Page 6

Chapter Six

Storm

I was hoping to visit my mother before meeting Gabriel at his house, but I overslept and now I’m running late.

The Uber drops me off in front of the house at 10:07. Less than ten minutes late isn’t so very late. I stare up at the house before going up the walkway. It’s nothing like I expected, considering it looks different from the photos. It’s still nice, not like it’s falling apart or missing the roof, but all those pretty flowers? They’re dead. Every plant out here is rotting and crispy like it hasn’t been watered in years. Nuts, since this is Seattle, and isn’t it supposed to rain all the time? The grass in the yard is overgrown, riddled with weeds, and the gate on the fence is hanging on by one hinge. I don’t touch it as I make my way toward the house. The front door swings open while I’m walking up the stairs, and I pause with my foot on the top step.

“You’re late.”

The guy standing there can’t be much older than me. A few years, maybe. Not the type of guy I’d hang out with. Or rather, not the kind of guy who would want to hang out with me. I’m cool with whoever. Open and carefree. As long as you’re not a douche, we can be cool. I’m not sure what I expected when it came to Gabriel, but this wasn’t it. I thought he’d be some older grumpy guy who’s had a hard life.

This guy looks like he spends his weekends playing Dungeons & Dragons. He’s not ugly though—far from it. His curly hair and thick-framed glasses give him a dorky look, kind of like that guy from the show Numb3rs, but better. He has a defined jaw and full lips that could make him a lot of money. And those eyes… damn, they’re nice. A stormy shade of grey surrounded by thick, dark lashes.

“Uh, yeah… sorry about that. I overslept.”

“You overslept?” he asks accusingly, causing me to pause halfway up the steps.

“Yes…” I respond carefully. Clearing my throat, I add, “I’m not a morning person.”

“Ten am is closer to the afternoon than morning. It’s hardly morning at all,” he huffs out.

I stand there, staring at the guy, unsure what to do. Does he want me to leave? Did I fuck this up too? When he says nothing, I look around, wondering if this is a prank. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“Am I being recorded? Is this a joke?” His brow furrows, and I grin. “It is, right? Like for a TV show? I knew this couldn’t be real. I mean, what kind of person gets upset over a toilet seat?” I huff out a laugh as I finish walking up the steps, but when I reach the door, he’s glaring. “Oh…” I take a step back, fearing he’s about to throw a punch. The last thing I need is a black eye. He doesn’t look like the fighting type, but he does look angry.

“This was a bad idea,” he mutters, then slams the door shut right in my face, causing a gust of air to rustle my hair.

Well, I definitely fucked that up.

I run a hand through my hair and look out at the street. Part of me wants to walk away and say fuck it, but another part of me can’t do it. I hate how much I need this. So I suck up my pride and knock on the door.

He opens it, still glaring. I put on my best smile. I’ve been told it’s a good one. Award-winning. Let’s see if it can win this guy over.

“Look, I’m sorry. I want to apologize for what I just said. I have this issue where I speak before I think, and it gets me into trouble sometimes.”

He narrows his eyes, still standing there without a word. It’s then I realize he’s dressed like a teacher. Khaki pants, light blue shirt, navy blue vest. The outfit isn’t fitting to his age, but what the hell do I know?

“I promise to put the toilet seat down?” I say sheepishly, pulling my shoulders up to my ears. All I’ve got going for me at this point is my charm. If that doesn’t work, I’m royally screwed.

He looks upwards, muttering under his breath. Something about someone murdering him and hiding the body? Sounds weird, but definitely what I heard.

“Come in,” he growls, stepping aside.

I smile at him as I step inside, blowing out a breath of relief that I don’t see any lampshades made of skin.

“This is nice,” I comment.

It’s also spotless and minimally furnished, set up like a showroom and not somewhere livable. But again, no skin-lamps.

“You’re late.”

I turn toward him slowly, raising a brow.

“Yeah, we went over this already. I apologized,” I say as kindly as I can.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer before dragging it down my body and back up in a slow perusal.

I’m used to people checking me out. I make porn for a living and have for many years. All people know me for is my body. I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not embarrassed. But the way he’s looking at me? It has my skin tingling in the strangest way. There’s something about the intrigued look in his eye, like he’s seeing a man for the first time. No one has ever looked at me like that before.

“Are you… going to kill me or something?” I joke.

He rears his head back. “God no. Do you know the kind of mess that makes?”

I frown. “Do you?”

“Yes, actually. I’d considered becoming a crime scene tech, but decided against it for that exact reason.”

Right…

“So, what do you do instead?”

Good job, Storm. Be nice to the guy. Get to know him. Make this all about him. Feed into his ego, make him like you. I totally got this.

“I work in an emergency room lab.”

“That sounds interesting,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going. Maybe if he realizes I’m a normal person, he’ll chill out. The guy is wound pretty tight. Hopefully he isn’t like this all the time and just nervous over meeting someone new.

“Only when samples come back with rare or confusing results.”

“Because you like when people are sick?”

“No, because I like the science behind it. I don’t see the people. I see science.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, I guess I can see why that would be cool.” I shrug. “I didn’t do well in school,” I admit. “Only class I ever got better than a C in was gym.” I chuckle.

“I figured as much.”

What the fuck?

He turns on his heel and heads out of the small living room. I’m still trying to put my head on straight after he insulted me.

I follow after him, entering the kitchen that is just as neat and tidy as the living room. The silver appliances sparkle. The windows don’t have a speck on them. Everything I’ve seen so far is decorated in white and creams, giving the house an almost clinical vibe.

At this point, I’m wondering if this is a good idea. I’m not very neat. I’m as messy as they come. Not dirty, I don’t leave messes that can cause bugs, but I misplace shoes and never know which clothes are dirty versus clean. This guy looks like he’d have an aneurysm if I so much as dropped a bread crumb on the floor. He’s already freaking out over the toilet seat, and I haven’t even left it up yet.

What if he starts following me around with Lysol spray and paper towels? Like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory when people are sick… That would be terrifying and intolerable. But this place is perfect. I don’t want to give it up. I can be neater. I can clean. And if I get sick, I’ll find somewhere else to stay.

Gabe grabs the electric kettle, fills it with water, and puts it on. Then he grabs two mugs from the cabinet, tea bags, and sugar. He’s making us both a cup of tea.

How… domestic.

“So, I wanted to thank you for giving me this opportunity,” I say brightly.

He continues doing his thing, acting like I’m not here. His back is to me. His shirt hugs his broad shoulders, making it look like it’s tailored. His clothes aren’t cheap, which makes me wonder why he needs a roommate at all.

“I know I may seem like a mess, but I promise I’m not. I’ll behave,” I add.

There’s a shake of his head, but he still doesn’t say anything. It’s making me uncomfortable, and that takes a lot. I’ve done a lot of weird shit in my life. I don’t get uncomfortable. But this… he’s testing me.

“Look, if you don’t want me here, you can just say it. I’ve got a lot of stuff going on and need a place to stay, and if this isn’t it, I’d like to know as soon as possible.” I give him some truth because pretending to be a bubbly nice guy isn’t cutting it.

Gabriel tenses before placing both palms on the counter and leaning forward. He sighs heavily. When he turns to look at me, there’s a mask in place. He no longer looks frantic and concerned. He’s all put together. It’s creepy how he did that. Like something a psycho sociopath would do. I swear, if this guy kills me and wears my skin around his house, I will come back to haunt his ass.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though it’s forced. Robotic almost. “Sharing my house isn’t easy for me. My space is… safe. I’m terrified of someone coming in and messing it up.”

“I won’t do that,” I say quickly, shaking my head.

He nods. “I appreciate that. You seem like you’re being genuine, and I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t afford the place by myself.”

“Can I ask why?” I carefully ask.

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy that shares personal stuff, or talks much at all, but if I can make him comfortable with me, if I can make him trust me, this will be easier for both of us.

“Because the mortgage and other bills are more than I make,” he says simply, as if I didn’t already figure that part out. I’m not that dense. Basic math and common sense are things I can handle.

“No, I mean, why suddenly? Did your job change? Did you just buy this place?”

He frowns, looking away and chewing on his lip.

“I had a recent breakup,” he answers slowly, almost like he isn’t sure he should have said it.

“Oh… shit, I’m sorry.”

“No need. I can only blame myself.”

I open my mouth to ask why. What did he do to cause a breakup? I’m a nosey fucker, and I want to know. But the kettle whistles and he gets busy making the tea while I take another look around.

There are minimal decorations on the walls, nothing but a clock shaped like a spoon hanging on the wall beside me. The tablecloth on the dinner table is white, a basic salt and pepper shaker placed in the middle, along with a napkin holder full of napkins. It’s set in front of a bay window that looks into the backyard. That table doesn’t look like it’s used much, set further back in the room that I guess is supposed to be the dining room. The fridge has nothing on it. No photos, no magnets—nothing. All the appliances are stainless steel and there isn’t a single fingerprint or smudge. I move to the small table that is a few feet from the archway, and across from the kitchen counters to take a seat.

Everything is clean, new, and expensive. He’s making tea. He works. He seems nice enough. Not like a party guy. Can’t imagine him cheating. He’s low key—quiet. If I were a relationship guy, I’d want someone like him. A homebody. I can tell just by looking at the guy that he’s probably never gone to a club. Likely doesn’t visit bars either. Doubt he goes out at all, unless it’s work or to the store to get things he needs. Isn’t this the type of guy all women want? Men too. My thoughts are interrupted when he puts a steaming mug in front of me.

“It’s chamomile. Good for anxiety. I have a cup every day.”

He takes the empty seat across from me. I look down at the mug that’s filled with golden liquid. It looks like piss. There are a lot of things I’m into, but that ain’t one of them. Pretty sure this isn’t his piss though. I’d have noticed if he whipped his dick out. It’s hard to miss one of those.

“I’m not typically a tea drinker, but I’ll try it.” I reach for the handle and bring it to my mouth to blow on it.

“May I ask why you’re so interested in this house? I’ll admit, your enthusiasm is unnerving.”

I chuckle, leaning back in the chair. I put my mug down because it’s too hot to drink.

“It’s close to where my mother is.”

“Oh,” he says, as if he’s shocked. “You can’t stay with her?”

I thought my mouth was bad, but his is worse. This guy doesn’t have a filter. Bet he gets himself in all kinds of trouble.

“No, that’s not an option, but I want to be close. She’s at… well, she lives near the rehab facility. Green Willow.”

I’m not quite prepared to open up and tell him all my truth. Not with the way he blurts things out and seems to not understand boundaries. Also, I just don’t want to talk about it.

“Green Willow smells like rotting corpses and bad cheese.” He picks up his mug and takes a small sip.

I huff out a laugh. “The accuracy of that statement is stunning.”

He smiles, staring down at his mug. “It’s a gift.”

“And a curse, I bet.”

“You’d be right.” He taps the side of his mug, then looks up at me with a more serious look. “I’d like to offer you to stay here on a trial basis, if that’s okay? Ninety days. I need help with the bills, but I can be a bit much, so I wouldn’t want to force you to stay here if you can’t handle it—handle me.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad. You made me tea.” I point to it and smile.

He smiles too, but it’s sad. “I can be a lot,” he repeats.

Damn. Who hurt this guy?

“Okay,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Trial sounds good. I can pay you all three months up front.”

He frowns, eying me cautiously. “What do you do for work?”

Ah, the million dollar question.

“I’m not sure you want to know the answer to that question.”

“Do you sell drugs?”

“No.”

“Murder for hire?”

“No.”

“Are you a prostitute?” He whispers that one, and I hold back my laugh.

“No.” His eyes stay on me, and I see the gears turning in his head. “I’m a content creator.”

I go with the simple answer.

“Like those social media people?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ve heard they make a decent amount of money. It’s not for me though. I hate the camera and don’t want to talk to anyone.” He takes another sip. “Also, I don’t even have social media, so I wouldn't know where to begin.”

Who the hell doesn’t have social media in this day and age? Though, this could work out in my favor. At least I don’t have to worry about him finding out who I am.

“It’s not so bad. Good money.”

He shrugs, then lifts his mug. “How quickly can you move your things in?”

I scratch the back of my head. “Don’t have much with me and it’s all at the hotel, mostly still packed. I can have it all here tomorrow.”

“I’ll write up the contract starting for tomorrow then.” He nods emphatically.

“I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon with my stuff, a check, and a pen ready to sign.”

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. What could possibly be wrong with what I said now? “I’ll provide the pen. I have a specific fountain pen with Noodler’s Bernanke ink. Perfect for contract signing—doesn’t smudge.”

On the outside I’m smiling. Internally, I’m fucking terrified.