Page 132 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“This place,” I start.

“Fun, right? Lou also said there’s a hotel across the street. You’re welcome to stay the night.”

“O-overnight?” I stutter. “I didn’t––”

Jos raises his hands to placate me. “Only if you wanna celebrate, sweetheart. No worries. Come on. Let’s get to our table.”

As I watch him swagger toward a red leather booth, I ask, “Celebrate what, exactly?”

“No idea,” Milo grunts, his hand pressed to my back. “Let’s go.”

Sliding into the booth, we all give our drink orders, then Milo rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers in front of him. “All right, Jos. Spit it out. Why’d you invite us here?”

“Never one for small talk, are ya, Milo?”

“Apparently not,” Milo returns.

“I saw the piece.”

“You mentioned that.”

“George and I loved it.”

“You mentioned that too,” Milo returns, though he doesn’t look convinced. As if Jos’s compliment went in one ear and out the other. As if Jos is humoring him. As if he couldn’t possiblyactuallylike the piece Milo submitted and likely poured his heart and soul into. As if Jos is testing him, toying with him. It kills me to see Milo feel so vulnerable and defensive about something he loves yet believes can’t possibly be loved by someone else in return.

They hold each other’s stares across the table, both engaged in some form of the game of chicken, though I have no idea what the rules are or who’s winning.

“I’m proud of you, Milo,” Jos informs him. The sincerity in his voice is staggering and leaves an odd, electric silence around the table. He settles further into his seat, waiting for Milo to reply, but the guy is speechless beside me. Hell, he’s probably basking in the moment, flabbergasted. The one man he looks up to, the one man who’s more like a father than his own flesh and blood, told him he’s proud of him.

And it makes me want to cry.

The waitress reappears with a tray full of our beverages, leaving me on pins and needles as she sets everyone’s drink in front of its owner. Before Milo’s beer has a chance to hit the table, he grabs it and gulps down half its contents.

When she’s finished setting down the rest of our drinks, the waitress asks, “Are you ready to––”

“Give us one more minute, please?” I beg her.

She nods, her anxious gaze bouncing from one person to the next, and saunters off to another table, her bright blue flapper girl dress swishing around her thighs.

I take a sip of the cocktail in front of me and savor the sweet tang of lime and tequila as I wait for someone to say something. Unfortunately, neither of them utters another damn word.

Unable to take the silence any longer, I nudge my shoulder against Milo’s. “How come he gets to see the piece, but I don’t? Hmm?”

His ramrod-straight spine softens as he wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side. “‘Cause he’s a cheater and broke the rules.”

“I seem to do it often,” Jos agrees. “Which is why I’m firing you.”

My jaw drops, and my gaze shoots to Milo.

“What did you just say?” he rasps, his voice quiet but controlled.

“I said, I’m firing you.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“You have too much talent––”

“Fuck my talent,” Milo spits. His hand slams against the table, rattling the silverware as heads swivel in our direction.

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