Page 114 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

Giving in, I drag out, “Fiiiine. I’ll be patient. But only because I don’t want to get in trouble for talking too much while on the job. Give Penny a big, fat kiss for me, okay? I miss her.”

“I know. She misses her mama too.”

I doubt she’s even realized I’m gone, but I soak up Milo’s comment anyway, letting it fill the tiny hole which appeared as soon as I closed the door and drove to work tonight and every other night this week.

Doodling on the edge of a piece of scratch paper, I mutter, “I should probably get back to work.”

“Did Jos set you up with a laptop and the spreadsheet for the books?”

“Yes. You didn’t need to brag and tell him I’m a wiz with them, though. Now I feel all this pressure to be perfect.”

“You are perfect. Love you, Mads.”

My heart skips a beat, and I bite my thumbnail to keep from grinning like a loon. “Love you too.”

I hang up the phone and begin setting up appointments for a few customers wanting on the schedule when the front door dings with a new customer.

Tilting my head to one side, I greet my very inebriated roommate. “Uh, hey, Jake. What’re you doing here?”

“Is Milo here?” he demands, swaying on his feet.

“No, he’s at home. Why?”

He charges closer, his face red with anger. “Because the asshole called my sister!”

“Why would he call your sister?”

“Because he found out I’m failing one of my classes and decided to tattle like a little dipshit,” he slurs.

Lovely.

This is so not what I need––a lovesick, drunk off his ass roommate coming to spill all his drama during my first week at work. I scan the shop again, but everyone is still oblivious to the chaos unfolding at the front.

Go figure.

Leaning my elbows onto the receptionist’s podium––and still unsure how to tread carefully through the word vomit he’s gifted me with––I drop my voice low and ask, “Are you not close with your sister?”

Scrubbing his hand over his drunk face, he collapses into one of the chairs in the waiting room and kicks his legs out. Poor bastard’s gonna have a nasty hangover tomorrow.

“We’re fine, I guess?” he mutters. “Or at least, we were. Now, my whole family knows I screwed up.”

“Maybe you can salvage it.”

“Not possible,” he argues, his shoulders slumping even more as he tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs hard. “Honestly, I don’t even care about the grade. Losing the internship screwed me over.”

“What internship?” I ask.

“B-Tech Enterprises.”

“Oh. I’ve heard of them.”

“Yeah. They’ve completely transformed the software in electric cars allowing a battery to go twenty percent further on a single charge, but that’s beside the point. The point is, they take one intern a year from the graduating class.” He shows me his forefinger to drive his point home. “One. And I was up for the position until I slept through the interview.”

With a frown, I slide off the tall barstool and walk over to a very defeated Jake. “Maybe you can reschedule?”

“They don’t reschedule shit, Mads. Not to accommodate an intern.”

My frown deepens. He’s right. He totally screwed himself over. Doesn’t make it fair, though.

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