I left then and now I’m glad to be home. I need a bath and a whole lot of alcohol and then my bed. What I don’t need is more of my cocky roommate’s attitude. If he even looks at me the wrong way I might punch him in the face tonight. Or maybe I’ll just tell him my name so he can fuck me into oblivion. It’s a toss-up which one will happen.
17
Jude
She comes into the apartment late, takes one look at me lying on the couch watching the game, blows her hair out of her eyes and spears me with a dirty look before going to the fridge, taking down a bottle of vodka from the freezer, then she gives me ‘the hand’ as if to warn me not to speak to her, before she stomps off. I hear a door slam down the hall.
Music blares. The Ramones. And the tub is running.
I would interrupt her bathtub party for one in an effort to make it a party for two, but I already know about the night she had because Aiden messaged me earlier to cancel our plans to go out and watch the game at a bar.
I’d been planning to cancel anyway because of the information I got my hands on today.
But Aiden told me that not only did his father have a medical emergency, but also that Ally walked in on it. Evidently it happened while Quentin and his employee were bumping uglies. At this stage, it’s unknown whether Quentin was having the heart episode when Ally walked in or if Ally walking in on them was the catalyst.
I like sparring with the girl, but she looked like she’d have her claws out extra if I started anything. I’ll leave it until tomorrow.
Half an hour later, after I’ve heard “I Wanna be Sedated” no less than seven times, she comes out, so I rise to use the john and run into her in the hall.
She’s wrapped in a towel, has bubbles on her skin, dripping wet hair, and the neck of the vodka bottle in her hand.
“Don’t even!” she points at me, glassy eyed.
Clearly her bubble bath didn’t calm her down; the vodka didn’t help her mellow.
“You need help with those nerves, alley-cat? I can think of a thing or two to loosen you up. Promise, my ticker is in tiptop shape. Might wanna do it in your bed, though. I’ve got a lingering sparkle issue in mine.”
“Do not,” she warns and then stomps to her bedroom and slams the door.
I laugh.
***
Saturday Morning:
I wake to The Notorious B.I.G singing Big Poppa at six thirty in the morning. And it sounds like more than music out there. Appliances running?
I have no idea how the neighbors haven’t been banging on doors, walls, ceilings every day this past two weeks with the noise this girl makes.
I roll out of the cheap double bed thinking that I’m ready to have this naughty vixen make up for the fact that I’m giving up quality sleep for her, and finding the bathroom in a rare state of usable, I make use of it, including taking a shower.
When I come out, the music is still going – louder – and the TV is on full-blast. There’s a blender rotating orange contents and a big kitchen mixer going what sounds like full blast.
She’s got the kitchen torn apart with countertops filled with food and dishes. Drawers are open, cupboards are wide, and my little alley-cat is wearing a one-piece pair of multicolored baggy pajamas covered with cartoon rabbits giving the finger. She’s got a pink and white sugar skull headband holding her hair away from her face while she stirs something in a big metal bowl.
I smile at the sight.
She gives me a slow once-over from head to feet and then turns the mixer up louder. Now there’s batter flying out of it, raining it all over the counter and floor and she doesn’t look like she cares.
Right. I’m about ready to invest in maid-service for the duration.
Her eyes narrow as I approach, covered below the waist in just a towel.
I reach for the coffee pot, but she bops me with her hip to get to it first and quickly pours the coffee in her own cup, a big cup with Tigger the tiger on it, his tail coiled up to make up the handle.
“Right. Guess I’m making a new pot of coffee.”
“There isn’t any.”
“What’re you makin’?” I ask and then reach for her mug and take a sip of the coffee. It’s too hot and way too sweet.
I make a face.
“Do not fuck with my coffee.” She holds a hand out, so I pass it back to her.
“Makin’ more cupcakes?”
There’s a giant bowl of yellow frosting and another of orange frosting. She’s got opened lemon pie filling cans and a large open jar of orange marmalade so it’s clear what the gooey centers will be and I’m already ready to try them.