IOU: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  Images of confetti and balloons explode on the screen right before she tackles me in a bruising hug. “We did it!”

  Holding her close, I try to hold on as she bounces up and down, her braless tits torturing me through my shirt.

  “Be still.” I press her down.

  “What? Why? Why can’t we celebrate? We won a virtual million dollars!”

  For the love of God, she’s still moving.

  “Ainsley.” My voice is a growl and stops her mid-air, where she realizes what she’s doing to me.

  “Oh,” she says, very amused. “I didn’t realize you were that excited about winning.”

  What a smartass.

  “Yeah, it’s been quite the revelation.”

  She eases down to my lap, careful not to impale herself on my dick straining to get through my pajama pants. “Thank you,” she whispers, her breath fanning across my lips. Her words hold sincerity. She’s not just thanking me for helping her win the game.

  “Who knew you could be so poetic?” She inches closer, and with each word, her lips drag against mine.

  So much for calming my dick down.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I lie.

  It’s verbal foreplay with enough sexual tension to drive me mad. How badly I want to hoist her up and slam her against the table.

  She presses her lips harder. “I’m calling your bluff, Maverick Lexington.”

  Haven’t I told her to know her opponent before she plays the game?

  I snatch her by the hips and yank her lower half forward so my hard cock meets her softness. “Are you sure you want to do that? Remember last time how that game played out for you.” I’m referring to all the IOUs she racked up.

  Her hips rock and heaven help me, I enjoy the feel of her against me for just a moment before I stop her, and she moves her lips over mine. “I remember, and I’m willing to go all in. You left me that note. Why?”

  Fuuuck. Why did she have to say it so confidently—so challenging?

  Now I have to play, but I have the losing hand. It’s not that I don’t want to admit to Ainsley that I left the fire extinguisher and the note, because clearly, she knows it was me. But forcing me to admit that I care about her well-being is out of the roommate zone and into something else that I can’t handle just yet.

  “I was merely protecting my apartment from future fires,” is what I go with instead.

  I can feel her smile press against my frown. “Hmm . . . I suppose that is partly the truth.”

  Yes, yes, it is.

  “Well,” she says after a moment, “nevertheless, I appreciate the thoughtfulness. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a friend who cared.”

  A friend who cared.

  Is that what I am? A friend? My dick sure disagrees. Sure, I’d like for her to stop trampling on my personal space and sure, I’d like my sofa back sans the stuffed sea animals, but I’m not that much of a dick. I don’t like to see any woman cry, especially over someone so undeserving—someone like my father who put his image and business above his wife and kids.

  That’s all this is between Ainsley and me—a contract. I owe her a place to stay until I can find her something permanent. It’s in my neighbor’s and my best interest to keep the crying and the crazy down to a minimum.

  It is a contract, Maverick. Don’t forget.

  Her lips press against me again, and this time, my mouth opens and allows her full access. Soothingly, her tongue sweeps in, leisurely exploring as her hands find my hair and sink in.

  God, it feels so good.

  Her touching me anywhere feels so fucking good. How long has it been since I’ve felt a woman’s touch? Months? I can’t even remember. All I know is that it has been way too fucking long. And if I could trust myself not to flip her over onto this table, I would let go of her hips and tangle my fist in all those messy curls and enjoy the feel of the silky strands that smell like me.

  I won’t, though.

  Taking this any further breaks all my rules.

  I can’t afford any more of a distraction than I already have.

  I put these rules in place to keep me motivated, to keep me focused, but I’m already fucking it up by having her living here.

  She needs to go.

  I need to stop.

  I grip her hard, moving her hips over mine one last time. And one more time and—Great, Maverick. Good job convincing yourself to let her go.

  The friction between us is so magnetic that I can’t physically let go.

  “Mmm . . .” she moans in my ear.

  Let her go, Mav. She just ended a long relationship. She’s vulnerable and needs comforting. You can’t give her what she needs.

  But I could comfort her, for the night anyway.

  My subconscious kicks in, chasing the horny advice away.

  Ainsley needs stability and real love; neither of those things I’m nailing right now. I live a lie—a very exhausting lie, and I can’t stop. I’m in too deep. It doesn’t matter if I enjoy Ainsley’s company. I need to finish what I started.

  “Wait,” she says, pulling back. Her lips are swollen and glossy, her face flushed with heat.

  I almost groan at the cold air that hits my neck, but I don’t.

  This is good.

  No, this sucks.

  “What’s wrong?” I force myself to ask. Any other time the fake Maverick would be mean and just stand up and walk away, but the real Maverick actually wants to know what’s wrong and possibly high five her for being the bigger person and breaking the connection. I sure as fuck couldn’t.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, breathing the words along my lips.

  A little farther back would be nice.

  “I don’t want to use you.”

  I grin. Her use me? Ha!

  She’s serious, though, so I don’t comment. “You’ve been so nice to me that I don’t want to mess things up between us. All I’ve done is mess up with my decisions—”

  Remind her that what we have is a contract, not a friendship.

  “I don’t want to make our relationship one of those.”

  Remind her!

  I kiss her on the nose instead. “Good night, Ainsley. I expect half of my fake million tomorrow morning, payable in IOUs.”

  Rumor has it she poisoned him.

  “This is so awkward—just stop. You’ve given me too much information as it is.”

  My ears are bleeding and I’m seriously concerned about all the times my mom said the moans coming from her room at night were really from eating Truffles.

  “You asked for my opinion!”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  I sort of did, but she’s the one who took it to Inappropriateville.

  “Yes, you did. You asked me how I handled being alone. I merely said books and rechargeable batteries.”

  “Ahh! Don’t say it again. I just meant like what do you do when the toilet is clogged and the trash needs taking out.”

  Maverick asked me this morning how I would feel about renting a house versus an apartment. His friend said we might have more luck with a private home versus an apartment complex. I don’t really want a house at this point in my life, but Maverick wasn’t in the hearing-me-out mood. His glare suggested this wasn’t a multiple-choice question but rather him letting me know, in a non-shitty way, this is what I would be doing.

  It wasn’t the time to tell him that even if I could afford the rent on my own, I wouldn’t know what to do with a house. Apartments have idiot-proof chutes to dump your trash and a maintenance man who lives in the building who will unclog your drains as long as your roommate wears a crop top short enough to show underboob.

  I don’t know much about renting houses, but since I have no desirable underboob to flaunt, I need to learn what to do with trash and toilets if this is going to be my new way of living—hence the reason I called my mom—a big mistake, by the way.

  “Well, you need to be more specific, dear. I thought you meant something else enti
rely. Either way, sweetie, books and rechargeable batteries are great to have on hand during a power outage.”

  Give me freaking strength.

  “Also, there is nothing wrong with a woman who knows how to please herself. How can you expect a man to know what you like if you don’t?”

  A whole bunch of ick is spewed in those few sentences, but when I think about it, she’s right. Last night, Maverick had my body tingling in places I didn’t know existed. And when I went to my room—just kidding, it was still the sofa—I tried to bring those tingles back and finish the job. I couldn’t, if you’re wondering. Part of me was a little scared Maverick would come back out and catch me, and the other part of me wished he would volunteer to rekindle those blessed tingles.

  Maybe I was tired or just too excited that I had finally won a fake million dollars, which I wrote an IOU for and slipped under Maverick’s door. It wasn’t fancy, and I didn’t waste five hundred thousand cards like he probably expected. Instead, I emptied a box of mac and cheese—that I hope he will cook before I get back—and flattened the box, writing: IOU too many favors to count—consider my life yours. Do with me as you wish.

  I thought it was pretty funny, but when Maverick emerged, all devil-like and sweating, I knew he didn’t appreciate my humor first thing in the morning. But it could be he’s just in a bad mood or suffering from a severe case of blue balls. Clearly, he was just as affected as I was. Maybe he too had problems finishing the job last night.

  “Ainsley, did I kill you? Mumble if I need to call an ambulance.”

  I shake off this morning’s encounter with Maverick. “I’m here. What kind of books are you referring to?” May as well be thoroughly grossed out and satisfied. “Like Kama Sutra type stuff?”

  My mom hesitates for a moment. She’s probably shocked I asked her to clarify. “Yeah, those and other instructional type books. The internet works well too.”

  “Mom!”

  “You asked!”

  I take in a deep breath. “You’re right, I did. So do I just go to a sex shop for one of these books?”

  She’s quick to respond. “Personally, I like the brick and mortar bookstores. They have the best selections.”

  Later, I’ll worry about whether she stumbled upon this discovery or if she asked someone to show her the sex section—I know it’s probably called something a little cuter like Women’s Fantasy.

  “Noted. I’ll have to check it out on my way home,” I tell her, already thinking about which store I want to stop at.

  “Are you off tomorrow?”

  I take off my work shoes and throw on a pair of flip-flops to drive in. “Nope. Tucker gave me more hours this week.”

  She hums in the background like she could say something nasty about him but keeps her mouth shut. “Is that cunt still giving you a hard time?”

  I snort. “Mom!”

  I don’t care if she calls Taylor a cunt. She is.

  “A little. Tucker stepped in a few times, so it hasn’t been too bad.”

  “Don’t let that weasel make you think he’s helping you. He’s the reason you’re in this mess in the first place!”

  My mom, the no bullshitter in my life. “I’m not, Mama. I’m just trying to get through the shift so I can pay Mav—Mavis some rent and save for this new house I could possibly be renting when she kicks me out.”

  Don’t judge me. She did not need to hear I was living with another guy after just breaking up with a liar. Remember, she’s not a man’s biggest fan.

  “How much is Mavis charging you? Maybe I can help.”

  I slip off my pantyhose while cranking the car. “She won’t say. Every time I ask her, she just ignores me.”

  “Maybe she’s just a really sweet girl.”

  I smother a snort.

  “Too bad you can’t stay with her through the rest of the semester.”

  I nod, grinning big as my mom goes on about Maverick being a sweet girl. “She likes her space, Mama. You can understand that.” Seeing how she’s always lived alone.

  My mama sighs a deep and disappointed sigh. “I suppose. Maybe give her what you can in rent, and perhaps she’ll change her mind and let you stay.”

  Or she’ll throw a hellacious packing party so that I’m out in a matter of minutes.

  “Maybe,” I agree. “Kiss Opie for me. I’ll call you later. Love you!”

  “Love you too, sweetie. I’ll send you some author names of these books and you can look them up later.”

  God, no. “It’s okay. I’m sure I can find something on my own.”

  Find one I did. This two-hundred-and-ninety-five-page instructional manual on pleasuring my vajayjay embarrassed the utter shit out of me when I bought it. The dude behind the register said it was really informative, though, so I let the embarrassment go. I’m going to do me. Literally.

  I knock on the door of our—Maverick’s apartment. He still hasn’t given me a key, and that’s fine. It’s a good reminder that our arrangement is temporary. Often, I find myself getting too comfortable with our shared space and his lips.

  I bang again, placing my ear to the door like the first time I stood behind it. “Maverick! Open the door. I swear I won’t use your deodorant again. It was only one time!”

  Gah, he’s such a sourpuss about his stuff.

  A blaring alarm sounds just as I raise my hand to knock again.

  Wait. I know that sound. It’s the smoke detector.

  “Maverick!”

  Oh shit. He’s going to burn to death.

  I look around the hallway. Empty. “Help—”

  My cry is cut off by a door opening and a hand covering my mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he says all breathily, pulling me in and locking the door behind us.

  “What’s going on?”

  I notice a pot on the stove—my precious macaroni noodles overflowing and burning on the stovetop. He was making it for me but why is—

  “Help me shut this fucking thing up.” He shoves a towel in my hand. For a moment, I just stand there, taking in his wet shirt and pale skin, shaking as he fans the smoke with enough force to barely move a feather.

  I tug on his shirt. “Let me fan. I have more experience with fires than you do.”

  I expect an argumentative comment or at least a laugh, not a grim nod and acceptance. Moving a chair, I step up and take his place, fanning as hard as I can while Maverick turns off the stove and tosses the pot into the sink. After a few seconds, I have the alarm quieted, and notice Maverick is leaning against the counter, looking like death.

  “Are you okay?”

  I push the chair back under the table and take a few steps until he stops me by holding his hand up. “I’m fine, just tired. Can you just order pizza or something tonight?”

  His voice sounds weird. Is this what tired Maverick sounds like? I don’t think so. It sounds like he’s sick.

  “Sure. No problem. Can I get you anything?”

  He really does look like death.

  He shakes his head. “I’m just going to lie down.”

  I agree. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Hopefully, it helps.

  He nods and brushes past me without so much as another word. Once the door closes, I begin cleaning up the apartment. It’s not too bad, but I don’t want Maverick waking up and finding a pile of dishes and burnt—is this water? Can you burn water?—on the stove.

  One less bra and a lot of elbow grease later, I’m praying I won’t be beheaded as I stack the poker chips on the table in neat, color-coordinated piles. I’ve noticed he likes to mess around with the chips when he’s thinking, so they never stay organized until Wednesday when he has game night. He has instructed me not to call it that—game night. Per him, it’s called poker night, and apparently, he gets all bent out of shape if you make fun of his little get-togethers with his boys.

  I’m almost finished cleaning when his laptop dings with a notification. He never leaves it open. Walking to the coffee table, I lean over and take
a peek. One look won’t hurt. I simply want to know if I can swipe it away and let him rest.

  From the way he looked, he could really use it. I’ve never seen Maverick sick or even less than one hundred percent. He keeps that part of himself hidden away along with his laptop. So him leaving it lying around where I can see it is a big deal.

  I rub the touchpad, and his lock screen comes up, but part of the notification still remains.

  I’ll take your advice and not sell. Keep the 30% in my Roth IRA and the additional 20% we spoke about in mutual funds. I—

  The preview ends, and no matter how much clicking I do, I can’t get in without the password.

  What in the fresh hell?

  Does this guy have the wrong email address? What would Maverick have to do with mutual funds and IRA accounts? I don’t even know what exactly those are. I mean, I do, but not much. I’ve heard of them, though.

  A clattering sound echoes down the hall.

  Jerking up, I close the laptop. “Maverick? Are you okay?”

  My voice carries down the hallway before I follow, placing my hand on the door handle. A million questions race through my head—ones like: What if he’s fine and just rolled off the bed? What if he sleepwalked into the nightstand? Will he be upset if I go into his room?

  I’ve never gone into his room. It’s like willingly walking into the abyss. I don’t know what’s behind that door, but I know it won’t be good for me if I cross the threshold.

  But what if he’s hurt?

  He didn’t look good.

  “Maverick? Just yell that you’re fucking fine, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  I add the word fucking because that’s how he would say it. Not that he was fine but that he was fucking fine and to go away. I’m being realistic here.

  “Ains—” My name sounds strained from behind the door and much like come in and check on me. Don’t you think?

  Twisting the knob, I ease it open. “Maverick,” I warn. “I just want to check—Oh my God!”

  I sprint to Maverick’s side, finding him on the floor, half propped up against the footboard of his bed. His face is ghostly white and sweat soaks his clothes.