Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“She moved out because she’s protecting her heart.” She clamps her mouth shut. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. I can’t trust a damn thing you say.”

Amalie tries to brush past me, but I grab her arm. “I just need her number. I just need to call her to explain. Or you could tell me where she is.”

“Explain what exactly? That you were screwing her and who knows who else while she was living in your place? You didn’t even try to contact her once while you were gone this time. What the hell is she supposed to think?”

“I’m not screwing anyone else and I don’t have any intention of doing so either. I lost my phone on the plane and I didn’t have my iCloud backed up so I couldn’t contact her. And she’s either not responding to or not getting the messages I sent her on social media. I just want to talk to her, Amalie. I didn’t want her to leave. I want her. I want to be with her. I fucking miss her.”

Amalie eyes go wide and maybe a little shocked at my language. “Oh, well, that explains the lack of messages, but this whole Brittany thing—”

“I’m not an asshole, Amalie. I’ve never had any intention of dating Brittany. I think she might actually be delusional. Just tell me where Ruby is, please, so I can try to fix this.”

Amalie regards me for a few long moments before she retrieves her phone from her handbag. “She’s staying at my place. She had a successful audition last week. It’s a really great role. She’s moving into her own apartment next week.”

“She found her own place already?”

“It was a fluke really. A sublet.”

My phone pings in my pocket. I pull it out and add the contact to my short, but growing list. “Can I get directions to your apartment?” My phone pings again.

“I can do better than that.” She roots around in her clutch and pulls out a key. “Don’t make me regret giving you this. Now go unbreak my best friend’s heart, please.”

Chapter 22: Ice Cream Tastes Like Heartbreak

RUBY

I’m on my second pint of Ben and Jerry’s. The first one was cookie dough, this one is straight vanilla. Amie’s having dinner at Bancroft’s parent’s house tonight and he’s supposed to be there if he’s back from his trip. She offered to fake being sick and stay here with me in a show of solidarity, but I wanted her to report back. I also want to know if that whoreface Brittany is there with him. I also may have asked her to put a hefty dose of laxative in her food if she is. Amie refused the last part. I still slipped it in her purse in case she changed her mind.

At seven I get my first message from Amie:

Whoreface is here. Dressed like a whore. Bancroft is not.

Forty-five minutes later I get another one:

Bancroft arrived. Whoreface is whoring all over him. I found the laxatives in my purse. I might slip them into his coffee.

The ice cream suddenly isn’t sitting well. I wait to hear back from her again, but after half an hour I cave and send her one:

Is she his date?

It takes a few minutes for her to reply.

I think so. â?¹

I can’t believe less than a week ago we were having sex on every damn surface in his condo. I should’ve stuck to my seven-date rule. Living at his place ruined everything.

My phone pings again. It’s Amie again.

We were wrong.

When I send one back asking for clarification and get nothing in response I frantically type fifty new one-word messages, hoping the constant string of texts will prompt her to reply in order to shut me up. She replies:

About Bancroft. You’ll understand soon.

As if that’s helpful. It’s just as cryptic. The rest of my messages go unanswered. I think I’m on the verge of a panic attack when there’s a knock on the door, followed by the sound of the key turning in the lock. It’s not even ten. I’m surprised dinner is over already. Rich-people dinner parties usually last until midnight, with the business component of the evening taking place after food and drink has been consumed. Which seems rather backward to me. Maybe Amie left early to be with me. Maybe she has news. My stomach flips and I reclaim my ice cream in preparation for food solace.

Except it’s not Amie who walks through the door of the apartment. It’s Bancroft.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I bark.

Bancroft looks me over. I resist the urge to rush to the bathroom and make myself more presentable. I’m pretty sure I look awful. My hair is pulled into a haphazard ponytail and I’m wearing my comfy pajamas. And no bra.

He crosses the room, looking intense. And hot. Damn him.

“We need to talk.”

I clutch the couch cushion so I don’t launch an attack. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I’m going to disagree. I think there’s actually a lot to talk about.”

“What would you like to start with? Your date with Brittany the slutface? How excited she is to pick up where you left off? Were you playing us both the entire time?”

He holds up his hands. “I wasn’t playing anyone.”

“Oh no? How many times did she call while you were in London? Did you ask her to get naked on video chat? Did you talk to her about her panties?”

“I don’t actually think she owns panties,” he grumbles.

My mouth drops open and I hurl the closest throwable thing at him, which just happens to be a pillow, so unfortunately it does no damage. “How classless are you that you’d fuck her while I’m living in your goddamn condo?”

“Whoa. Hold on, you’re misunderstanding.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never had sex with Brittany. I’ve never even kissed her.”

As if this makes me feel any better. “How the hell do you know she doesn’t own panties then?”

“Because she flashed me the last time I took her out.”

“Why should I even believe you?” I push up off the couch so I can prop a fist on my hip. It would be so much more effective if I didn’t look so pathetic. “Besides, what does any of this matter since we need to make ‘adjustments to our arrangement’? And maybe we need to talk about the money you left for services rendered.”

Bancroft shakes his head. “Services rendered? I don’t even kn—”

“I must be in the wrong business if my pussy is worth five grand a week.” I motion to my crotch.

Bancroft looks so confused right now.

“What am I supposed to think when you leave an envelope of cash to compensate me for sex? Do you have any idea how degrading that is? You can’t buy me, Bane.” Oh shit. I think I’m going to cry.

His expression turns remote and he crosses his arms over his chest. “You honestly think I’d pay you for having sex with me?”

“Well what the hell else was it for? Just in case I end up with lockjaw down the line from trying to deep throat your cock?” Okay, that might be taking it a little too far.

“I was worried I might be gone longer than I hoped. I didn’t want to leave you without money. I’m not trying to buy you, Ruby. I’m trying to take care of you.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of. And you said we needed to make adjustments, that it was all too fast. And the first thing you do when you get back is go out with Brittany!” I’m incredibly flaily right now. If I was sitting down I could shove my hands under my thighs to keep them still.