Page 1 of Shots on Net

Zeke

I’m cold, wet and miserable as I hurry to my appointment, which, incidentally, is also the way I would describe the weather. It’s raining today, just as it had been raining yesterday and the day before. Just as it would likely be raining tomorrow. By the time I make it to the house on Walnut Ave; I’ll be soaked. My spirits, already low, plummet further. I should just call and cancel, really. Carter Morgan III will take one look at my bedraggled self and shut the door.

But I can’t cancel. Not only because I’ve come this far already, but because this is, quite literally, my last hope. I’ve been scouring advertisements for roommates for weeks; at the beginning, I’d been picky and only chosen to reach out to the ones that actually sounded good. Now, I wasn’t quite so discerning. My only requirement at this point is a roof over my head. Beggars cannot be choosers, as they say, and I am way beyond begging.

As I pass under a street sign for Walnut Ave, I nearly cry. No crying, you’re wet enough, I tell myself firmly, and hasten toward number 840. Standing on the covered porch, dripping, I lower the hood on my useless raincoat and attempt to get my hair out of my eyes. I need a haircut—something that is immediately apparent now that it’s plastered to my forehead and tickling my eyelashes. Taking a single deep breath in, I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again. And again. I stop at kicking the door, but it’s a close thing. Checking my phone, I note that I’m exactly on time and that it is, in fact, the agreed upon day. I swear to all that is holy, if Carter Morgan the fucking Third leaves me standing on this porch, I’ll…

The door swings open. I try not to stare. I try really hard to make my grandma proud and not stare. Unfortunately, I am not having a great day, and subtlety is not my strongest attribute. The man standing in front of me, whom I assume is Carter Morgan III, looks like the kind of person who would rob Carter Morgan III at gunpoint.

I had been expecting a polo-wearing, boat-shoe type of guy, which goes to show that one should not create expectations in their mind. Carter Morgan is wearing athletic shorts and what is probably an artfully ripped muscle shirt. A shirt which shows off two full sleeves of tattoos that cover his arms from wrist to shoulder, and snake their way up to his neck. His blonde hair is shaved on the sides, but left longer on top and pulled into a bun at the back of his head. He has a silver hoop through one nostril; I can count on one hand the number of men I have seen with nose piercings, and I wouldn’t even need all five fingers. To top it all off, his blue eyes are filled with an unmistakable look of annoyance that almost has me stepping backward and away. This is what I get for answering ads on the internet.

“Can I help you?” Carter Morgan III asks, rudely.

“I’m Zeke Cassidy,” I say, even though I can tell it’s futile. He’s forgotten. Either he found another roommate and forgot to cancel our appointment, or he’s just plain forgotten because clearly Carter Morgan III has more important things to do with his time. God, what a waste of a day.

“No,” he says, and I stare at him, probably looking as forlorn and unkempt as a stray puppy. “Please tell me that wasn’t today.”

Sorry, buddy, today was the day and yes this is me. Sorry for the letdown. “Sorry.”

He throws the door open wide and I wince when it hits the wall with a bang. “Don’t be sorry, Jesus fuck, I’m the one who forgot. Come in, did you swim here?”

I step inside barely a moment before he flings the door closed with the same amount of force he used to open it. That poor door is never going to survive. Looking down, I watch as water begins slowly pooling under my feet onto his hardwood floors. I think the best thing for me would be to find a deep puddle on the way home and drown myself.

“I’m sorry,” I say, ineffectually, still looking at my soggy shoes.

“Whatever, it’s fine.” A towel is thrust under my nose, and I grasp it. Looking up, I lock eyes with Carter Morgan’s navy blue ones. He doesn’t sound pissed but he sure looks it. I start to kneel, meaning to use the towel to dry the floor. He makes an irritated tsking noise.

“That’s for you.” He grabs the towel, pulls it roughly from my fingers, and flings it around my shoulders like a cape. “Follow me. We can talk back here.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns and strides off. There is a deep v of sweat soaking the back of his shirt and the faint aroma of sweaty man is in the air. I follow him, and make a mental note to check his name against police reports. Those look like the kind of biceps they make in prison. He leads me to a massive kitchen, where he promptly ignores me in favor of making a smoothie. I wait, dripping water and using the towel to try and dry my hair as best I can. Once the smoothie is finished, he gulps half of it down before once more remembering my presence.

“Don’t you want to sit down?” He asks, as though it was strange for me not to invite myself to do so in his home. I definitely want to sit down, though, so I do. Squelching over to the island, I slide onto a barstool and clutch the towel around me. The water has become a different sort of nuisance now—I’m freezing.

“Thanks. Sorry to interrupt your workout.” Technically, his workout interrupted our scheduled meeting, but who am I to split hairs.

“Dude, stop apologizing. I should have set an alarm on my phone, I’m sorry I forgot.”

He sounds sincere, which is surprising. He also didn’t give me an excuse, which, again, is surprising. I’m not one to hold a grudge, and I’d already decided to forgive him even without an apology. “No worries. It happens.”

“You want some soup or something? No offense, but you look like a corpse.”

“Full offense, but you look like someone who deals weed to middle schoolers.”

Carter Morgan snorts, but doesn’t smile. His gaze is appraising as he looks me over, trying to get a measure of me. I hope he finds something he likes. If not, begging it is.

“So, here’s the place,” he holds his arms out wide, “I’ll take your best offer on the spare room.”

“My best offer?”

“Yeah. Whatever you want to pay for rent.”

“Uhm, well, right then.” Scrambling, I eye the vaulted ceilings and the large, open floorplan. This is a nice house. Chances are the bedroom is big and so is the electricity bill. The ad said I’d have my own bathroom. “I’d say $400 would be fair for base rent, as long as I’d have access to the kitchen and living room as well, not just the bedroom. Plus, half of whatever the monthly utilities are, obviously. I’d buy my own groceries, and help with the household chores. I don’t have a car, so you wouldn’t have to worry about me needing room on the driveway or in the garage.”

He sips his smoothie, leaned casually against the opposite counter and staring at me. I’m coming to realize that the expression I had thought was annoyance earlier, is actually just his face. He doesn’t seem to have another expression.

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