“How the fuck do you know what I felt?”
“Because when you talk, I listen.”
Oh. “Well, thank you for that.”
She reaches for my hand again. “I care about you, Dean. More than you know.”
I suddenly realize she’s looking at me a certain way. The way a woman looks at you when she has feelings. Relationship-type feelings.
I thought we agreed to just be friends.
I pull my hand away. A girlfriend is not a plate I can spin right now. “Nina, I really don’t want to go there—”
“I can tell you’re about to say something stupid, so just don’t.” She walks over to her front door and opens it. “I haven’t asked you for anything because I don’t expect anything. But right now, I need you to go.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a good friend.” A hot friend, too. Maybe that’s part of the reason I like talking to her. She’s nice to look at. Sort of a bonus. “And you can look at my dick anytime. I mean it.”
She shakes her head. “Jackass.”
I kiss her on the cheek and leave.
CHAPTER THREE
I take the stairs up to my place, a tiny scratching sensation in the back of my brain. Nina’s never been a pushy or preachy chick. It’s why I like hanging out with her. So maybe there’s a reason she thinks I’m biting off more than I can chew.
Even if she’s right, which she’s not, because I’m always right, what does it change? Nothing.
I can’t bail on Flip. Which means I can’t bail on playing football or plan F. I’m not going to make the same mistake of putting all my balls in one basket.
I reach the third floor and get to our door. The apartments here remind me of prison—everything painted in gray or khaki. The balconies and walkways are concrete and open up to unkempt gardens overgrown with weeds, or to the parking lot that encircles the complex. Not a lot of fluff, but the apartments are big. Rent is cheap.
I walk inside our beige-carpeted living room to find Mike sitting on our beat-up navy-blue couch. He’s a big guy, like me, but with blond hair and a leaner body. He’s known as Mr. Smiles because the girls always comment on his “cute smile.” I really don’t see anything special about it. Except that right now, his smile is missing, and he’s leaning forward, his hands clasped together. Probably fought with his girlfriend of the week again. He goes through women like Muscle Milk.
“What’s up?” I ask and go to the fridge in our shit-brown kitchen—stove, fridge, cabinets all brown—searching for a fresh beer.
“Someone’s here to see you. She’s waiting in your room.”
Probably that girl Kari I’ve been texting with from a party I went to last week. I didn’t stay long—wasn’t in the mood to socialize—but she and I flirted for a few minutes over by the keg. I shouldn’t have given her my number because she’s been hitting me up every day.
But why would Mike look worried?
I suddenly hear a baby crying.
With a beer in hand, I pass through the living room on my way to my bedroom. “What’s with the baby?” I ask Mike.
“It’s yours.”
“Funny.” These guys are always playing practical jokes. “I just met Kari, so not likely.”
“I don’t know who the fuck Kari is, but there’s definitely a baby in your room.”
I stop in my tracks. He’s fucking with me. Must be a speaker hidden in there, making all that noise.
“Asshole.” I shake my head and enter my sparsely decorated room. It’s the first door on the left just before the bathroom. The other two rooms are on the right side of the hallway. My room is the only one that doesn’t stink like old socks, but that’s because I keep everything neat—either hanging in the closet or folded in my dresser. I have a chipped-up desk and chair for studying that I got at a secondhand store, but I prefer to study at the library. Mike and Igor like to have girls over and make noise. Noise gets in the way of my tight schedule: Sleep. Work out. Work. Football practice. Study. Repeat.
And speaking of noise… What is that? A baby carrier and a plastic grocery bag are sitting on my king-size bed.
I walk over and look down at the fat little pink thing crying its eyes out.
I go back out to the living room and point to my doorway. “There’s a fucking baby in my room, Mike.”
“Yeah, dipshit. I know.” Mike’s eyes zero in on a thick manilla envelope sitting on our wooden coffee table. “The woman said her name was Marli. She left you that.”
I blink, trying to get a fucking grip on what’s happening. My roommates can be major dicks when it comes to pranks, but that’s a real fucking baby in there. Seems like an extreme prop.