at myself. It’s not his fault I have to read this stupid book.

“What are you reading?” He asks, coming into the room but hovering by the door. I hold up the book for him to see.

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

Of course he’s read it, and obviously understood it well enough to enjoy it. Because he’s smart, and not a fucking idiot like me. “Great.”

Clocking my tone, he moves closer to the bed and holds out a hand. I hand him the book, silently. Aimlessly flipping through the pages, he glances at me and away again, back at the book. When he hands it back to me, I slide over until there is enough room on the bed for him to sit down next to me.

“You don’t like to read?” He asks. I close my eyes, sighing.

“I don’t know. I’d probably like it more if I was better at it.” I’m not sure this is true, but I hope it is. I’ve always equated reading with intelligence, so the harder reading became for me, the less I liked doing it. Of course, this only made it harder still. Now, reading anything feels far too much like a chore to be any sort of enjoyable.

“What do you mean, better at it?” Zeke asks, curiously.

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