Roomies (A Standalone Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) by Claire Adams Page A

game
trying to figure out a way for us to do it in the stands and not get arrested.
    Come to think of it, I
don’t know that she would have a problem getting arrested while having sex.
Knowing her, it’d probably just be that much more of a turn-on.
    “No,” she says, “that’s
okay. I’m a Mets fan anyway.”
    The horror.
    “I think they’re playing
the Mets, actually.”
    “Dane, I should be honest
with you.”
    It’s that exact phrase,
said that exact way that gives honesty such a bad rap.
    “I hate baseball. I said
I was a Mets fan because I had no idea the two were playing and I really just
wanted to get out of it. I’m actually kind of relieved you just wanted to stop
here for a quick one. We really don’t have to go to the game.”
    “Ah,” I say.
    I turn the car on and put
it in reverse. As we pull out of the stadium, I’m just wishing I hadn’t spent
the money on the tickets.
    “So,” Wrigley says, “have
you talked to your roommate?”
    “About what?” I ask.
    “You know,” she says.
“Things are getting kind of stale, you know, with your unwillingness to be my bitch.”
    I can’t believe this is
how she really talks.
    “I’m not following,” I
tell her.
    “Have you had the
conversation? Is she down for a three-way, or am I just flicking the bean to
the complete wrong thing here?”
    “I really don’t think
it’s a good idea,” I tell her. “Despite its ramifications to your
bean-flicking, I don’t think that Leila would—”
    “Leila?” she asks. “Your
roommate’s name is Leila?”
    It’s about here that I
realize Wrigley and I really don’t talk much about anything that doesn’t have
an orgasm at the end of it.
    “Yeah,” I answer. “Why?”
    “That night on the roof,”
she says. “Are you a complete idiot?”
    “What are you talking
about? What about the night on the roof?”
    The question’s no more
out of my mouth than its answer is in my brain.
    “You called out her name
when you came,” she says. “You’ve got a thing for your roommate.”
    “I really don’t—”
    “It’s cool,” she says. “I
told you I don’t want any of that relationship torture, but it’s kind of
bullshit that you’re just going to keep her to yourself like that. I bet she’d be my bitch. She’s the quiet type.
Actually, I bet she’d end up wanting to make me her bitch. I saw the way she looked at me when I popped out of the
room flashing my honeypot.”
    “Do you have any idea how
ridiculous you sound when you say shit like that?”
    If my tone weren’t so
hostile, I might be able to pass the question off as a joke.
    “What the fuck is your
problem?” she fires back. “I’m just talking a little bit of slap and tickle.
I’m not saying I want to steal her from you. I’ve never been with a woman. I’m
curious.”
    “You know I find it
really hard to believe there’s anything you haven’t done in that arena.”
    “What’s that supposed to
mean?” she asks. “You’re just jealous. You’re a jealous little boy who doesn’t
want to share his plaything.”
    “She’s not a plaything,”
I snap. “You know what? Why don’t I just take you home? Tonight’s turning to
shit in a real hurry.”
    “You’re telling me,” she
says. “Why don’t you call me when your fucking balls
drop?”
    “Oh, fuck off,” I tell
her. “Every time I don’t want to go along with your psycho bullshit, you talk
like it’s because I’m not a real man. News flash: It’s because you’re out of
your god damned mind.”
    “News flash? What is
this, the seventies?”
    “What the hell are you
talking about?”
    “Just drop me off here,”
she says. “By the way, it’s bullshit that I can’t smoke in here.”
    “It’s a rental car!” I
shout.
    “Why would you rent a car
anyway? It’s such a waste of money in the city.”
    Ah, the age-old male
dilemma: do I blow the whole thing up by telling her I was trying to take her
out on something that resembled an actual