Page 1 of Girl Going Nowhere

CHAPTER ONE

Blake

The television quicklyflicks off as soon as I slam the door behind me, but it’s too late. I already heard the thundering impact from the bat and ball, followed by the roar of a crazed crowd, telling me exactly what my roommates were watching.

“I told you that you didn’t have to do that,” I call out, kicking off my heels until my sore feet meet welcome, cool hardwood. I let out a breath of relief and pick up the knockoff Louis Vuitton shoes and walk toward the living room.

Two of my three roommates are lounging on the couches, looking over their shoulders as soon as I stop at the open archway that separates the living room from the dining room and kitchen.

It’s Brodie, who looks so much like Colton Haynes that he won a lookalike contest that got him one thousand dollars and a chance to meet the celebrity after his picture went viral, who rakes his blue-gray eyes over me with a frown. “What are you doing home already?”

He told me how badly he wished he was the one taking me out tonight as soon as I stepped out of my room, flattening my hands down my little black dress. And when I mean little, I meanlittle.If I hadn’t put on weight, it probably wouldn’t have looked so scandalous, but these days my body fills out all my clothes in ways it never did before. Some to the point I couldn’t squeeze into them even if I sucked in, held my breath, and got a running start into the stubborn bitches that hug my widened hips.

Brodie Adams is a massive flirt. And any woman who shows a little skin, no matter how intentional, gains his attention. Even me—the roommate deemed “off-limits” when I signed my name on their lease. But did I sort of wish he was the one taking me out instead of my sleazy coworker? Yes. A thousand times, yes.

One heated look earlier, and he was positive I wouldn’t be home until tomorrow morning.

“He wouldn’t stop staring at my boobs,” I answer, frowning at the memories of him conversing more with my Ds thanme.And because it’s been a long time since I’ve hooked up with anybody, I let him touch them after we left the restaurant. Then I let him do a lot more when we got to his car. I want nothing more than to shower and get rid of the scent of him after dumbly climbing onto his lap and riding him in an abandoned parking lot until we both got off.

He probably thought he won tonight, but it was me playing the game.

Both Brodie and his cousin Dante Harris, who’s the quieter roomie of all of us, do their best to avoid glancing down at the biggest reason why my back hurts all the time. I used to have average boobs. Boring ones. Now they’re huge, expensive to contain in bras I can only find in limited stores, and nearly give me a concussion the few times I force myself to go to the gym and use the treadmill.

Dante, who I can’t always tell if he likes me or not, drapes his ankle over his opposite knee as he sits back on the couch. “Sounds like a douche. Is this the one you met at work? Trevor?”

“It was David,” Brodie says, picking out a pretzel from the bag in his lap. “Or was David the one who asked for your number at the coffee cart?”

“Nah,” Dante cuts in, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “That was Tim, and if memory serves, he never texted her.”

Brodie nods. “Oh yeah. She made us watchHe’s Just Not That Into Youafter that.”

I cringe at the reminder of how pathetic my life has been since becoming a single mom. “Gee, thanks for bringing up my many failed attempts at locking a guy down. Yes, it was Trevor from work. No, I don’t want to talk about it. But if you want to keep going on my track record, why don’t we turn the TV back on so we can see another one of my past mistakes.”

The cold challenge has them both backing down with soft apologies murmured under their breaths.

Smart.

Brodie sets his food down. “We were just seeing what the score was,” he tries reasoning with me, not that he needs to.

We’ve been over this a million times. Everybody gets a chance to choose what to watch on TV, no matter what it is, like baseball. Despite their love for the game, they’re loyal to a fault. So, even if they’re rooting for the very man’s team that I have a strong indifference toward, they’ll never be Jonathon Dover superfans.

“Who’s in the lead?” I ask.

The boys share a look.

Dante scratches his stubbled jaw. “Phillies.”

Of-fucking-course.“Well, good for them.”

“Blake—”

“I’m tired,” I mumble, swiping at my heavy eyelids. “I know how much you love that team, so I hope they win. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

But I hope their right fielder takes a ball to the nuts,I add silently.

Turning on my heel, I walk down the hall that leads to the three rooms I spend the most time in when I’m here.

When I open the door to the smallest of them all, a closet that was converted into a toddler’s bedroom, I’m not surprised when I see the lean figure in the rocking chair placed in the corner. The moonlight spills into the open window, and the white noise machine on the dresser plays a soft lullaby that puts me to sleep when I crash in here.

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