Alphahole (Alphahole Roommates 1)

I wander off and feel lasers burning into the back of me.

Whatever.

5

CARLY

Talk about infuriating! This guy is an absolute asshole. He’s gone back to his room after watching me drop groceries all over the place, his only offer of help pointing out the embarrassing thing that fell on the floor. I didn’t even have anywhere on the countertops to put the groceries; the mess is so bad.

If I’m stuck here the weekend, I can’t look at this mess any longer. I’ve already quickly weighed the idea of going to a hotel instead, and it’s not doable, courtesy of my jackass sister who stole and maxed out my credit card when she lifted it from my bag. I got the useless plastic card back and have a finite amount of cash to my name until I get my pay in two weeks.

I can’t call Mr. Carmichael’s admin because it’s Saturday. So, I’ll just have to put up with this until Monday.

I decide to take my jean jacket off. I put my sunglasses down and decide to start cleaning up Aiden’s the Arrogant Asshole’s mess.

Every dish and every piece of cutlery? Dirty. Not just dirty. Some of it’s crusted with old food. I load the empty dishwasher after I find that there’s a full thing of dishwasher soap under the sink as well as a plethora of cleaning supplies. I drop two tabs in and start it on the heavy-duty cycle. I turn the stereo on loud, blasting the first song to match my mood that I find. It’s an AC/DC song. Thunderstruck.

I start handwashing the overflow of dishes I couldn’t fit in the jam-packed dishwasher.

Once that’s done and the no-longer-dirty dishes are air drying, I find a box of trash bags under the sink and take one out and pick up all the trash that’s strewn about. There are empty and half-full Chinese takeout boxes, several grease-stained bags from burger joints, and two empty pizza boxes that have to go. There’s also all sorts of empty beverage containers.

I grab a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towel and start spritzing, then wiping down all the surfaces. I find a vacuum cleaner in the otherwise empty coat closet and run the thing.

When I’m done the living room / kitchen combo, noting there’s also a powder room by the balcony doors (the balcony is triple wide, wraps around the corner of the building, is filled with patio furniture, and looks absolutely awesome), I head into the hallway for the bedrooms and vacuum the rug, the bathroom, and my room, which doesn’t seem like it really needs it, but I do it anyway, partly because I know the noise will disturb him.

When I get to his closed door, I spend extra time thoroughly vacuuming, going as far as to bang the vacuum against that closed door angrily a few times, and then I pull the hose extension out and clean all around the perimeter of his door. As loudly as possible.

The door flies open and he’s two inches from my face, glaring down at me, muscles flexing in his arm that’s braced on the doorframe. I’m tempted to vacuum that angry scowl right off his face. I somehow manage to resist.

His mouth is moving in an angry way that I make out as a possible “what the fuck?” and then other words I can’t make out. I give him a beaming smile and spin around to vacuum in the other direction.

A moment later, I’m back in the living room, and the power to the vacuum halts. I look over my shoulder and he’s got the plug in his hand, a look of murder on his face.

I’m done, anyway. I ignore him and head to the counter and pop my frozen lasagna in the oven that had been preheating, and that’s when I spot that he’s gone to the stereo and turned down Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

He’s glaring at me and he’s about a foot away from me, suddenly. His nostrils are flaring.

“Awe. Did I wake you, Sleeping Slovenly?” I ask, snarkily, a big fake pout on my face.

His eyes narrow at me. “Sleeping…slovenly?”

“Yeah. Like Sleeping Beauty, but you’re slovenly.”

“Slovenly?” he repeats.

“Yeah. This place was trashed.” I throw my arm out animatedly.

“Slovenly refers to a person’s appearance, not their surroundings,” he corrects.

“Ha!” I laugh. “Okay, slothenly then, since only a lazy sloth would live like this. And I have no idea how you keep your appearance, since you’ve been in your Underoos all day long.”

He snickers and folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah, caught you lookin’. Anyone ever teach you it’s rude to stare?”

I roll my eyes like he’s dreaming if he’s thinking I’m staring at him. Though I have been. But, how could I not? If he’s packing what it looks like he’s packing? I give my head a shake, not letting myself go there.

“Anyone ever teach you it’s rude to walk around almost naked in mixed company?” I ask, jerking my chin, my eyes on his package. I realize I’ve just blatantly stared at it and my face burns hot as my eyes fly back up to his face.

He smirks and lazily eyes me from head to toe and then back to head again and he cracks a smile. And then he changes his mind and the smile melts into a scowl. He drops the cord to the vacuum and points at me. “I have a killer fuckin’ hangover. You done makin’ noise?”