Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“More than?” She touches the necklace she’s wearing. It’s a gold chain with diamonds. Amie doesn’t like yellow gold, she prefers white. I’m assuming the necklace was a gift from her thoughtful, clueless fiancé.

“So much more.”

She swallows her mouthful of lettuce and leans in close. “How much more?”

I have no idea why Amie is so interested in the size of Bancroft’s penis. “Are you asking me for approximate dimensions?”

She nods once. I look around the table for things that might be comparable. There’s nothing. “Wider than a toilet paper roll and about yay long.” I hold my hands apart and then widen the gap a bit until I get it just right.

“Wow,” Amie breathes. “Wasn’t that . . . uncomfortable?”

“He’s incredibly adept at foreplay.”

Her cheeks flush pink and she looks down at her salad, pushing the dry leaves around.

“It’s never too late to trade in your current model for one with more girth, or length, or both.” I spear a fry and bite the end off.

Amie snorts and brings her hand to her mouth, eyes darting around, embarrassed the sound came out of her, maybe. I miss the version of my friend who cared less about what people think. We should’ve gone to a non-posh restaurant so we wouldn’t be forced to have this conversation in embarrassed whispers. I wish I cared less, too.

It’s half past two in the afternoon by the time I get home—or back to Bancroft’s condo. I’m nervous now. I’ve been enjoying the sex bubble we’ve been living in, but Amie has a point, we have to talk, and I have to make a plan to move out. I sincerely hope I haven’t read things wrong and that this is about more than sex. I think it is. Our conversations up until now have me hoping it is.

The condo is the same as when I left it, which means Bancroft still isn’t home. I should probably wash the sheets after last night’s sexcapades. I stop at Francesca’s cage first. She’s been fed recently, by the look of things. Maybe Bancroft did it before he left for his emergency meeting.

“Hi, pretty girl.” I nuzzle her head and carry her down the hall.

When I get to Bancroft’s room I notice the bed isn’t quite how I left it. It’s still unmade, but there are a few items of clothing littering the mattress, namely the components that make up a suit. And his closet door is open.

My stomach does a little flip and I return to the kitchen, rummaging through my purse until I find my phone. I missed a call from him about twenty minutes ago. There’s a voice mail.

“Hey. Hi, Ruby. Uh . . . look, I’m at the airport. I have to go back to London, there’s an issue I need to take care of. I don’t really know when I’m going to be back, but we need to talk and it probably isn’t a phone conversation . . .”

There’s a brief pause and a sigh.

“We need to make some adjustments with our arrangement. This has all happened a bit faster than I expected. I think maybe . . . Fuck. I’ll try to call when I’m in London.”

My stomach feels like it’s trying to jump out of my throat. This doesn’t sound good. I sit down at the island and note the envelope propped up against the bananas. I blush at the memory of what I did with one yesterday afternoon in a bid to distract Bancroft when he was busy with a phone call. It resulted in me being bent over the island, spanked, and then fucked.

The envelope has my name on it in his messy scrawl. I open it and find a wad of cash. Sliding the bills out I count it, twice. Jesus. He’s left me five thousand dollars. I try to rationally analyze the exorbitant amount of money, but based on the message it sounds a lot like he’s intending to pay me for sex.

I’m still holding Francesca. She’s squirming to get out of my arms. I give her a couple of pets and set her on the floor.

Maybe I’m reading into things. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe he’s just being preemptive in case he’s gone longer than he anticipates.

As I pass Bancroft’s retro answering machine I note the flashing red number one. There’s a message. I hit play.

“Hi, Banny, it’s Brittany! I just heard from Mimi and I couldn’t get through on your cell so I thought I’d try this number instead. I’m so sorry you had to go away on business this week. Such a disappointment when you just got back. I really hope you’ll be back in time for dinner this weekend. But don’t worry if you’re not. We can always reschedule our date. Mimi said you’re just as excited as I am about being able to spend time together again. I can’t wait to pick up where we left off last time. Call me when you can!”

I stare at the machine. Hit rewind and then hit play again, listening to the message a second time. Then I listen to the voice mail from Bancroft.

There’s really no guessing anymore. I can’t believe he’s been screwing me all over his condo all week, telling me my pussy is his, while he’s been planning a date with another woman. Brittany of all people.

I listen to the message again, looking for some sign that this isn’t what I think it is. Has he been playing me this entire time? I remember our conversation about Brittany back when I moved in here, how he said she wasn’t that bad. Did he have sex with her that night after he kissed me? Has he been talking to her the way he’s been talking to me while he’s been away? It sure as hell seems like it, based on her enthusiasm. And what the hell does she mean picking up where they left off?

Fucking asshole.

Talking to me about trust and honesty and here he is, screwing me and he’ll probably be screwing Brittany this weekend.

There really is no question now, I need to find a new place to live. The sooner the better.

Chapter 20: New Digs

RUBY

Everything happens for a reason. I hate that saying, even if it’s true most of the time. It’s something people say to you when crap luck slaps you in the face. It’s not their crap luck, so it’s easy to throw out a useless, annoying saying in an attempt to make a person feel better. Here’s the truth: Telling someone everything happens for a reason doesn’t actually make them feel less crappy. In fact, it usually makes them feel worse.

Which is why I’m so glad I have a best friend like Amie. As soon as I stop crying—it takes a good twenty minutes to get myself under control. I might be pissed off, but I’m not angry enough that this doesn’t hurt—a lot—I call her and tell her what happened.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Amie rarely swears these days. Her anger makes me feel so much better.

“I need a new apartment. Like tomorrow.”

“Do you want to stay here until you do? I know there isn’t much space, but is it better than staying there? Why don’t you pack your things and we’ll get you out tomorrow.”

“What about Armstrong?”

“What about him?”

“What are you going to tell him? He’s going to ask why I’m staying with you.”

“He won’t know. He never comes here. My mattress isn’t soft enough and I don’t have much space. I’ll probably be at his place twice next week—I can even try for more, but he’s got this thing about having his space. At least you won’t have to sleep on the couch or an air mattress those nights. Do you want me to come get you tonight?”

“No. That’s not necessary. He’s not even in the country. And he won’t be back tonight, or at least for a couple of days, so there’s no point. I need to pack, anyway.”