Alphahole (Alphahole Roommates 1)

“No one is ‘that nice’ at least not if they have half a brain in their head. No wonder Jon got bored with her. I haven’t talked to her yet today, but he’s dumped her by now. She’ll be calling soon, absolutely stunned about it and wanting to cry on my shoulder. Looking forward to that. Not! No wonder her junkie ho-bag sister continues to take advantage. That’s life when you’re a doormat. Jon told me she’s as pure and good as the driven snow and bores him. To. Death. Is it just me, or have you wondered if Carly’s really a femme-bot?”

Jon tried to phone me the night before I left for Sunny San Diego, leaving a voicemail and asking how I’m holding up, reiterating that he just didn’t see the kind of future he’d envisioned for his life with me and hoped we could be friends. The fact was, he’d already moved on. He was seen that same day by Sonia, a coworker of mine on a motherfucking date. He was with a coworker of his, the office femme fatale and she’d evidently set her sights on him and so he scraped me off like I was nothing.

But I’d decided, after some shock and tears and the meeting with Mr. Carmichael the day after that, things happened for a reason.

My ability to pick myself up and go to work the next day, my ability to function despite my broken heart led me here.

And now, here I was. Ready for a fresh start. New wardrobe, a fresh haircut, and free. Free of Jon, and Steph, and Caitlin.

Free for that fresh start without having to worry about leaving Jon behind.

Time to finish booting up the new me. Carly 2.0.

***

The inside of this building? This is a great first impression. Even better than the outside of it.

We’re just a few blocks outside the San Diego Gaslamp Quarter and with how high up the apartment is, I’m thinking I’ll have an ocean view.

The lobby is all glossy black and gold veined marble floors and walls with lush oriental rugs and sparkly crystal chandeliers. There are three brushed chrome elevator doors past a tall circular front desk that sits up on a platform. Behind the desk is a thirty-something balding and paunchy security guard who goes from appearing bored to giving me a double take. Or more accurately, he gives my chest the double-take.

I’m dressed casually in yoga clothes, expensive new ones that I initially balked at, but they were worth the price as they feel fantastic on. I’d worn these, so I’d be comfortable on my flight, and I’d had the hoodie zipped, but I left home in cold weather and got here to sunshine, so I’d half unzipped it in the hot and stinky cab. My tank top covered my boobs, but evidently not well enough, judging by the hungry look on the security dude’s face.

I smile and wave, bringing his eyes up to mine.

“Hi. I’m with Carmichael Consulting International and I just got here. I have a corporate apartment, number 1710. Carly Adler.”

I show him my key on a keychain with a brass letter C and a little plastic tag on it that says 1710.

“Your keychain or the company’s?” He asks.

“Theirs,” I say.

“Carly. Carmichael. You know?”

“Uh huh. Yep,” I say.

“Not from here?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nope. Just got here from the airport.”

His eyes drop to my boobs again, then rise up to meet my

eyes. Creepy.

I’ve been flirted with (I think) by a cab driver and a security guard already and I’ve only just arrived in San Diego. Too bad neither one of them is cute or interesting since I’m single for the first time in two years.

A guy doesn’t have to be drop-dead gorgeous to get my attention. Of course it’s a bonus if he is, but he needs to at least be interesting. And not leer at me creepily.

And hopefully not smell like he hasn’t had a shower in a month.

Besides, I need a breather after Jon. I’m in no hurry to start dating. I’ve got to figure out this ‘how not to be a doormat’ stuff before I can open myself up to any sort of relationship.

This security guard, I can already tell, is neither cute nor interesting. He holds up an envelope.

“The company sent this over yesterday for you. Just need to see your ID.”

“Thanks so much.” I start fumbling in my purse to find my driver’s license.