Page 5 of Only With You

Despite what anyone thinks,I’m not an unemotional twat. I feel a lot of things.

For example, I honest to Godfeellike smothering Saint in his sleep. By no means am I thinking of committing murder. I’m above that.

Except for right now. I’m analysing how much time I’d have to do in prison for slitting his throat. I wouldn’t kill him, but I’d do enough harm that he’d never speak again.

“Landon, I knew you were a kinky motherfucker, but as flattering as this is, I’m not a big fan of dicks,” he quips, eyeing my crotch.

The sound of his voice evokes a curtain of pale red.

“You intolerant piece of shit.” I curl my fingers to stop myself from wrapping them around his throat.

Saint gasps, placing his palm on his chest like the dramatic little shit he is. “How dare you talk to me like that? I thought we were best friends.”

Blowing a steady breath to rein in my patience, I add some distance between us and fist my hands at my sides.

“Uh, everything all right?” An awkward smile stretches across Malik’s dark brown face. He stands at the entry of the kitchen, gaze flitting between Saint and me.

Malik Miller is a junior transfer from Baylor University, and begrudgingly, our new roommate.

Before him, TJ Kingston was our roommate and teammate and had been for three years until he got drafted into the NBA this past June. Now, Malik is our new roommate because Coach Warren thought it’d be a good idea for him to live with us.

Personally, I would’ve preferred to stick with just having three other roommates, but Coach was insistent that being around us would help him feel more comfortable. And because he’s going to be a starter, it’d help to get to know one another.

Fuck that.

Saint cheekily grins, giving him an okay sign. “It’s all good.”

“It’s notallgood. What were you thinking?” I glare at him, wishing I could slap the grin off his face.

Though I’m positive he’d only smile harder.

Saint Arlo has this thing where he smiles and talks a lot, and it bugs the hell out of me. It’s already enough my best friend, Gabby, is the personification of rainbows, butterflies, and shit. Now I have to put up with a roommate who treats the world like a meet and greet.

“What did you do now, freshman?” Jagger, my best friend, roommate, and teammate strolls into the kitchen, adjusting the tiny silver hoop on the lobe of his right ear.

“I’m a sophomore now. Stop calling me that,” Saint argues.

“Taylor, you got Instagram?” Jayden, our other roommate, strides into the kitchen with his phone close to his face.

Jagger’s head whips in my direction, staring at me, bewildered and betrayed. “You got Instagram and didn’t tell me? What the fuck? I thought you said you’d never get it.”

I blow out a ragged breath. “I didn’t get anything. That little shit”—I point at the smiling idiot next to me—“made it.”

Saint dramatically scoffs. “Little shit? I thought we were past the nicknames. But if you want to give me one, you can call me”—he stares off into the distance until his crystal blue eyes glitter—“The Black Dagger. Now that’s cool as fuck. To think of it, we should all have nicknames.”

“Fuck yeah.” Jayden nods enthusiastically. “I can be Nighthawk.”

“Oooo, I can be The Bolt,” Malik chimes in, curling his bicep to show off the tattoo of a lightning bolt.

“I’ll be Arrow.” With a shit-eating smirk, Jag pretends to hold a bow and arrow, pulls an imaginary string back, and releases the imaginary arrow in the air.

Saint points at me. “And yours can be Deadly Rage.”

Jay nods, as do the others. “That’s a good one, because he’s silent but dead?—”

“You’re all getting off track. What were you thinking?” I shoot him a glare. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t make one because I didn’t want one?”

I’m not invested in the lives of the people I interact with in real life. So I definitely don’t give two shits about the lives of those on social media.

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