GENRE: Romantic Comedy
SYNOPSIS: He kissed my nose. Mine, Kennedy Somers. In this moment there is no doubt of my love for him. I know, the significance of this isn't exactly glaringly evident, but if you knew how I feel about this particular facial feature, you'd realize how monumental this information is.
Graham Malone is my roommate, my personal eye candy, the reason I get up in the morning smiling (that could be from the illicit dreams I have about him too, I suppose. Let's move on.). He's also beautiful to look at, but his heart is where his true beauty lies. Take away the exterior and the interior still shines.
I love him. I mean, I'm pretty sure I do, having never been in love before. Anyway, it seems legit.
I haven't quite gotten around to letting him know that, because, ya know, feelings? Feelings suck.
And now his brother Blake is here, and, well, he's the complete opposite of Graham. Sarcastic, brooding, and totally available. But he's leaving soon, and Graham's the one I want. I shouldn't have to remind myself of this, right? I wouldn't have to if Blake would quit looking at me like I'm something yummy and he's starving.
So, yeah, there's that. Decisions. I seriously hate decisions. They reek of maturity. I hate maturity. I hate a lot of things, I guess, but neither of them are called Blake or Graham. These two are too likable...maybe lovable. Ugh. I need wine. Can someone bring me wine?
Here's a toast to roomies; the ones you should never fall in love with. Or something.
About the Author
Lindy Zart has been writing since she was a child. Luckily for readers, her writing has improved since then. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband, two sons, and one cat. Lindy loves hearing from people who enjoy her work.
“I'm going to puke!” I scream, but I think my laugh takes away the seriousness of that comment.
“Face away from the bike!” he yells over his shoulder.
I laugh even harder, squeezing my legs and arms tighter around his hard body. Maybe it is the combination of cigarettes and his deodorant, but Blake smells like cloves. I like the smell of cloves, hence I like the smell of him.
I don't want to know how fast the bike is going. In the daylight, I noticed it was black, close to the ground, and said Harley Davidson on its side, which was enough information for me. The bike is so loud and my whole body is continually jarred from the power of the engine, but I love it. I've never done anything like this before. The most exciting thing I can recall participating in is going on a week-long RV trip with my mom and dad when I was fourteen, and yeah, that was pretty lame—especially in comparison to this. Speed is sexy, I have determined.
I let go of his waist and hold my arms out at my sides with my head back. The sun is warm on my face, the air around us cool and strong. I close my eyes and let my mind go blank, simply enjoying the moment of freedom. Oh yeah. I am a rebel. I should totally get a shirt saying that. Then everyone would know with just a glance at my chest how badass I really am—and how small my breasts are, I guess. Maybe I should rethink that.
The hours merge and seem endless on the bike at the same time they are over too quickly. He pulls the motorcycle into the parking lot of a diner, the engine abruptly cutting off. It is unnaturally quiet after listening to it roar for the past how many hours. I slowly get off the bike, my legs weak. Pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head, I brush tangled wisps of blonde hair from my mouth and grin at Blake.
“I like how you're more concerned with the bike getting vomit on it than you are you.”
“I got my priorities straight.” He lights a cigarette, looking like a hot biker dude with his dark hair, sunglasses, and black jacket, which...I suppose he is. His hair is windswept and chaotic, which is alluring as heck.
“Have you heard of this place?” I ask, taking in the red building with a wall of windows and a worn-looking metal sign that reads 'Betsy's'. A lone forest green car sits in the parking lot, looking lonely.
Blake squints as he takes in the run-down restaurant. “Nah. But, ya know, gotta take risks and all that.”
“Not with your food,” I point out.
He flashes a grin. “I'll eat the food if you do.”
“Are you challenging me?”
“Are you scared?” The smoke from his cigarette curls over to me, its wispy tendrils connecting us in a smoke-infused haze. Usually turned off by the smell of cigarettes, I am strangely notby his. Although, it could just be him.
“No. Only clowns scare me. What kind of cigarettes are those?”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “The bad kind. Why? You gonna give it a go again? Reactivate the bad habit?”
“You just never know. I wasn't born a quitter.” I begin to walk toward the building, deciding today is a day about living on the edge, even if that edge is covered in unknown food substances.
“You're scared of clowns?” he asks as he joins me.
I scowl. “Don't you dare tell anyone.”
“Never crossed my mind.”