Page 1 of Short on Rent

Chapter 1

Lora

I bite my nails as I shift on my feet outside Blake’s bedroom door, trying to work up the courage to let him know that I can’t pay my full share of rent again. Just as I’m about to knock, there’s a muffled grunt behind the door, and I chicken out.

Retreating to the bathroom, I lean against the counter and face the mirror. “You can do this, Lora,” I say to myself, sighing at the dark smudges under my red-rimmed brown eyes. I’m so tired of the stress and worrying about Blake’s reaction. “Just put on your big girl panties, knock on his door, and ask him to cover the difference. The worst he can do is say no, and then you’ll figure something else out.”

I’m lying to myself. Saying no isn’t the worst thing my roommate, Blake, can do. This is his apartment, and he’d have every right to kick me out, seeing as I’m short for the third time out of the five months I’ve been renting his second bedroom.

After my pep talk and a few more minutes of destroying my nails while I try to calm my nerves, I stand up straight, comb my brown waves back behind my ears, and smooth out the wrinkles of my blue short-sleeve button-up uniform top before exiting the bathroom. I was counting on the tips I would make this weekend so I’d have more than the measly $125 to give to Blake, but the owner of the restaurant where I work called to tell me not to come in until Monday. Friday and Saturday are my best nights, and since I haven’t had any callbacks from the other restaurants I’ve applied to, I’m screwed unless Blake takes pity on me again.

“Do it. Just knock on his door,” I mumble under my breath as I hover with my fist raised in the air. I drop my arm, losing my nerve again, and whisper-shout, “Fuck!”

Apparently, not quiet enough because Blake whips open the door, a pained expression plastered to his brutally handsome face as he stares at the space above my head with his hands fisted at his sides. He’s almost preternaturally beautiful with his thick, black curls left long on top, and just as I did the first time we met, I go speechless. There’s something eerily familiar about him, but I’ve never been able to put my finger on it.

My jaw hangs slack as I take in his arresting sea-green eyes that I think I could get lost in if we ever made eye contact—which we don’t. He never looks at me. Not any part of me. I might as well be a ghost, and I don’t understand why since he never has a problem making eye contact with anyone else who comes to the apartment.

Blake knows exactly why I’m here, and his disappointment in me is rolling off him in waves, making my stomach bottom out. If I had a parent, I imagine this is what it would feel like to present them with yet another failing report card for them to sign. Small. I feel so small. A complete and utter failure at being a responsible adult, and I can’t take it. Not again.

I make a high-pitched squeak like a mouse and dart to the side, crossing the expansive living room with its beautiful exposed brick walls toward my bedroom, deciding I’d rather disappear off the face of the planet than beg him to cover my share of rent again.

I don’t make it past the brown leather couch before Blake catches up to me, cups my elbow, and spins me around. We’ve never shared so much as a handshake before, and I gape at him in surprise as my arm tingles from the heat of his large, masculine hand on my bare skin.

“You’re going to be short again, aren’t you?” he asks with a strained voice, darting his eyes to the calendar taped to the kitchen wall on my right, counting down the days until the end of the month.

I have just three days to come up with the remaining $550 I owe. It’s so unattainable that it might as well be $5000. I shake my head, my mouth going dry when he raises a dark brow in challenge and clenches his strong, square jaw. This is it. He’s finally going to kick me out, and then where will I go?

He steps into my personal space, towering over me as I shrink under his glare—on my forehead. “Don’t lie to me, Lora. How much is it this time?” His face softens when I can’t stop my chin from quivering, trying to hold back the tears that have been plaguing me since I got off the phone with my boss. Blake rubs small circles over my arm with his thumb. “Tell me.”

I drop my gaze to his tight maroon T-shirt when I answer with mounting dread, “$550. But I can pay you back when I get my next check.” I hurry to correct myself, “Um, maybe not the next one, but definitely the one after that, I promise.” I clench my eyes shut when he sighs heavily and draws back to his full height. He has to be at least 6’ 5”, considering he stands a head taller than me at 5’ 8”.

“That’s even more than last month, and you only just paid me back for it with your last check.”

I cringe and try to pull my elbow out of his grip to inch backward, humiliated even more than the previous two times I had this conversation with him. I wish he would let me go so I can bury my face in my pillow and cry in the privacy of my room.

“I know, I’m really sorry. Mark cut back on more of my shifts. I promise I’m doing everything I can to find a new job.” My voice gets quieter and quieter until I’m barely whispering. “I just need a little help in the meantime,” I say, though he’s heard it all before.

“A little? Covering for you a third time is more than ‘a little help’.” His grip tightens on my elbow when I try harder to pull away, practically drowning in shame.

I screw up my courage to finally look up again. My lip trembles as a tear slips down my cheek. “Please, Blake. This is the last time. Just one more month, and then I’ll never ask you again.”

He looks like he’s considering it as his eyes move back and forth between my forehead to his hand on my arm, and more tears roll down my cheeks. I’ve never had to beg for so much help, and I hate it.

I’ve been babysitting or waitressing since I was fourteen years old and have always found a way to scrape together what I needed to take care of myself every time I ran away from a foster or group home, scrounging up ten bucks each month to join the cheap gym downtown so I could shower, living on the streets if need be—before ultimately getting caught and dumped at the next shitty home.

As much as I despise the idea, I have thought about running away—packing up and ditching Blake—too ashamed to give him a heads up with such short notice. But I shudder at the thought of going back to sleeping with one eye open whenever or wherever I can find a place safe enough to do so for a couple of hours. I’ve also just paid for my second semester at the junior college I attend, a mere fifteen-minute walk from this wonderful apartment. I don’t want to give up such a short, walkable commute since I don’t own a car.

I was incredibly lucky that Blake took a chance on me when I showed up with just a backpack and the clothes I had on—the only things I had to my name—when I responded to his ad for a roommate pinned to the community board at the coffee shop I used to work at, before it closed, near campus. I had a dodgy work history since I was constantly bouncing around from home to street to home, and I didn’t have anyone to give me a good reference, not when I had to quit so often without notice. Yet he let me move into his spare room the same day since his last roommate had already graduated and moved out the week before.

Not knowing if anyone will ever take that kind of chance on me again, I have to try one more time, even if it kills a small part of me to continue begging. I cross my fingers and toes in my black knock-off Converse sneakers that he won’t kick me out yet.

“Please, Blake. I don’t have any other options, and I don’t want to leave.” I sway, and he shifts his grip to my upper arm, steadying me. In doing so, the back of his hand brushes against the side of my breast. I’m acutely aware of it, but I don’t know if he is until he shudders and slides his hand back down to my elbow. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the sensitive ditch, causing goosebumps to spring to the surface.

“$100,” he bites out, then closes his eyes and tips his head back, clenching his jaw so hard that the muscles in his cheeks ripple, clearly upset with himself for giving in. It’s well short of the $550 I need, but at least it’s more than zero. I’ll have to make it work.

“Ok, thank you. I’ll, um, I’ll figure out how to get you the rest,” I say through a lump in my throat as my mind whirs to think of what I can do to come up with the remaining $450.

“I’ll give you $100, but”—he stresses the word—“you have to do something for me.” His nostrils flare, and his chest rises and falls faster as his breathing accelerates. Then he swallows up the rest of my personal space, and I’m momentarily distracted by his ocean breeze scent that teases my senses. Has he been using my body wash?

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