Page 6 of Run, Run, Roommates
No one would dare try to pull one on Marco.
We’re quiet for a few calming heartbeats, and then I remember what Marco was saying. “So why are you here, if not to keep me company and protect me from rando bad guys?”
I peer up at him as he runs his free hand through his hair. Marco has great hair: dark, wavy, a little long.
He’s also a foot taller than me. From this angle I can also see his Adam’s apple, which I am mildly obsessed with.
It has no right to be so sexy. It’s practically obscene. Which makes me feel . . . complicated. Good Catholic girls don’t pine for their roommate.
Although I do a lot of things since I’ve moved to the city that good Catholic girls wouldn’t do—I just do them with a hefty side of guilt.
“I need your help.”
I’m jolted back to the real world, where Marco’s my roommate and not someone I can randomly lick.
“I’m assuming this is work related.”
He nods.
“What did Billy Bob do now?” I tease. His boss’s nickname gets a barely-there smile from Marco. “Of course, I’m in.” It’s the least I can do, since Marco has done so much for me. When we met one night at a bar, I was at my wit’s end, drowning in debt and realizing that I was scared to go home. I was desperate, and it could have turned out so poorly, could have been another stupid decision I made because I couldn’t take care of myself.
Instead it was the best thing I ever did—aside from leaving Tennessee. Thanks to Marco, my rent is cheap and my apartment is luxurious—for my budget, anyway—so I’ll do whatever I can for him.
He grimaces. “You may want to wait until you hear what you’re committing to.”
I grin at him. “It can’t be that bad. Hit me.”
He looks down at me, his Adam’s apple disappearing from view, so instead I focus on his dark eyes. “It’s something called SHiNY. All I know is that it’s a holiday-themed scavenger hunt for charity.”
“A fundraiser?” I echo. “That doesn’t sound too bad.” It sounds right up my alley. I love any excuse to celebrate Christmas, even though I’m not religious anymore.
“A days-long event, culminating on the twenty-third, where we have to spend our time running all over the city completing tasks and making fools of ourselves. The teams can be two people, and there’s no way I can do this myself. That’s why I need your help.”
“Of course you would hate that.” I laugh. “I’m already a fool, so I’m halfway there. What are the tasks?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t know yet. But we have to show up at the opening event at four p.m. tomorrow. It might be . . . it might be a lot.” Marco looks at me apologetically.
“Holiday-themed? For charity?” And spending time every day with Marco, I don’t add out loud. “Say less, I’m in.”
3
Marco
Brin and I arrive home to our two-bedroom apartment that we share with another woman, Bea.
About fourteen months ago, back when I’d been a regular at a bar down the street from William’s penthouse, I was downing whiskey neat, trying to forget the way I’d yelled at William’s nutritionist. It had been a glass-shattering moment, realizing that I was William’s attack dog, the fixer, the one who got their hands dirty so William could be the nice one.
My brother was right. I was an asshole.
Next to me, a woman had hoisted herself onto the empty barstool. She ordered a shot of bottom-shelf tequila and tossed it back, grimacing as it burned going down.
I winced in sympathy. Then she ordered another.
“Make it a Cutwater. I’ll take one too,” I said to the bartender. “On me,” I told the redhead when she looked at me, eyes wide. “I’ve had a shitty day, and a shot sounds perfect.”
“Yeah?” she huffed at me. “Did you just get fired? Did one of your roommates skip town without telling you, leaving you with two months of rent to pay and one last roommate who always has a creepy boyfriend hanging around?”
Her face had twisted into a fierce scowl, which was at odds with her accent. Tellin’ you.
