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CHAPTER SIX

Rumor has it she was caught stalking her ex.

Ainsley

O kay, I am that desperate.

One hundred and twenty-five percent that desperate.

After I endured the longest bitchfest ever, by two grown-ass men, I hightailed it out of class and across to the bulletin board outside of Morgan Hall.

If you need used sheets and cat toys, they have you covered.

If you’re like me and need a room, the board was fresh out. Just like my options.

I have no choice.

We all witnessed this, right?

Frank is a no-go.

The firehouse is a big nightmare, not to mention they could get into big trouble allowing me to crash there.

Then there’s my car—loyal but not very comfy, but still an option. I just might have to find a better parking spot—aka hide from Boss. He won’t go for me sleeping there for the rest of the semester.

And then there’s Maverick Lexington—granter of all the things. Or so I’ve heard. If the rumor is real, and he really needs a roommate, I might be able to solve my problem quickly. If the rumor is untrue, I’ll ask for a favor. Heaven knows I could use one—or five—right about now .

I mean, how bad could it be?

He probably just wants someone to do his homework or wash his car.

I’m not proud. I could totally handle that.

I put my car in park and stare at the white-washed building.

Typical and basic.

Those are the words that come to mind when I take in my potential home.

Surprisingly, with all the rumors that have circulated around Maverick, I feel like it should look something more like Elsa’s castle—frozen and cut off from the outside world.

Not a decent, mid-scale apartment complex.

It could use a little color and some shrubbery, but it looks clean and well maintained.

And really, that’s all I need—clean sheets in a dick-bag free zone.

I get out and check the text, verifying that I am at the right place. How awkward would that be? I’d probably be banned from this complex if I knocked on a stranger’s door, begging for a favor. I think most places frown on scaring their residents.

But that’s what the text from Maverick says.

At least, I think it’s Maverick. Considering I didn’t know where he lived, I did what most sane people would and stalked him on social media.

Which, in all honestly, was relatively disappointing.

His social media profile consisted of a picture of a playing card and his phone number.

No cute selfies or photos of his dog graced his page—just that one single picture and his first name.

Maverick is a man of few words, apparently.

I grab my bag and debate if I should text him that I’m here. He didn’t seem very responsive when I asked if I could talk to him with a little heart emoji. The text was cute and friendly, but it was returned with an address—nothing more. Not even an emoji.

So I’m going with not texting and just showing up. Hopefully, he’s here. It never crossed my mind that I could be walking into a different Maverick’s apartment. Surely there isn’t another one with a playing card as his trademark. That would be insane.

But then again, I never thought Taylor would have banged Tucker on my good throw—people surprise you .

I stride up the pathway and up the stairs to the apartment listed on the text.

I don’t know what I expected to find—maybe a dropbox for your soul?

Certainly not the underwhelmingly plain door.

Perhaps I have the wrong apartment? However, the nerves in my belly warn me that looks can be deceiving.

It’s his apartment. The stale quiet of the empty hallway gives it away.

Most complexes who rent to students are lively and loud.

But not this one. This one gives off a secretive vibe.

Like you need a code word to enter the real complex that lurks behind plain doors.

Or maybe, the quietness can contribute to the level of fear that living with the rumored devil is, plus a thousand.

They could be scared to death to make a peep.

A few months back, I heard about this one guy who had made a deal with Maverick and had to quit the football team to become Maverick’s security due to the flurry of death threats he received from family members.

I can’t remember his name, but I bet with a little snooping online, I could find it.

The point is, deals with Maverick have been rumored to ruin lives and destroy families.

But the way I see it, I don’t have anything left for him to ruin.

My mom is the only family I have, and she would never let us be torn apart.

She will most certainly be upset with the decision I’m making, but she’s my mother. She’ll have to forgive me.

Besides, I’ve never paid much mind to rumors anyway.

They aren’t true ninety-nine percent of the time—at least about me.

So I doubt all the rumors about Maverick are either.

Though, I imagine some rumors hold a kernel of truth.

For example, I’m not a pyro, nor did I try to set my apartment complex on fire.

But I did set the curtains on fire. So see, some truths are hidden in the rumors—which does not make me feel better standing at Maverick’s door.

If the rumors have any truth to them, then he’s not a nice guy.

Deep breath. You can do this, Ainsley. All you have to do is knock on the door.

I eye the intimidating door once more, noting at closer inspection streaks through stained handprints just below the handle. Are they the tears of his victims? Were they begging for their lives? Their friends’ lives?

It's perfectly sane that I’m here, right? It’s sane that I’m desperate enough to offer up anything Maverick chooses, just for a place to stay. Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy when they do things. I do. So this can’t be crazy.

Granted, I haven’t thought about the possibility of Maverick turning me down.

It’s not like there is a rule book or something.

I tried to find out more online, but we all know how that went.

And asking his victims—I mean, his clients—wouldn’t have gotten me the truth.

If there has ever been one consistent rumor, it’s been that no one talks about Maverick Lexington’s favors.

You thought I was going to say Fight Club, didn’t you?

Either way, there’s a really good chance I’m wrong, and Maverick will call the cops or vanquish me straight to hell with his other minions.

Worse, he could invite me in for a drink and a blow job.

I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t grant my favor after seeing the horrific sight of me gagging around his dick like I had food poisoning.

Sucking dick is not my forte. I never got good at it, and Tucker never really cared.

So it’s not on my sexual résumé. It’s one of those things I would need an online class for.

Sleeping with him, though—even if he’s a geek behind an iPad—might not be too horrible.

Not like I'm a whore or anything, but I'm just saying that might not be the worst thing in the world for a woman scorned. It’d be like a nice little fuck you to Tucker with an orgasm on top, but that's beside the point.

The point is, there are so many rumors surrounding Maverick that I could be walking into an ambush.

I have no idea who is going to answer this door or what they will say.

What if this whole card thing is a scam?

I mean, what if it's some old geezer who gets his rocks off making up rumors on the online campus forum? It could happen. This could be a whole catfish scam for all I know, but I’m desperate, and Bostic is not going to allow me to keep sleeping in my car and lying.

Besides, I'm not a person who lies on the regular. The fact that I’ve probably told more lies now than I ever have before is not doing good things for my soul.

Truthfully, the two guys who mentioned Maverick was looking for a roommate could be full of shit.

But I’m going to knock anyway. Even if it is some old dude behind this door, I'm going to offer up my soul, or whatever it's going to take, and I'm going to beg.

Even if I have to get down on my knees and do it.

I need a place to stay. I can't go home.

I'm not willing to admit defeat to Tucker and Taylor.

They do not get to dictate my future at this university. This is my life, and I have control.

I am in control.

I curl my fingers into a fist and contemplate just pounding on the door like some guy would do, but I don’t because he may come out ready to fight, and then things would only get awkward.

I'm just going to be a girl and rap a few dainty times. Maybe he’ll have a little compassion seeing as I’m a lowly desperate girl.

Lightly, I rap on the door and then pause.

Dammit. I didn’t knock hard enough. Should I knock one more time or leave it?

Great, now I’m obsessing. I should have knocked like I was the police.

Fine, I’ll just give it another minute and put my ear to the door like most sane humans.

You know it’s not that crazy of an idea.

If I hear footsteps, I'll know my knocking was loud enough. If I hear nothing in the next sixty seconds, I’ll knock again but harder.

With my ear to the door, I strain to hear. Nothing clatters, nothing groans, it’s just silent. And right when I pull back to knock again, the deadbolt clicks. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. He’s unlocking the door—or someone is unlocking the door.

I step back just as the door swings open with force, and a rock-hard body fills up the empty space. My gaze starts at the top, noting the firm grip he has on the molding. The muscles strain against his taut skin, flexing as he leans forward, cocking his head to the side. His face?—

Oh shit.

This is bad—really, really bad .

“Oh no.”

His scowl curves up into a lazy grin.