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Chapter Fifteen

"Fine, deal." We don't have time to sort out details right now because we've already been up here a suspiciously long time and I really don't want my parents coming up to check on us.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Quintin drops his hands and they all disperse into their rooms. I kind of want to peek inside their rooms since they've all seen the inside of mine, but now isn't the time.

Maybe I can get them to invite me into their personal spaces at some point. If I suggest a little sexy time on their beds, would they really say no?

As my boyfriends come out of their rooms still zipping their jeans, I realize I've watched them pull down their sweatpants, but I've always been so wrapped up in my post-orgasm haze I haven't paid attention to the part where they get dressed again after.

Maybe we do have an extra couple of minutes to spare. If we're quick. And extra quiet.

I shake my head to dislodge the thought. I'd rather have enough time to really enjoy myself. Plus, we really have been up here a lot longer than we should have been.

I lead the group of them back downstairs.

There's a shuffling sound and when they come into view, my parents are standing weirdly straight and stiffly, and I'm certain they were snooping through the box of random stuff I'd cleared off the front hall table.

I hope they haven't found anything embarrassing.

I don't think there were any sex toys in there.

Pretty sure I'd remember if I threw any in.

Yikes, we need to leave now .

"Ready?" I ask, my voice coming out higher than normal. I open the door for everyone to file out quickly, and hope any awkwardness stays behind and we can get through lunch without any trouble.

My parents hurry outside. I'm not sure if they're also feeling the tension, or if they're just hungry and ready for lunch.

"Yeah," my boyfriends grumble as they troupe out the door behind my parents.

Moving to the front of the pack, I lead my parents down the street in what I'm pretty sure is the direction of the restaurant.

I keep the conversation light, hoping they forget about how they disapprove of my roommates' careers, and focus on things they actually want to talk about.

Such as their drive in today, and all their neighborhood gossip.

I'm not ignoring the guys, or punishing them for tagging along on our little lunch outing.

I'm just distracting my parents from asking about how our living together is going.

They might have agreed to keep the fact that we're sleeping together a secret, but that's not to say they won't accidentally let something slip and end up with my parents shifting from conversation to interrogation.

We file into the restaurant and suddenly I get the overwhelming feeling that this whole thing is about to become even more of a disaster.

"Table for eight," I tell the host. Hopefully they have enough space to push a few tables together for us without too much of a wait. Otherwise, we'll have to choose a different place to go, and probably will have to drive there since my parents claim public transport makes them nervous.

"Actually we have a reservation under Miles," says Miles, stepping around us.

"Of course," says the host, "right this way." They weave through the tables to the back of the restaurant, stack of menus in hand.

My parents follow immediately, but I grab Miles' arm and slow him down, bottlenecking the rest of our roommates behind us.

"You called ahead?" I'm shocked that he thought ahead and I hadn't. I'd been so preoccupied with ensuring my parents don't learn my secret, I hadn't even considered how hard it could be for the restaurant to seat eight people.

"It's lunchtime," points out Miles, looking back at our roommates. "And there are kind of a lot of us."

I want to say more, to thank him and tell him what he did was thoughtful, but we've arrived at a large round table and now I'm distracted worrying about the seating arrangement. It will be hard to keep my parents separated from the guys with this too cozy layout.

It's not that I don't trust my roommates.

It's just that aside from their live streams, I've only heard them talk about fucking me, so the options for conversation seem to be gaming—which my parents wouldn't enjoy—or fucking—which neither my parents nor I would enjoy at this moment.

Well, my parents wouldn't enjoy it at any moment, and while I've recently been coming around to the topic, it's not on my list of things I want to talk about in a restaurant with my parents.

As soon as we've ordered, the interrogation I feared begins. Although at least I'm their first victim, not my roommates.

"How's the writing going, honey?" asks Dad, trying to sound supportive in spite of the fact that I know he wishes I would give up my dream of writing full-time.

All five of my roommates' heads turn in my direction, and they sit up straighter, leaning in for details of this part of my life that they're not aware of.

"Good." I want so much to look over at them, but I resist. Instead, I take a quick sip of my water as I brace myself to brush off something I would normally love to talk about. "My critique partners are really enjoying my new chapters, so I'm quite pleased."

"That's good news," says Dad, oblivious to my desire to change the subject to almost literally anything else. "And they're being helpful with advice?"

It's so generic and unspecific, I can't help but smile.

At least Dad's trying to be involved in my writing career, even though he would rather I pick a "normal" job, something that he'd actually understand.

He wants me to have consistency in my life.

A regular paycheck. Clear, easily defined achievements.

Working for someone else and barely getting by is something he understands.

Deciding to be an author, especially a romance author, not so much.

But at least he's still showing me he cares by trying to be supportive.

"Very," I assure him.

Dad drums his fingers on the table. "And you're still meeting regularly?"

"Every week in the same place," I add, treating the conversation as seriously as possible given how vague and boring his questions are.

He doesn't know what to ask me because he doesn't really want full details.

"It's good to have that consistency to hold us accountable and ensure we hit our goals.

Breaking them down so they're manageable. "

"Good, good." Dad nods and sips his water. "Consistency is key."

Mom shifts in her seat, turning toward me as if about to ask a question.

I steel myself for her to shift the topic away from my writing to god knows what.

Maybe which of my old classmates are engaged, or which of them just got promoted.

She seems to think I should be jealous of them or feel bad that we're living life so differently.

I don't want what they have. I don't want to get engaged to some guy I had barely interacted with in high school, or to be the manager of a team of people I used to ride the bus with.

I want to be a successful author, living in the city, having experiences I couldn't find in my small hometown.

Like living and sleeping with five famous gamers I met through a flyer.

But before Mom can say whatever she was planning to say, Miles speaks up.

"You never told us you're a writer," he says, almost accusingly.

I lick my lips nervously. This was part of what I'd wanted to avoid.

"You never asked." I don't entirely blame them, but there's a power difference between us in the house, and even if I wanted to tell them what I do—which I really didn't—there hasn't exactly been an opportunity, on account of almost all of our interactions being exclusively sexual in nature.

"If you're so ashamed of what you're writing that you don't want to tell anyone," says Mom, "maybe you shouldn't be writing it."

I sigh deeply. This old argument . "I'm not ashamed of writing romance. I merely don't want to make others uncomfortable with it."

Because I'm more than aware of how uncomfortable it makes my parents. Dad tells people I write sweet romance books, even though my next book will be super spicy. Mom, on the other hand, doesn't tell anyone what I do for a living here, just that I'm "chasing my dreams"

"Isn't the fact that it makes others uncomfortable a sign that you should pursue a different career?" says Mom. "Jodie down the street was just saying the other day that the real estate company she does accounting for is looking for a new receptionist. You'd be great at something like that."

"I don't want to be a receptionist. I'm an author," I repeat for at least the hundredth time. I am a little impressed at their ability to suggest a different job each time, I have to admit. Very creative of them.

"You didn't even tell your roommates what you do for a living," argues Mom.

"Didn't you have to disclose your job to them when you applied for the room so they'd know if you could cover your share of the rent?

Are you just making up jobs now so you don't have to tell people what you're really doing? "

Yikes. How am I supposed to respond to that?

"I tell people I work from home, and most people are so blasé about jobs they don't really ask for any of the details." All of this is true. Like my stories, the fibs I've been telling lately are always a little bit based on real life.

Our food arrives and I'm crossing my fingers that it brings a change in conversation, but as soon as the waiter steps away, my roommates are right back on the subject.

They've chosen the worst possible time to take an interest in my life for the first time ever.

If we were at home alone, I could use sex to distract them, but that's not an option in the middle of a restaurant with my parents right here.