Baby Mine – Hunter & Lennon (Roommate Duet 1)

Prologue

Hunter

For the past four hours, I’ve been running around behind the bar, getting people’s beers and making cocktails nonstop. Spring break means the bar stays insanely busy, especially with California State University just ten minutes away.

“Dude, Hunter,” Brandon hollers. Looking over my shoulder, I see him standing at the opposite end of the bar. “Need a refill, man!” He shakes his empty beer bottle as if that’ll encourage me to hustle. Considering he doesn’t tip, his pretty boy ass can wait.

“I’ll be right over!” I reply, shaking my head. It’ll be his fifth beer in the past few hours, but I know he’s taking full advantage of our last semester in college. In just a couple of months, we’ll graduate and be in the real world—hopefully not still bartending, though. I’m getting my degree in engineering and don’t plan to use it making drinks.

Brandon Locke is my roommate and one of my best friends. Though we grew up hating each other in high school since he was the kicker for my school’s rival team, we moved past that when we played football together at CSU Sacramento. He’s one of the most dependable guys I know, and though he tries to keep up with me and our other buddies, he’s more of a straight arrow. Tonight, however, he seems to be bending.

“Locke, you sure you want another?” I ask when I’m in front of him.

“Don’t make me jump over this bar and junk punch you,” he threatens, then slaps down a five-dollar bill, making me chuckle.

“Oh, big spender. Fine.” I grab a cold beer from the cooler and slide it over to him. I take the five and put it in the drawer. “But don’t think I’m holding your hair back when you puke your guts out later.”

Brandon immediately chugs away while holding up his middle finger at me. “I don’t need a sitter, Dad. Besides, Mason and Liam will make sure I get home safely.”

That makes me snort, and I shake my head. “They aren’t much better.”

“True.” He shrugs, giving no fucks.

This last semester has been hard on us. These final months before graduation have been a mental head game as we focus on the future and job hunting. Bartending pays the bills for now, and I don’t mind it, but on nights like this, I wish I was hanging out with my friends instead of serving them. At least being the sober one keeps me entertained because they’re a bunch of idiots when they’re drunk.

“Manning!” When I hear my last name being yelled across the room, I immediately know it’s Mason. As the loud and obnoxious one of the four of us, he’s always ready for a party. Hell, he is the party.

He squeezes his way through the crowd until he’s standing next to Brandon. His lazy grin tells me exactly just how drunk he is.

“You better slow your shit down, Holt. I’m not gonna get a fine for over-serving your ass,” I warn, cleaning up a beer spill from the person he bumped into when he barged over to the bar.

“Dude, I’m totally fine. Look…” he tells me, aiming for his nose with his finger, but he misses and gouges his eye. “Well, I’m not driving anyway, so hook a brother up.”

I slide open the cooler door, grab him a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and hand it over. “I don’t know how you drink that PBR shit.” I take his money off the bar. “Should charge you extra for making me serve it to you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he shouts. “You just don’t know what’s good.” Mason takes a long swig.

I scoff, ignoring him.

“Smells nasty as fuck too.” Brandon leans over and makes a face. “Probably why he likes it. Just his type,” he adds, and we both laugh.

“Where’s Evans?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen Liam in a while as I look over the crowd. He’s not as rowdy as Mason, but he’s been known to get thrown out of a party or two. Kinda ironic considering he’s a bouncer here and usually the one breaking up fights and kicking drunks out on their asses.

“Saw him heading toward the back with a redhead,” Mason explains. Liam isn’t on duty tonight so that can only mean one thing—closet sex.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shaking my head. I’m not about to hunt him down just to see something I’ll need to bleach from my memory and eyes. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s banged some chick at work and probably won’t be the last.

“Hunter!” Greg, the other bartender, shouts and gives me a look to keep moving down the line.

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, waving him off. He’s in his thirties and constantly on my ass. If I didn’t need to pay half the rent and bills, I would’ve left months ago.