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

really
know the difference right now.
    “Men are stupid,” she
slurs.
    “No argument here. What
are you doing home so early and, you know, drunk?”
    “My boss told me to take
the day,” she says, holding her peanut butter hand out and making a snatching
motion, “so I took it.”
    It would actually be
somewhat endearing if I didn’t know that I’m going to be the one who has to
clean the whole place up.
    “I can see that,” I tell
her. “Well, I’m going to go back to—”
    “Dane,” she whines. “What
is it about me that’s so awful?”
    “Awful?” I ask. “What do
you mean?”
    “Oh, don’t act like you
don’t know,” she says.
    I’m getting the strong
impression that she’s a lot drunker than she thinks she is. Hilarious.
    “I don’t think you’re
awful,” I tell her. I walk over to her and lightly grab her wrists. “I do,
however, think you should wash your hands before you get peanut butter all over
the entire apartment.”
    “You know, you’re not
such a bad guy, Dane,” she says. “I mean, you swear like a jackass and your
tattoos look like they were done by a sociophatth —a scossiopthahh —”
    “A sociopath?”
    “Right!” she says,
flicking her wrist in a motion that sends little bits of the chunky peanut
butter flying in places I’m positive I’m never going to find.
    “What was I saying?” she
asks.
    “Let’s get you washed
up,” I tell her, turning on the kitchen sink. “You were saying that I’m not
such a bad guy even though I swear and have tattoos.”
    “Yeah,” she says, leaning
her head back.
    “How much did you have to
drink?” I ask.
    “Let’s see,” she says,
“there was tequila and bourbon…” she’s using her fingers to count. Trying to
get her hands under the water is a nightmare. “Oh!” she ejaculates, both of her
hands going up in the air, peanut butter landing in one of my favorite eyes.
“Then there was the big shot, but I
puked, so that makes four!”
    “You’re not supposed to
mix large quantities of different kinds of alcohol,” I say. “It’ll make you sick.”
    “I didn’t drink a lot ,” she says. I’m having a bit of
trouble believing her. “I had four drinks.”
    “Four drinks,” I say.
“Sounds like you’d better ease up on that party lifestyle, you crazy animal,
you.”
    I don’t even get buzzed
until shot number six.
    After finally persuading
her to put her hands under the faucet, I squeeze a generous amount of dish soap
into her hand and start rubbing her hands together, hoping she’ll get the idea.
Her mind is on different things entirely, though.
    “It seems like I can’t
attract a decent man,” she tells me. “That is, when I can attract anyone at
all.”
    “I’m sure that’s not
true,” I tell her. “You’re a beautiful woman. You can’t hold your liquor worth
a damn, but that’s not a crime.”
    “You’re so nice,” she says, and I’m starting to
get worried.
    That’s got to be the
first nice thing she’s somewhat-willingly said to me.
    “I do what I can,” I say
and give up on trying the fantasy of getting her to wash her own hands,
cleaning them one at a time, myself.
    “I’m not a virgin, you know,”
she says.
    “That’s really none of my
business,” I tell her.
    “No, I’ve seen the way
you act around me. You think I’m some
prude who never does anything crazy.”
    On the word crazy, both
of her hands go up in the air. Maybe the dish soap will help clean up the bits
of peanut butter.
    “I think you’re a very
nice person who’s having a rough day,” I tell her and help her get her hands
under the water. “Maybe you should dial back the drinking, though.”
    “Oh, you don’t know,” she
says. “I know you stick your dick out and women just come running, but it’s
harder for me.”
    And now I’m trying not to
laugh.
    I finish helping her
rinse her hands and I shut off the water. The plan was to give her a towel, but
she’s decided to use her pants