IOU: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, places, and companies is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing: Lawrence Editing

  Cover Design: RBA Designs

  Formatting by: Champagne Book Design

  All song titles and lyrics mentioned in IOU are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Copyright © 2020 Kristy Marie All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  About This Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Other books by Kristy Marie

  Contact Information

  Acknowledgements

  For my daughter.

  With every turd you encounter, know your prince awaits you.

  Just remember to have patience and pepper spray.

  IOU

  /ˈˌī ˌō ˈyo͞o/

  noun

  A signed document acknowledging a debt.

  Late 18th century: representing the pronunciation of I owe you

  Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, s.v. “IOU,” accessed March 2, 2020, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/IOU.

  Copper.

  Formaldehyde.

  Insulin.

  Rat poison.

  What do all these things have in common?

  Come on, you know.

  I bet you have an idea but don’t want to say because it sounds crazy. That’s okay, I won’t judge if you jump to conclusions. At least not until you’ve heard the whole story.

  Rumor has it I’m clingy and naive with a heavy dose of crazy.

  But my mother taught me not to believe everything I hear.

  She also taught me that every story has two sides—the reality—which is obviously my side of the story—and the rumors—which is his side of the story and exactly how this whole shitshow started.

  I take that back. This story really started with a shithead and his girlfriend. . .

  Rumor has it she’s a psycho.

  Contrary to what you might hear, I’m not crazy. I swear it.

  “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

  It’s a rhetorical question.

  “The fucking apartment is on fire, Ainsley!”

  Tucker has always been the more dramatic one in our relationship, and if I weren’t so pissed off, I would bring it up, but there’s no point. He’s not my problem anymore.

  “Fuck you!” I shout over the smoke detector, glaring at the cheating scumbag who was my boyfriend up until sixty seconds ago.

  He’s only half right, by the way. The apartment isn’t on fire, the curtains in the living room are. It’s a small flame, but a flame big enough to set off the smoke detectors, which triggered the neighbors to pull the fire alarm.

  At this point, though, you’re probably wondering why I’m screaming, ‘Fuck you!’ instead of grabbing some water and helping Tucker pull the curtain rod down. It’s simple. I hate Tucker and hope his dick catches fire.

  And I hate the girl standing next to him. Taylor. My roommate and, currently, my boyfriend’s side piece. But that’s not even the fucked-up part. The real fucked-up part is the fact they decided to use my candles to create this ambiance of adultery.

  I aim a glare at Taylor, who’s been quiet during this entire meltdown, but I’m guessing that’s because she’s naked, shivering in our living room as her hideous curtains go up in flames. “I did Taylor a favor by burning those curtains,” I continue, undeterred by Tucker’s panic and the wailing of sirens in the distance. “That’s what good roommates do! They rid you of the ugly things in your life.”

  I force out a devilish smile like Taylor did me a solid tonight by porking Tucker, showing me what a real piece of shit he is. And in return, I paid her back by setting our apartment ablaze. Okay, so ablaze sounds like I ripped the sofa cushions and lit a match. That’s not what happened. I meant to hit Tucker with a lit candle and missed.

  He deserved it, and so did she.

  Even if Taylor and I weren’t the greatest of friends, we made being roommates work. I mean, sure, she’s a twat twenty-five days out of the month, but the rest of those six days, she’s kind of decent. But she had to go and ruin our fickle relationship.

  Taylor glares back at me, not bothering to cover her flawless tits. I used to think the rumors about her perfect tits were a drunken observation and not a real fact. But now that I’m looking at them, I mean, really looking at them, they are pretty perfect. The perfect handful guys fight over. Guys like my boyfriend, who’s also naked. At least Tucker is covering his junk. Wait.

  “Why are you covering yourself, Tucker? Your dick has to be more useful than fucking my roommate. Pee on the fire, why don’t you? Do at least one redeeming thing tonight.”

  Tucker grits his teeth and snatches a throw from the floor where the love nest of soft blankets is rumpled from their fuckfest. “Get some water!”

  I don’t move at his frustrated shout. He lost the right to tell me what to do the minute I walked through the door tonight.

  “Ainsley! Put aside our issues for a moment. Innocent people are in the building.”

  Our issues. Pfft. He makes it sound like we have a weekly appointment with a marriage counselor. Not like we were so in love that I followed his med-school bound ass to this college, giving up all of my dreams so he could chase his.

  “Ainsley!”

  Okay. Fine. He’s right. Even if I would like for his dick to sizzle, I don’t want anyone to die or be responsible for any lung complications just because he crushed my heart tonight.

  I look at Taylor, the traitor standing next to me. Her eyes are laser-focused, searing me with hate. It takes all I have not to tackle her and snatch those thousand-dollar extensions from her hair. But that would show I give a crap about their betrayals.

  And I do.

  But no one needs to know the truth.

  This whole fire thing is a throwing mishap. But if I took Taylor down to the ground in a tangle of bitch slaps. . .? That would seem like I completely lost my shit and care that my roommate has been banging my boyfriend for who knows how long.

  The message I want to send is they can live happily ever after for all I care.

  I have options, dammit.

  I have respect.

  At least for now, until I can get to somewhere private and wallow in my heartbreak.

  I tear away from Taylor’s glare and rifle through the cabinet for a pitcher. I find one I bought when Taylor and I threw a spring break party last year. It has cute little watermelons on the side that reminds me of happier days.

/>   I scoff.

  Those days are over.

  Taylor and I are over.

  Tucker and I are over.

  Hell, screw the whole complex. Havemeyer University can suck a big fat dick for all I care.

  I snatch the pitcher from the cabinet, and to be petty, I slash at the plastic wear alongside it, sending it all down to the floor. Kicking the containers out of my way, I fill the pitcher with water before traipsing over to Tucker, who has pulled the curtains down and is attempting to smother the fire with the throw blanket he was probably fucking on.

  My earlier fury bubbles to the surface, and I pull back and slosh the water over the curtains and Tucker, who is still naked.

  “Dammit, Ainsley! Is your aim that bad tonight?”

  My aim has always been poor. I’m not known for my throwing skills, but had I known twenty minutes ago I would be sent home early from my shift at Studs and Spuds, I would have practiced a little in the parking lot before I came in.

  I was in a good mood, dammit!

  Nothing felt better than knowing I had a few free hours to soak in the tub and play Who Wants to Be a Millionaire on my iPad. But I had to come home and find Tucker ass up, humping my roommate in the middle of the coziest mound of blankets, surrounded by my candles. It looked like I had walked into a ritual sacrifice: moans and jerky movements combined with Taylor speaking in tongues. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was witnessing until Taylor said, “Oh, God, Tucker. Harder.” That’s when all chaos broke loose.

  I gasped.

  Taylor screamed.

  Tucker sprang from the floor with a noteworthy litheness.

  I was the epitome of calm after that. I merely dropped my purse, grabbed one of the candles they were burning, and hurled it as hard as I could at Tucker. I was aiming for his balls, which I missed, but I think we can all agree I was upset and deserve a pass on that mistake.

  The water, however, I purposely doused on his ass.

  “Screw you, Tucker!”

  Okay, so my vocabulary has not been vast in all of this. But what can you say to the two people who you were supposed to trust? They betrayed me, and—A loud knock breaks our heated stare. I mouth, “I hate you,” at the bastard before going to the door and swinging it open. The smoke detector is still going off, so I’m not at all surprised to see the three firefighters standing in the doorway.

  “We received a call about a fire.”

  I don’t even bother explaining. I simply step aside and allow the firemen to address the remaining few sparks that Tucker hasn’t been able to put out. I should have known he couldn’t finish off anything but himself—selfish asswipe.

  The firemen push through the apartment and spray Taylor’s curtains with the fire extinguisher before turning off the alarm and filling the space around us with silence.

  Well, it was silent for a minute. But rest assured, Frank, the landlord in all his terry-cloth glory, remedies that quickly. “What the hell happened in here?” He looks at Tucker—who has grabbed a blanket—before swinging his gaze to Taylor, who is now covered too.

  How nice of them to finally show some decency.

  “Taylor,” he barks. “What is going on here?”

  Frank isn’t the easiest landlord to deal with, but I imagine when you own an apartment complex that mainly rents to college students, you don’t have the luxury of being a nice guy.

  Taylor narrows her eyes at me. “She tried to kill us, Mr. Frank!” Tears fall from her smudged face. “She lost it and tried to burn us alive!”

  Now she decides to be dramatic.

  I roll my eyes and address Frank. “It was an accident. I knocked over a candle.”

  Taylor wails, and Tucker wraps his arm around her, shushing her with a sweetness I’ve never seen from him.

  Oh, hell no.

  No, he didn’t. What about me, huh? I’m the victim here! I am the one who came home and found the love of my life ravaging my roommate.

  Me! Not her.

  I grab another candle and go to hurl it when a massive body steps in front of me and plucks it from my hand. “Let me take that,” he says softly. The name on his uniform reads Bostic. “Why don’t you step outside with me and get some fresh air, huh?” His eyes are gentle. He’s probably a good dad—even better—a faithful husband.

  I crane around Bostic’s massive shoulders and take one last look at what my life was. Tucker is holding Taylor’s sobbing body to him, smoothing his hands down her back.

  Fucker.

  Good riddance. Taylor can have him. I’m out.

  I nod to Bostic and follow his lead through the door when Frank grabs my arm. “You’re done here, Ms. James. I don’t want you back on the property anymore. If I see you again, I’ll file a restraining order.”

  Bostic makes a noise deep in his chest like he wants to say something but can’t. It doesn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t stay here with Taylor if you promised me my very own pet sea lion. I nod. “Understood. But I’ll need to come back for my stuff.”

  “Don’t bother,” shouts Taylor. “We’ll pack it up and leave it outside the door.”

  The hell she will. Tomorrow, when everything settles down, I’ll talk to Frank and get my stuff. I have a class, and I’ll need my laptop.

  Bostic pats a brawny hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  My shoulders slump as we descend the stairs, the adrenaline of the past twenty minutes petering out.

  “Here, eat this.” I stop mid-step and look at the mini pack of Skittles Bostic shoves at me. “You need the sugar.” I must still look skeptical because he adds, “It’ll help with the post-adrenaline crash.”

  Oh. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.” I flash him a tired smile. “Are you waiting until the police come for me?”

  He arches a brow. “What would the police want with you?”

  “Because I lit the apartment on fire?” I suggest. I’d be a terrible criminal.

  His lips twitch as if he’s holding back a smile. “It was a candle accident. Last I heard, accidents aren’t associated with jail time.”

  He pulls us down the sidewalk and motions for me to sit on the step of the firetruck.

  “Do you have a Dalmatian in the cab?” I ask. I could go for some puppy love right now.

  Bostic chuckles. “No. No dog on this rig.”

  “That’s a shame,” I mutter. “Everyone needs a dog.” And a sea lion. But I don’t add that comment. Bostic already thinks I’m crazy.

  The sigh that leaves Bostic’s chest is deep and heavy. “You want to tell me what happened in there?”

  Not really. “I think I’ll take those Skittles now.” I could use the comfort food.

  He hands them over, and I waste no time ripping into the bag and throwing back a few of the sugary pieces.

  “Was that your boyfriend?” He prompts again.

  I swallow and meet his warm and friendly brown eyes. He looks concerned. Not like he’s trying to weasel a confession out of me. It’s probably safe to answer him with the truth. I can’t possibly screw tonight up any more than I already have. “Yeah.”

  “He cheat on you?” Bostic is a good man, I can tell. I mean, I used to be able to tell. I thought Tucker was a good man too. Look how that turned out. But Bostic seems different, and if I were into older men in their forties with a healthy obsession with dumbbells, I probably would turn on my charm and dial back the crazy, but I don’t do rebounds or men who could be my daddy. Plus, I’m reasonably sure I have this man concerned for my mental well-being.

  “Yeah.” I throw back a few more Skittles until the bag is empty and crinkle it between my fingers. Too bad it was snack size. “All I wanted to do is take a bath and play Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. I didn’t plan on causing a scene, but he was there, and neither of them looked the slightest bit remorseful when I walked in. I just reacted.”

  I shrug like my reaction was uncontrollable. It was. I’m not making excuses for endangering lives. I’m merely sayi
ng I didn’t think at the time—being blinded by rage or whatever you want to call it. The fact is: Tucker and Taylor made a stupid decision tonight. And now, so have I.

  Bostic nods, his jaw twitching as he glares at the third floor where his coworkers are probably filling out paperwork.

  “I’m sorry you guys had to come out this late in the evening. I’m sure it’s dinner time at the station, huh?” I’ve watched 911. I know the firemen have big meals and big screen TVs and twenty-four-hour shifts. The last thing they want to do on a Tuesday night is to break up a ridiculous catfight.

  “It’s our job,” he gruffs out.

  “I know, but you should be saving lives in like forest fires and such. Not putting out a small candle fire.” I downplay the flames just in case he’s reconsidering turning me over to the cops.

  A low noise rumbles out of Bostic’s massive chest before he opens his mouth—probably to correct me on the size of the fire—but his crew descends the stairs and cuts him off.

  I stand. “Thank you for the Skittles, and you know”—I wave to the third floor—“saving lives. There’s probably a few you saved from shooting straight to hell.” I grin. “I’m joking. Kind of.”

  The big man stands and tilts his head down to look at me. “You have somewhere to stay tonight?”

  Right. Because I’m homeless now.

  I swallow and manage a smile. “Yeah. I have some friends I can call.” It’s a complete and utter lie, but I can tell Bostic is a fixer, and well, I did this to myself. No one made me go crazy and set my apartment on fire, even if it was warranted.

  “Are you sure?”

  I don’t want to lie to this man. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  One of the other firemen claps Bostic on the back. “Ready to go?”

  He doesn’t move—only stares at me like he can somehow extract the truth with his eyes.

  “I’ll be fine, big guy.” I encourage when his buddies start loading up.

  He sighs. “I’m at Station 764 if you need anything.”

  He really is a nice man. I check his hand for a ring. Bare. Good, my mom could use a good man in her life. We both could, but she’s been single longer, so she gets dibs.