IOU: A Romantic Comedy Page 9

  Rumor has it he took all her belongings as collateral.

  “Where’s all your shit?”

  When I get back from lunch, Ainsley is sprawled across the sofa with a blanket and a stuffed—is that a sea lion? What the fuck is she doing with a stuffed sea lion?

  It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s been lying on the couch for the past three hours watching some aquarium reality show when she should be unpacking. See, my ass could not find her a fucking apartment, and to make matters worse, the favor I pulled only got me a “Dude, my dad said that girl is banned from nearly all the complexes around campus. It will take some time.” It was not the answer I was looking for, and that particular favor cost Mike, my mechanic and classmate, another goddamned IOU.

  So I came home, ground out the news, told her to move in her shit, and then proceeded to toss my poker table and all my shit from the spare room into the living room where Ainsley has stayed, unmoving and grating on my last nerve.

  “In my room,” she responds, never looking away from the TV.

  I narrow my eyes, my cheek twitching in frustration. “There’s only three bags in your room.”

  I know because I just looked while she did absolutely nothing. “I’m talking about your furniture. Where’s your bed?”

  Logically, I know she didn’t move it in the past two hours, but shouldn’t she be making plans, or does her plan include sleeping on the floor? Honestly, at this point, I don’t care either way.

  She presses pause on the TV like my questions are disrupting the riveting penguin walk currently transpiring on my fifty-five-inch screen. “I’m going out later to buy an air mattress.” She presses a button on the remote, and her program resumes.

  Don’t get involved, Maverick. Who cares if she sleeps on an air mattress or the floor? Her favor is a place to stay, and it doesn’t include a feather top and box springs.

  “What happened to your old bed? The one you slept on at your other apartment?” I briefly wonder if my mention of her ex fucking her roommate on it turned her off. Again, it doesn’t matter. She’s only staying long enough until Mike’s dad, a realtor, finds me what I need.

  She pauses the show again, but this time she sits up and faces me. “I didn’t realize there would be an interview about what I sleep on. I thought our deal was for the room, not the shit in it.”

  Her words are harsh and biting.

  My dick twitches.

  I contain a smile, scrubbing a hand over my mouth, and nod firmly. “True. Our deal is for a room that you don’t have the money for. ‘Yet.’” I quoted her words when I told her she would stay here for a few days. She was scared she would owe me another favor when she couldn’t pay half of the rent. I didn’t even mention rent. Our deal didn’t include money, just the place to stay, but since she was offering, I was willing to let it play out. Who am I to tell her not to be a decent person? Again, I make a living off fear, and that’s precisely what Ainsley needs right now.

  I let the mask of The Maverick Lexington harden on my face just as my smile turns into a sharp line, my gaze holding her in a greedy headlock. “The way I see it, Ms. James, your only luxury here is my mercy. You’ll answer my questions, or you’ll find yourself on the doorstep of a safe haven. Tell me, do you prefer the church or a fire station?”

  She swallows thickly, her eyes darting around the room before they find their way back to mine—the fight in her wilting away.

  Shame. I like her venom.

  “I don’t need to go back for my bed. It’s just a bed.”

  I stay quiet, holding her eyes, making the silence awkward so she’ll keep explaining.

  “It’s a long story, but don’t worry. I’ll round up some friends and get it soon. The air mattress is only temporary.”

  “So, it’s a matter of muscle?” I finally ask, relieved to know it isn’t because she doesn’t have one.

  Her nod is slow, like she isn’t sure if that’s the answer I’m looking for. “Great. Call them.” I tip my chin to her phone on the coffee table, insinuating she do it now.

  A sound, almost like a laugh and cry mix, bubble out of her throat. “They’re all at work. I’ll call them tomorrow. Promise.” She makes this crossing motion over her heart and flashes me a pleading smile.

  I’ve encountered better attempts at persuasion. Sadly, I don’t win over that easily.

  I shrug, tip my chin, and head back into the kitchen where I hear the sigh of relief before she lies back and presses play, resuming her ridiculous show once again.

  Usually, I’m not one to get involved. I find it rather exhausting taking on other people’s problems, but for some reason, I can’t get those goddamned tears out of my head. I’m doing this for me. I lose enough sleep with my own problems. I don’t need one more thing to keep my head spinning.

  With my back against the counter, I scroll through the numeric contact names based on status, favor, and initials of first and last names. I’m looking for someone in particular. Someone with a truck and more brawn than brains. Someone I paid off a gambling debt for . . .

  I press his contact name, and it rings once, twice—“Maverick.”

  I spare Logan no pleasantries. This is not a social call. He’s not my friend, and since he’s already paid me for the loan, he’s only one favor short of being paid in full. “Meet me at FallsPoint Apartment complex. Bring your truck and some friends.” I hang up before he can blubber out a response and text one more person. Rowan.

  Me: Meet me at FallsPoint Apartments in 15.

  PIF-owehim-RM (Aka Rowan): Need to bring anything?

  Me: No.

  He doesn’t text me back, and I don’t expect him to. Rowan will be there—he and Sebastian are the only loyal friends in my life.

  I slide my phone in my pocket, walking over to Ainsley, who has resumed her fetal position and vacant stare at the TV.

  “Give me your hand,” I bark out, startling her.

  She messes with the blanket, pulling it up to her chin as if it were a shield between us.

  I almost smile. Nothing will protect this girl from me now.

  “I thought you were in the kitchen.” Her shocked expression is cute.

  “Tsk, tsk.” I admonish her. “You should always be aware of your surroundings.”

  She narrows her eyes, a small crease forming in the corner. “But I’m at home.”

  Exactly.

  I snatch the throw from her chest and toss it to the ground, getting my first glimpse of her bare legs. “You should always be aware. Especially at home.”

  I’m the shark, and she’s the unsuspecting sea lion floating lazily in the ocean.

  Eyeing her bare feet, I let my gaze travel slowly up her body, hesitating at the tight clench of her thighs.

  “What are you doing? Give that back!” she shrieks, sitting up and kicking at my legs in anger. Spoiler alert: I like it.

  Grabbing her knees, I hold them still, leveling her with a stern look and trying like hell not to think about the smoothness under my palms. “Are you finished?”

  She swallows. “Yes.”

  I let her knees go and straighten, towering over her. “Give me your hand.”

  She does as I ask, albeit shakily, and extends her arm toward me. I hesitate, waiting for more yelling, kicks, or tears. When all she does is hold her chin higher and her arm out taut, I smother my approval and take her wrist. Silently, I reach with my free hand into my back pocket and produce an eight of spades and a Sharpie.

  “I didn’t ask for another favor!” Her eyes are wide and sharp—the braveness dissipating.

  She may not have asked me for a favor, but she’s getting one anyway. I ignore her and take her hand, flipping it palm up. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t live here and sleep on the floor. I won’t have people thinking you’re a fucking captive.”

  She cringes. “Look, I promise. I will call my friends and get my furniture tomorrow.”

  Too late. I place a card in her hand, sliding my hand al
ong her wrist and then to her forearm, holding her still. “We’ll do it today.”

  Her voice cracks. “We’ll?”

  I take my time scrawling out the three simple letters that will leave her indebted to me even more. “Yes. Put some clothes on.” I close her fingers around the edge of the card and release her arm. “You have five minutes.” And then I walk the fuck away.

  “So . . . I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier.”

  The past few silent minutes have been blissfully appreciated while we head in the direction of her apartment. “About the friends or the furniture?”

  She chews the inside of her cheek, creating something almost like a dimple. “The friends?”

  “Are you not sure?”

  She sighs and looks out the window. “I don’t have any friends to help me move, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have gone back for my furniture.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugs, clearly nervous about telling me. “I don’t want to see them right now.”

  “The exes?”

  I take a sharp left turn, not bothering with a blinker. The motion wrenches Ainsley off the window, grasping the console for support.

  “Yes,” she says, giving me a side-eye. “Do you think you can get us there in one piece?”

  I like this spunk from her. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time. No one gives me this much backtalk or stands up to me anymore. But this girl . . . This girl flips switches I didn’t know I had.

  “Tell me the truth. You wanted to kill them, didn’t you? At least singe some hair.” I’ve seen scorned women. Trust me, Sebastian has evaded quite a few murder plots in his time at Havemeyer.

  She sends me a glare. “I didn’t try to kill them—don’t arch your brow at me like you don’t believe me. You weren’t there! If I wanted to kill them, I would have used the gas from Taylor’s car and Tucker’s Vegas commemorative matches to burn the place down.” See? She thought about it.

  I fight a smile at her descriptiveness. “So you were, what? Clumsy with the candle?”

  Mike told me all about the rumors. Ainsley James, the psycho pyro who almost killed her boyfriend and roommate just because he was there waiting for her to get off from work.

  “You had no idea they were having an affair right under your nose?” I probe for no other reason than to see that spark of fury again. She needs to be tough when she sees them. I don’t want any of those annoying tears when we’re moving her shit out.

  She snaps around to face me. “No! If I knew they were having an affair, I wouldn’t have walked in on them fucking!”

  Women only go crazy for two reasons: a sale and a man, but Ainsley . . . I think she’s just being herself. Not crazy, just extremely passionate.

  “They were even using the condoms from my room.” She leans back with a huff just as we pull into the complex, and I spot Logan’s truck parked in one of the visitor spaces.

  Parking, I turn the car off and stuff the key fob in my pocket. “He’s a piece of shit. Now, come on.”

  Her eyes go wide. “But they’re home,” she argues. “Tucker’s car is right there.” She points to an old BMW sedan.

  “Get out.” My tone holds no room for negotiations. This Tucker asshole is making my days hell just by breathing.

  I get out, and a few seconds later, I hear the passenger door close. “What floor?”

  “Second.” The fire is gone from her words.

  Grunting, I slam my door and round the car, walking toward Logan and the ten guys he brought with him. I give the parking lot a bored gaze before I find who I’m looking for. Rowan. He’s perched on the steps with one knee bent and a lit joint hanging from his lips.

  “Come here,” I snap, aiming my words at Ainsley but my glare at Logan. “Apartment number. . .” I look at Ainsley to fill in the number.

  She mumbles out, “It’s 201.”

  Good enough. I focus on Rowan, who takes one last drag and tosses the blunt on the sidewalk, smashing the lit end with the toe of his boot.

  “Follow me,” I say, brushing past him and leading them all up the steps. I offer no opportunity for questions. Instead, I take the stairs as if I have nothing better to do. I do, and that only adds to my annoyance. This Tucker bitch better steer clear. My mood is not to be fucked with.

  The corridor’s walkway is short and narrow, and if I were the one moving the furniture, I would have groaned at the sight. It’s going to take some maneuvering to get the pieces out and down the stairs without a back injury.

  “Do you have a key?” I ask Ainsley, who is lurking behind one of Logan’s roided-up friends.

  “Uh—”

  I bang on the door with my fist until the door is yanked open and I’m face to face with angry eyes. “Who the fuck are—”

  I shove past the girl who I’m assuming is Taylor and tip my head as an instruction to the idiots behind me to follow.

  “Ah! What are you doing? This is my apartment!”

  I pluck the phone from her hand and hand it back to Rowan. “Ainsley,” I yell. “Show me to your room.”

  I don’t bother looking back at Ainsley. My focus in on the aghast tart in front of me. “She doesn’t live here anymore!” she screams. “Tucker!”

  And . . . I’ve had enough. I only have so much tolerance for bullshit, and I’ve reached my limit. “Scream again, and you’ll be the one banned from this complex.” It’s not a threat. It’s a fucking promise. I may not know the owner of this particular complex, but I have a contact list full of eager clients ready to pay up. It won’t take me long to find who I need.

  Taylor’s annoying whine is silenced when Tucker comes into view, quickly realizing who’s at his front door.

  “This is the guy from Studs and Spuds,” Rowan whispers. I know who he is and what favor he asked for, but still, I find it amusing to pretend I can’t remember his name.

  I nod, acknowledging Rowan, and hold my hand out, looking at Ainsley. “Do I need to repeat the instructions?” It’s a total dick move, but we’re in public, and I am in front of clients. She gets the public Maverick today.

  My comment seems to snap her gaze away from Tucker, and she starts walking forward. I follow, right behind her, leaving Rowan standing guard.

  Her room is light and airy with a lot of blues and yellows. And sea lions. I need to ask her about that. Who still has stuffed animals on their bed?

  “I don’t have any boxes,” she says softly.

  I smother a groan. Why must this be so fucking difficult? “It doesn’t matter. They will carry it piece by piece until it’s all out.” Or I lose my patience and decide to leave it. It’s truly a gamble at this point.

  I wave Logan in, who hovers at the door. “Start taking it all out. Every piece you lose or damage is another favor.” I don’t have time for incompetence.

  He nods curtly. “Understood.”

  Thank fuck. Now to deal with Ainsley, who’s just standing, staring at a picture frame on her dresser. Not again. I take the frame and smash the glass and rip out the photo and shove it in my pocket. “Get your shit, and I’ll let you burn this when we get home.”

  She grins, and something in my chest deflates even though the word home tastes sour coming from my mouth.

  It takes almost three hours before we have all of Ainsley’s shit packed up and moved into my apartment. Tucker and Taylor had sense enough not to speak as we proceeded to clean out anything that Ainsley thought she paid for. We even took the bread from the pantry.

  I thought it was a bit excessive, but it seemed to make Ainsley happy and therefore, would make my night a little less awful.

  “You want a sandwich?” she calls from the kitchen.

  I look at the time on my computer screen. “It’s seven o’clock.”

  She drops the butter knife onto the counter, the clanging sound pulling my gaze from the work I desperately need to get done.

  “Are you too good to eat a sandwich for dinner?” Ah, the fire is back. I was wond
ering how long it would take.

  I shut my laptop. “No, I’m not too good, but I don’t typically eat after six.”

  Her nose scrunches. “Why? Are you afraid you might get fat?”

  Who can I fucking call? Hugh? Would he know how to bribe someone into letting her stay with them?

  “I get indigestion if I eat too late, if you must know.” Why? Why am I telling her this? I don’t owe her an explanation. She’s a guest.

  “But it’s only seven.”

  I let out a deep sigh.

  “A sandwich is fine.”

  She smiles casually as if she won some internal argument. “Okay. I’ll leave the stuff out for you.”

  Rumor has it she tried to burn his apartment down too!

  “How’s it going with the new roommate? What did you say her name was again?”

  Would it be awful if I didn’t tell Bostic Maverick’s name? Would it be sparing him stress if I said Maverick’s name was Mavis? Right. No more lies.

  “His name is Maverick,” I admit.

  Why am I so tense? It’s not like Boss is my mom, who would be very wary of me moving in with a complete stranger who’s known around the campus as a scary mofo. I’m a grown woman—at times—but definitely not the last few days. Honestly, with the way I’ve been acting—crying and eating all the carbs from Mav’s cabinets—I’m scared he’s going to renege on our deal before he finds me an apartment. He says his guy is “working on it,” and I should not get too comfortable, but then he asks why I haven’t unpacked my shit. He’s a weird one.

  Boss hums a non-answer. Does that mean he’s okay with me living with a stranger? If you ask me—which no one is—it’s better to live with a stranger than live in a parking lot.

  “Is he a good guy?” he finally asks.

  Why is he asking hard questions this morning? I shovel in a fork-full of pancake. “Uh-huh.”

  That’s the semi-truth. He hasn’t been entirely awful—at least to me. As for others, I can’t say with certainty.