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This is happening every single night, and people think I am the manwhore. Christ.
The door suddenly flies open. I take a stumbling step back as a very naked, dark-haired and pissy-looking girl wags a finger under my nose.
“What’s your problem?” she screeches.
“My problem?” I try to see past her into Travis’s room. “What do you think? It’s the fucking noise you two are making. Won’t let me sleep.”
“You just came in. You’re still in your jacket. So stop lying.”
With that, she steps back and shuts the door in my face.
Ow.
Making a mental note to buy better earplugs, I walk into the kitchen to see if I can scrounge up something to eat, maybe a P&J sandwich, before hitting the sack.
And run into Gage. And his friends.
Bingo, just what I needed. Fucking joy.
I wonder how I missed the din of four drunk guys laughing and yelling over a game of cards spread on the kitchen table… Oh, wait a sec, I know how: Travis and his chick having noisy sex. Right.
Resisting the need to crack my head against the wall, I grab a glass of water and a couple of cookies and make my escape.
Unfortunately, I’m not fast enough, and Gage notices me.
Hell.
Gage’s a huge guy, way over six feet, with hulking shoulders and shaggy hair that flops in his eyes. His bulk bothers me, reminds me of too much darkness in my past.
Whether he senses my unease around him or not, Gage never hesitates to get physical. He reaches for me, and I dance out of reach.
“Yo, J. Come play with us, man. I could teach you a trick or two.”
“I bet you could.” Gage’s comments are always ambiguous at best and grate on my nerves. “Some other time, kay? Gotta crash.”
“Crash and burn,” Gage says ominously, and I walk out of the kitchen, wondering what the hell he means.
A few steps separate me from my room and the promise of—relative—peace and quiet.
One may think that after living on the street for as long as I had, such things wouldn’t matter, but in fact they matter to me more than to most people. Being able to close and lock a door, keep danger and interference behind it, being allowed to
have a say about who prods me, touches me and fondles me while I lie unconscious and helpless in the clutches of sleep…
Yeah, not sure many people would appreciate that, but I sure do. It’s never been a given for me.
So you can understand why finding Alex barring my way is the last straw.
Alexander Finley is a quiet guy, the one I have the least problems with, unless he’s hounding me to pick up after my mess and take my turn cleaning the bathroom.
Hey, I do clean the bathroom. Mostly.
Right now, though, he’s a pain in the ass because he’s sprawled and snoring against my bedroom door, without any sign of waking up. The sweetly smell of pot wafts off him, so powerful it makes my eyes water.
Fucking hell.
Alex is shorter than me, but compensates for it with bulk. He’s built like a tank and is covered in tattoos. In fact, they look like the tattoos a Marine would sport, but when I asked, he never replied. Plus, he seems too young.
And right now, too heavy to dislodge.
