Page 42 of Blue Collar Hotties

Bring your own microwave?

What the hell?

I read on, forehead creased, then let out a snort. I can borrow their iron? Yeah, right. I live out of a backpack most weeks, cycling through an endless uniform of rolled up black t-shirts and faded jeans. In my experience, other clothes are more trouble than they’re worth.

The guy on the stool next to mine leans into my space, arguing loudly with his buddy on his other side, and I roll my eyes before nudging him back. He smells like sweat and whiskey and it’s not even 9pm. A lightweight like that ought to slow down.

Reaching the bottom of the ad, my eyes stall on the monthly rent. It’s cheap as hell. Better than the bunk bed, even. With a room like that, I could save up more money, then take off for longer than a few months next time. Or do a specialty shoot. Yeah.Yeah.

The band strums, loud and brash, starting up a new song. Hand steady, I scroll up to read the ad again, because one thing I know for sure is there’s always a catch.

No parties and no small talk. Okay. Works for me. I don’t care if my roommate is a joyless shut-in—I’m here to do this photo series, not to make friends. Whoever they are, I’m sure I’ll want to avoid them as much as possible too.

No liars or thieves. Either this person has been burned before, or they’re paranoid as fuck. Doesn’t matter. I won’t steal from them, so it makes no odds.

My mouth twitches again at the iron thing, and then I’m setting my beer down. Typing out a short message and pressing send.

Okay, so their listing is kind of weird. But the room is so goddamncheap, and all those public ads have a low level weirdness to them. I’m serious. At least a third of them mention a pet snake.

Besides, I’ve got a good feeling about this. I can’t explain it, but I want this room. I really want this room. My spider senses are tingling.

Hell, if they pick me—I’ll even bring a microwave.

Jenny

Today is move-in day for my new roommate, which means a sleepless night beforehand for me, then three feverish hours scrubbing the apartment until it shines. I want to make a good impression, right? IknowI’m not what most people want in a roommate, but hey—I’m clean and tidy, and I’ll do my half of taking out the trash.

Hopefully that’s enough.

God, please let it be enough. I don’t want to put out another room ad.

Back home, my family used to tease me for being such a lurker. Keeping to my own room; moving around quietly at night. They called me the family poltergeist.

And that’s when they were beingniceabout it. My brother pointedly sent me an article once about a murderer who lived in his victims’ walls.

I’m not sure who was more relieved when I finally moved out of my parents’ house to live here in the city—me or them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but after spending twenty years in the same house…

It was a lot. We all needed some space.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pause in scrubbing the kitchen sink, breathing hard with strands of blonde hair stuck to my forehead. It takes me a second to fumble my pink rubber glove off, and then I’m frowning down at a text from an unknown number.

Delete.That’s my first instinct. Delete, block, stick my phone on airplane mode. Never let the universe bother me again. Except my thumb freezes over the screen, thank god, and sweat slides down my spine.

Because it’s my new roommate.

Duh.

Five minutes away. Lincoln.

I stare at the name, my pulse thudding in my ears. I’ve never lived with a man before. My dad and brothers don’t count. When I got Lincoln’s message about the room, I nearly turned him down right away, but something stopped me. An instinct. A strange urge—no, aneedto meet him.

But I was tipsy, and riding the sugar high of three bowls of ice cream. Not making good decisions, clearly.

My thumb shakes as I type out a quick reply, adding a smiley face and then deleting it before hitting send. Shoving the phone back in my jeans pocket, I tug off the other rubber glove, then stash my cleaning supplies under the sink, letting out slow, measured breaths the whole time.

It’s fine. It’sfine.My parents have Lincoln’s details—if anything weird happens, if my mangled body turns up in a sewer, they’ll know who did it. This is a smart, reasonable decision. I am being financially responsible.

Ugh.

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