Page 12 of Last Love

Kind of just…right in the middle.

Fuck, why do I feel like goddamn Goldilocks?

“Alright, Collins,” McCoy begins, pulling my attention to the right where he’s lingering in the open kitchen. “Let’s cover the basic shit. Job?”

I fold my hands tightly together. “Looking.”

“Last job?”

It takes a moment to conjure less unbecoming branding. “Delivery.”

As if he can read between the lines he grunts at the answer.

Who fucking knows.

Maybe he can.

Maybe he’s like me.

Maybe he manages to keep his shady shit off the radar and is now trying to do shit legit.

McCoy tosses the paper towel into his nearby overflowing garbage. “Income?”

“The chaperone until I find someone to hire me.”

“Which is why he really came with you.”

More or less.

“Grad student at Ashwin?”

“No.”

“Student at all?”

“No.”

He adjusts the black backwards baseball cap on his head and fold his arms protectively across his black t-shirt covered chest. “Why’d you leave your last place?”

“Time was up.”

As expected, his expression slightly shifts. “Jail?”

“Rehab.”

“You actually complete the program or just decided you were done?”

“Completed.”

He slowly nods his understanding. “So, basically, you’re just out here looking for a second chance at things?”

“Fucking life,” I effortlessly confess.

Silence replaces the mundane investigation into me, and I fight the instinct to hold my breath.

McCoy’s been the best match I’ve come across yet.

From first observations, his interest is cars, which I can and do appreciate.

His place doesn’t have a weird smell.

He doesn’t have a weird smell.

He seems laidback versus uptight.

Understanding.

Fuck, almost even…forgiving.

It’s not the typical response I’ve been receiving, and I honestly hope I don’t fuck this shit up.

“My girl, Jovi, constantly comes over,” he casually informs, redirecting my stare to him and away from paused TV. “Get used to her being here. Don’t be surprised if you find her shoes or underwear stuffed under the couch. This place is her home as much as it’s mine.”

I gradually nod my comprehension.

“If you so much as fucking blink at her in a way that she finds uncomfortable or disrespectful, I’ll bash your goddamn teeth in, clamp your mouth shut, and make you swallow the motherfuckers.”

Stunned – and somewhat amused – by the comment, I simply surrender my hands. “Understood.”

“The first door down the hall on the right is your room.” His thumb kicks the direction we entered the apartment. “Your bathroom is connected with a door in your room as well as one on the outside in case guests need to use it. Other than Jo, I don’t really let a lot of other people over here. Not sayin’ you can’t have fucking friends, just sayin’ this shit ain’t a damn frat house, you feel me?”

Another nod is presented.

“Door at the end of the hall on the left is my room. I don’t keep my shit locked up, but if you give me reason to, I will and then I’ll kick your ass out. I don’t have time for that kind of bullshit.”

More nodding occurs alongside prickles of anxiousness.

Why is he telling me all this shit?

Why is he already inserting me into this narrative?

Did I get the place?

Holy fuck, did I get the place?!

“We’ve got a gym by the front office. Basic machines and shit. Nothing to jerk off too. Uh…your half of rent is due the twenty-nineth, so that I can pay it on time without thinking about it on the first. It’s a little on the higher end since the shit is all inclusive bills wise. The only thing that isn’t is the internet, but that shit isn’t a big deal. Don’t even fucking worry about it. Just focus on covering your half of rent on time. And as for groceries and shit? We’ll figure it out later.”

“This is uh…,” my fingers flex in nervousness, “if I um…live here, right? You’re just giving me the rundown now in case you decide to pick me as your new roommate?”

“No.” McCoy immediately shakes his head. “You are my new roommate.”

It’s impossible not to smile widely.

A victory.

A real fucking victory.

This shit is long overdue, yet I’d be full of shit to say it doesn’t really fucking feel good regardless.

There’s no segue to his next question. “You know anything about cars?”

“Depends.” Reestablishing my composure is swiftly done. “We talkin' basic shit like oil changes on your average sedan or advanced shit like properly installing performance parts?”

And now he’s the one who grows a big-mouth grin. “The fact that you even know there’s a difference answers my question.”

I grunt a laugh.

“There’re a few openings at the local garage I take my girl’s car to-”

“You don’t handle all the repairs yourself?” The comment isn’t meant to sound cheeky but does. “Shit, I didn’t mean that like it probably sounded.”

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