Contradictions (Woodfalls Girls 3)

“Caffeine and an energy drink? You planning on hiking Baxter Peak?”

“I wish it was something that easy. I need to crack down and finish my bio chem paper or I’m seriously screwed. What about you? Don’t you have a paper due in your business management class?”

I shrugged. Schoolwork wasn’t high on my priority list at the moment. To avoid answering her question, I shoveled eggs into my mouth. I chewed slowly, making sure my stomach, which had been relatively tame, wouldn’t boycott. After several bites, I figured I was safe. Cameo and Derek chatted while I ate my breakfast and nursed my coffee. I wasn’t a big morning person. Both of them knew me well enough to allow me to finish my coffee before involving me in any conversation. Derek teased me, claiming I was like a bear being poked with a stick in the morning.

“More like a ticking time bomb,” Cameo joked.

“Drama much?” I countered. “Bite someone’s head off once and suddenly you’re labeled.” Cameo started to say something more, but Derek covered her mouth with his hand.

I was finishing the last of my bacon when I finally felt I could join the conversation with any civility. It didn’t hurt that the food was delicious, as usual. Derek was a wiz in the kitchen, where Cameo and I were both h

opeless when it came to cooking. Cameo at least had an excuse for her lack of culinary skills. Her parents were doctors and rarely cooked while she was growing up. Catered meals and takeout had been as close as she ever got to a home-cooked meal. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no excuse considering my mom was practically Susie Homemaker. Three squares a day and extravagant Sunday dinners were the norm in my house. Mom had tried to teach me to cook, but it never stuck. Finally, after I burned her favorite set of pans, I was officially banned from the kitchen. I’d be lying if I said I wept at being exiled.

Derek was a regular Gordon Ramsay who could easily compete in one of those cooking challenges on TV. Cameo and I capitalized on his skills and worked out a deal with him: He cooked for us on occasion, and we let him crash at our apartment whenever he wanted. His roommates were complete douchecanoes this year, so he was at our apartment more often than not. Cameo and I had considered the idea of telling him to move in with us, but hadn’t broached the subject with him yet.

Once my plate was empty, I stood up to do the dishes. Early on in our roommate relationship, we learned that if the apartment was going to remain clean, we would have to work out a chore schedule. This week, I had dishes and vacuuming. Dishes weren’t bad. Vacuuming was tolerable, but I hated when I drew laundry. Laundry was the bane of my existence.

I filled the sink with hot soapy water as Derek and Cameo carried the rest of the dishes to the counter. “So, are you going to tell us the deal-i-o with your friend?” Derek asked, hoisting himself up on the counter while I washed.

“There is no deal-i-o,” I answered, swatting his hand as he tried to snag some bubbles. I heard Cameo snort behind me. Without even looking at them, I knew they were exchanging a doubtful look. I focused my attention on the dish in my hand, continuing to scrub while I came up with a plausible excuse for my behavior the night before. When neither of them left the kitchen, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to weasel out of answering. “Fine. It aggravated me that Panty Muncher had her claws in him. I felt responsible for him,” I said lamely, drying my hands on a towel.

“Bullshit,” Cameo coughed.

I flicked the towel at her. “I’m serious, bitch.”

“Right,” she laughed mockingly as she left the kitchen. “You need a reality check.”

Derek stayed with me while I put the dishes away, remaining silent as I worked. This was one of his sneaky tactics I was all too familiar with. Eventually, the silence would wear on you and before you knew it, you were spilling your guts to him. But he could sit there all day as far as I was concerned. I would not buckle. There was nothing to say. Okay, for some odd reason Trent had snagged my attention. Who cares? It’s not like it was the first time I showed any sort of interest in a guy. Why did this time need an explanation?

Derek sat watching me like he could read my thoughts. He wasn’t going to wear me down. I was as strong as a brick wall.

I pulled the vacuum out of the small linen closet, glaring at him as he perched himself on the futon.

He returned my glare balefully.

Pushing the vacuum along, I tried to drag out the process, hoping he’d give up, but I could only vacuum the same spot so many times. Shooting him another glare, I shut off the vacuum.

“Fine! You freaking stubborn ass!” I began to spill my guts, just as he had planned. Damn him.

It poured out of me like sewage I couldn’t wait to get rid of. I told him how my friends back home were convinced that Trent had a crush on me, but I felt he so wasn’t my type, and how off-the-wall my sudden possessiveness had been.

“So you have the hots for Clark Kent. Big deal,” he said when I ran out of steam.

“Have you not been listening at all? I have the opposite of the hots for him.”

“‘Most men would rather deny a hard truth,’” he stated. Derek loved quoting his favorite books, and he seemed to have one for every occasion.

“Hemingway?” I guessed.

“George R. R. Martin.”

“Who?”

“Seriously? You don’t know who one of the greatest authors of our generation is?” he asked, looking scandalized. “He only wrote the saga of literary genius that includes A Game of Thrones. Maybe less partying and more studying,” he said, sticking out his tongue at me when I swung at him. It was no secret that studying wasn’t exactly my forte. I had to really discipline myself in junior college to pull good enough grades to transfer to MSC. I still don’t think I would have gotten in if not for a glowing letter of recommendation from Professor Nelson, a bigwig at the college and longtime resident of Woodfalls. He even offered to act as my advisor throughout school. Things started okay, but I had been avoiding him since fall classes started. I was supposed to sign up for a particular summer course he recommended, but I blew it off. Last year he was relentless as he pushed me to work harder. He seemed genuinely disappointed when my grades slipped. I shuddered at the idea of facing him at the moment, especially since I had bombed the first exam in business communications, and statistics wasn’t going any better. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to wrap my brain around it.

“Who cares about grades when there’s always dancing to be done?” I held out my hand so Derek and I could fist-bump.

“Damn straight,” he agreed, knocking his fist against mine and then spreading his fingers like his hand was exploding. “You guys want to hit that new underground club that opened up on the east side? I heard it’s freaking hard-core. The acoustics are supposed to be out-of-this-world insane. Brant went last week, and he said the bass booms so hard the floor vibrates.”