Page 66 of Out of Bounds

Seven of the fucking drawers were ‘knives’ drawers.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered, taking a wide sweep of the room. Everywhere I looked was a new shock to my system. The clutter. The fucking clutter.

"I think they took my art history book again," Kassie swore, emerging out of her bedroom, and crossed to the separate bedrooms on the other side of the living room. She gave me a quick glance and groaned. "Oh my god, Ryan. Can’t you just wait outside?"

Slowly, I shook my head, and Kassie sighed, heading off to search.

There were so many papers around, it wasn’t hard to find a clean one and a ballpoint pen, stuffed in a broken umbrella stand. I walked over to Zariah and held them out. "What are you doing?"

"Right now?" She glanced down at her laptop. "RA interview prep?"

I gave her the paper and pen and slid over a hard book from the microwave to use as a clipboard. I needed my hands free for the phone call.

Miles picked up on the third ring. "What’s up?"

"Are you the one with my toolbox?"

I had a professional grade toolbox from my dad after he retired but I passed it around the football team for anyone that needed it. Miles was damn handy, but he still needed to pick up his own tools from back home, and I was pretty sure he’d been using mine.

"Yeah. Do you need it?"

"Can you do a full check?"

There was some rustling and it took a minute for Miles to return to the conversation. "You want to know what’s missing?"

"Yeah."

Inevitably, shit disappeared. But it never bothered me. As long as the guys got some use out of it, I’d keep it around.

"The adjustable wrench is missing."

"Got it." I motioned to Zariah. "Adjustable wrench." When she cocked her head at me, confused, I tapped the paper. "Adjustable wrench."

Zariah jotted it down.

"You have the ten-inch but you need the eight-inch pliers."

"Eight-inch pliers," I told Zariah. I nodded along, listening intently. "Spare blades for the utility knife. What size putty knives are left? I need a four-inch." Walking over to the fridge, I pressed my knuckles against the button for the ice dispenser. Nothing. "Zariah, turn the paper over. Write ice dispenser at the top."

"Understood, Mr. Intense."

I opened the fridge again, frowning. "Write groceries at the bottom."

"Heard loud and clear."

"Garbage disposal isn’t working," I continued, flipping the switch back and forth. "Miles, have you fixed one of those?"

"Depends on what the problem is," he replied. "It could be jammed or could be a faulty motor. Flywheel could be stuck. What about the sink itself? Have you checked underneath?"

I crouched down and opened the cabinet doors. "Fuck. The bottom of the sink is missing most of the washers—there’s just fucking duct tape down here."

"Ryan, whereareyou?" Miles asked, mystified.

"I’m in hell. And it’s held up by duct tape."

Footsteps came back from the other bedrooms while I inspected the drawers, pulling them out one by one. "Z, what is he doing?"

"I think he’s hosting a home improvement show."

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