After stuffing my notebook and textbook into my backpack, I double check the cigarette case to make sure there are a few joints in it, then toss it in too, certain we’ll be taking several smoke breaks throughout the day. Once my feet are cozy inside my Uggs, I double-check my appearance in the mirror and decide my makeup free face and ponytail are going to have to be good enough today. I don’t have the time or the desire to do anything else; I’m just happy I already showered and brushed my teeth this morning.
I call out to Grams, letting her know where I’m going, then jump in my car and pull out onto the main road, already feeling a tad bit better. The drive to Beckham’s takes a little longer than it should, thanks to my inability to follow driving directions, but after circling the same block no less than four times, I’m eventually able to find the apartment complex.
Parking my car in the first spot I can find, I hop out and sprint across the lot, my backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. The blustery December wind whips across my face, turning the tip of my nose and my ears into icicles before I reach his unit. Gratefully, the door swings open mere seconds after I knock, and I’m greeted by Beckham’s smiling face.
“Hurry. Get inside and warm up.” He ushers me in and gives me a quick hug, hastily shutting out the cold behind me. “Someone needs to tell winter she’s early this year.”
Chuckling softly, I nod as I remove my boots and jacket, leaving them both in the entryway. “Yeah, it went from an unseasonably warm November to a brutal December in the blink of an eye.” Just like my life did.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks while leading me into the small, rather dirty kitchen. “Let me see what we’ve got.”
Unrinsed plates are stacked on one side of the sink, and it looks like the countertops haven’t seen a wipe down in at least several weeks, but neither seem to faze him in the least. The trash threatens to overflow onto the floor, the can brimming with empty beer cans and takeout containers. One particular Styrofoam box on top displaying the Half Pipe Pub logo catches my eye, and my chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought of him. A mixture of worry and anger washes over me, and I begin to think that getting out of the house wasn’t such a good idea.
Sticking his head in the nearly empty refrigerator, Beckham scrounges around trying to find something to offer, but comes up empty. “I guess all we have is beer, and I know you don’t drink, unless you just want some water from the sink.”
The thought of drinking out of one of their glasses grosses me out. God only knows when the last time they were washed, or if soap was used at all.
“No, I’m okay right now. If I need something later, I may go on a coffee run,” I reply, hoping my face isn’t revealing the true level of my disgust with the place. Who lives like this?
“Sorry, I would’ve had some other options here if I’d known earlier you were coming.” Grabbing a Bud Light, he pops the top and brings the can to his mouth, guzzling down the horrible smelling drink. “Just let me know when you’re ready to take a break and we’ll go get something…maybe some food too.” Yeah, there’s no way anything in this place isn’t expired.
Backpedalling out of the kitchen, I glance around the living room, wondering where I should unpack my things around the clutter of magazines, video game controllers, and empty food and drink containers. I think that’s even a bra draped across the back of a recliner. Ewwww. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the whole bachelor pad thing, and it’s not like I expect Beckham to keep a Martha Stewart worthy apartment, but this is ridiculous. I’m going to have to take another shower as soon as I get home.
“I thought we’d set up in my bedroom, in case my roommates are here and try to distract us. It gets a little crazy around this place sometimes,” Beckham announces when he notices me surveying the room.
He nudges my elbow and signals for me to follow him into the small hallway. Cautiously, I trail behind him into the first room off to the left, and though his room is far from spotless, it’s a definite improvement from the main living area. The furniture all looks like it came straight from the Ikea showroom, and the platform bed, which has probably never been made properly, is buried in a heap of blue and gray linens. Clothes are littered around the floor and there’s a scrunched up Mickey D’s bag in the corner from who knows when. But it doesn’t smell too bad, and the windows even have curtains.
Exhaling a small sigh of relief, I drop my backpack onto the floor and find a spot to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing him, but not too close. Then, we both gather all of our review materials, spreading notes and books out around us on the navy comforter, and begin an intense study session.
A couple of hours into it, we reach a natural breaking point between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and I pull out my favorite rectangular case from my bag, snatching a joint from inside.
“Is there a good place to smoke in here, or should we go outside?” I ask while digging a lighter out of my pocket.
“In here’s fine. Let me grab a clean ashtray.” He stands up and grabs a small terracotta bowl from the top drawer of his dresser, then drops back down on the low mattress, this time flat on his back with his head angled close to my lap. I consider scooting over, but don’t want to be blatantly rude or make things uncomfortable, so I stay put.
Flicking the lighter, I take a nice, long, and steady hit from the spliff, careful not to cause any runs in the paper, and once I’m satisfied it’s burning evenly, I hand it off to him. For a couple of minutes, we sit quietly, sharing a stoned smile as we puff-puff-pass, back and forth. Then, the sound of some muffled voices followed by a door being swung open startles me, causing me to jump and swivel my head toward the hallway.
“Come on! I know you want to again!” a girl calls out from what sounds like another room as heavy footsteps in the hall grow near. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!” she adds with a giggle.
I watch intently, curious to what in the hell’s going on, ‘cause I thought we were the only people here. But nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for the sight of Crew walking by the open doorway, shirtless and barefoot, with hair still damp from a shower.
Or a really long, sweaty fucking.
“Please move,” I hiss through gritted teeth, glaring at the half-dressed girl blocking the door I’m trying to pass through. “I need to get my shirt from the dryer. I’m already running late.”
I don’t add that I’m late because she decided to join me in the bathroom while I was showering, uninvited, and then proceeded to get pissed because I still denied her after a ridiculous, over-the-top striptease. I’m not sure how else to prove to her I’m really not fucking interested, but she still seems unfazed.
“Just a quickie then,” Tasha purrs, pouting out her bottom lip as she runs her finger over the lace trim of her bra. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?”
No, I want you to move your pathetic ass out of my way.
I really need to get the hell out of this apartment before I kill her. What the fuck was I thinking Monday, when I left the bar with her? This girl is the epitome of everything I hate. Annoyingly obnoxious, conceited—though she shouldn’t be, now that I’ve seen what she looks like first thing in the morning—lives in a pigsty, and clingy as fuck. No, no, no, and hell no.
Apparently, she was so drunk the first night we came home, she doesn’t even remember us hooking up—hence the mid-deed pass-out—and has been relentless on the pursuit of it happening again. Uh, no. I can’t stand the thought of another night on their nasty couch, with her douchebag cousin parading by with his latest piece of tail. Fuck, last night, he didn’t even shut his door, and I had to listen to her catlike howling until they finished ten minutes later. Longest ten minutes of my life. Thank fuck the guy has no stamina.