Page 160 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“It’d be my pleasure.”

“But…” I motion to my desk. “I’m kind of at work.”

“Yeah, but don’t you guys close in like”––balancing Penny on one hip, Reese pulls out her phone from her back pocket and checks the time––“an hour?”

“Well, yeah,” I hedge. “But, still.”

“I heard you might know the guy who owns the place. Call it a hunch, but I bet he’d let you off the hook.”

Digging my teeth into my lower lip, I ask, “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I’ll even stick around and pretend like I know what I’m doing until the last customer leaves. Deal?”

Unable to help myself, I pull Reese into a hug, squishing Penny between us like a peanut butter sandwich. “Thank you, Reese. You’re seriously a lifesaver.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“If you need anything, or if Penny needs anything––”

“I know where to find you guys. He’s staying in room 301 at the Remnant. It’s on––”

“I know where it is,” I choke out. It’s the same place we made love not so long ago. Hell, even the room is the same. If that isn’t fate, I don’t know what is.

“I fed her about an hour ago, so she’ll probably just get sleepy. But if you need it, I have some formula in the diaper bag and some frozen milk in the freezer at the house––”

“I gotcha covered,” she interrupts. “Now, go.”

“Thank you!”

I grab my wallet and keys from the diaper bag and race out the door.

Like Reese said, my man needs me.

41

Maddie

Eminem is blaring down the hall as I step off the elevator, the mirror vibrating against the wall as my gaze connects with my reflection.

“This sounds promising,” I mutter under my breath, making my way toward the thumping bass while attempting to smooth down my messy hair. I hadn’t exactly gotten ready when I left the house after Jos’s phone call. I wasn’t in the mood. But right now, I’m seriously regretting my lack of a shower.

Will he still want me if I look like shit?

I puff out my cheeks and wipe my sweaty palms against my pants before tapping my knuckles against room 301’s door.

Knock. Knock.

No answer.

I look left and right, then call out, “Milo?”

Nothing.

Rocking back on my heels, I knock a little harder. “Milo, are you in there?”

The music doesn’t stop pulsing, but heavy footsteps thump beneath Eminem’s lyrics, and the door wrenches open.

Milo jerks back, surprise written across his handsome features along with some black, oily paint.

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