The Roommate Equation

I stare into the mostly empty fridge, save for last night’s pizza, and a few cans of Coca-Cola. Until a minute ago, I thought I could stretch a few more dollars to make my limited funds last until the end of the week without having to bum some cash from Sloan.

But now, I have no choice. If I don’t pay within three days, I will be homeless. And I have sixteen dollars in my checking account.

I hate asking my brother for help, even though he offers it all the time. I can’t handle another conversation about my financial situation. My older brother tried to warn me about the cost of living in Los Angeles before I followed him here. Of course, I didn’t listen to him. I wanted to pursue my dreams without Sloan telling me what to do.

Sloan lives in a mansion in Malibu with seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and an Olympic size swimming pool, complete with a view of the Pacific Ocean. I live in a one-bedroom slice of hell in Studio City with a landlord who offers to reduce my rent in exchange for sexual favors.

My brother has asked me to live with him dozens of times. Except there’s one problem—Dylan Banks owns half of the house along with Date Crashers, the anti-dating app that has made both of them millionaires overnight. Dylan used his brilliant brain and my brother’s people skills to pitch the idea to venture capitalists in Silicon Valley while at MIT.

His app is also what ruined our secret relationship. Five years ago, online daters across the country fell in love with the app, and even more in love with the sexy tag team who invented the service. They have become the hottest guys in tech while I’m, still struggling to move up the ladder at Brenton-Lake.

As I set the pizza box on the kitchen counter, an unwelcome banging causes me to jump. I ignore it and flip open the lid, stuffing a cold slice into my mouth. I chew a few more bites before another loud sound penetrates the air.

Who’s knocking on my door?

It’s not like I have any friends in this neighborhood. I bet it’s another Jehovah’s Witness trying to convert me, or someone begging for money and support for a political campaign.

I’m not interested, and I don’t have any.

I ignore the knocking and shove the remainder of the pizza into my mouth, moaning as the spicy sauce hits my tongue.

“Ash, I know you’re in there,” Mannie yells so loud his voice shakes. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Chills roll down my arms at the sound of my landlord’s deep, creepy voice. I hate dealing with him. I would prefer to mail my mostly late rent checks to the main office, but he insists on giving his tenants the personal touch.

I swing the door open and frown when I take in the sight of him. Mannie’s dark hair is greasy, as usual, slicked back off his forehead in waves.

“I got the notice,” I snap. “I thought we had a deal.”

“Yeah, about that," Mannie says. “You need to pay your rent or move out. The owner isn’t down with the rent layaway program.”

“But I’m paying what I can. You said we could do this on the down-low.”

He shakes his head. “No can do, sweetheart. The owner put this in motion. My hands are tied.”

“There has to be some way.”

He leans against the door frame, and the scent of stale cigarettes and beer hit me in the face. “Not unless you want to work for it.”

Mannie has offered to pay my rent for sex dozens of times. I’m almost always late and have been since I moved into this building. But I would never hook up with this disgusting idiot to save a few bucks.

My nose scrunches in disgust. “No, thank you.”

He rolls his shoulders. “You can stay with me until you get things situated.”

“Absolutely not,” I spit back.

“Your choice, sweetheart. The offer is good at any time.”

“I would whore myself out on Hollywood Boulevard before I had sex with you.”

“Then, you better get packing.”

He takes a few steps backward, giving me enough room to slam the door in his stupid face.

What an asshole.

Is every man in my life a complete jerk? I spent all day dealing with my overbearing boss, who does nothing but scream and curse and bark one order after another. Then, I come home to an eviction notice, complete with Mannie and his usual bullshit. I guess I’m skipping the audition. I begged my boss to let me leave work early, and now, what’s the point in going? There’s no way I will make it on time.

A friend told me about a small role in a commercial. She knew I needed some quick cash and figured I could give it a shot. So far, my attempts to get acting gigs in Los Angeles have been unsuccessful. Everyone says I’m too thick in the thighs, too wide in the hips. My breasts are too big, and so is my ass. By Hollywood standards, I’m fat. I never thought of myself that way until I moved to this damn city.