Page 115 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“I’m sorry.” I rock back on my heels and hook my thumbs into the back pockets of my jeans. It’s a pathetic response, but I don’t know what else I can say.

“It’s not your fault,” he mutters a few seconds later, his eyes bloodshot and sad.

I frown. “Still. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shakes his head. “Not unless you know anyone in the business who’s willing to make an exception for a guy who screwed up his entire future because he was hungover and slept through his alarm.”

“Aw, man,” I grimace. “I’m so sorry, Jake.”

“I’d give my left nut to work for them,” he adds like it’s the only possible offer to make B-Tech reconsider.

“Your left nut, huh?” I cover up a very unladylike snort with my hand. “You should put it on your resume.”

His laugh is pathetic at best, but it still fans my pride as he returns, “Not sure it would make much of a difference, but hey. Maybe I’ll have to give it a try.”

“Well, make sure you let your sister know you’re open to all creative angles, eh?” I tease. “Maybe she can help you think of something.”

“Yeah. Well. If she’s going to neuter me for being a failure anyway, might as well put the family jewels to good use.”

My phone dings with an incoming text message, and I laugh a little harder as I head back to my desk to see who it is.

“That sounds promising,” I tell Jake, unlocking my phone before the smile slips off my face.

Shit.

“Everything all right?” Jake asks. Apparently, he isn’t drunk enough to miss my somber expression.

Dammit!

I turn off my phone, shove it into my back pocket, and look up at Jake. “Yup. Just dandy. I should probably get back to work, though. If I think of any other genius plans to help with the internship, I’ll let you know, okay?”

He nods and pushes himself back to his feet.

“And I’m sorry about Milo being a tattletale,” I add as he heads toward the door, his walk still dizzying. “Remember…he cares about you.”

Squeezing the back of his neck, Jake drops his chin to his chest. “Yeah. I know. It sucks, though.”

“You should try talking to him. Telling him how you feel. Maybe it’ll help him give you some more space until you can figure out what you want to do with your life.”

“Maybe,” he returns. But he sounds numb. Defeated. And for a guy who had the entire world in the palm of his hand not so long ago, it’s hard to witness.

“Do you want me to call an Uber for you?” I ask.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and wiggles it back and forth. “I got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yup,” he returns, popping the ‘P’ at the end. Yanking on the heavy glass door, he pulls it open and heads outside, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my new job, and a new text from the devil himself.

Marty: Two weeks from today. SeaBird. 7:30. Be there.

After pulling up my calendar app, I check the date mentioned and shake my head as a fresh wave of dread fills my stomach.

Shit. Milo’s exhibition night.

Me: I can’t do that day or place. Pick something else.

Marty: You don’t have a choice. My dad’s in town for one night and is meeting a guy at SeaBird. So it’s where you’re going to meet him.

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