Home > Model Behavior (Wrecked Roommates, #1)(2)

Model Behavior (Wrecked Roommates, #1)(2)
Author: Kelsie Rae

I feel like I’ve fallen into a lion’s cage, and the predator is stalking closer, backing me into a corner with nowhere left to run.

“Um…” I shake my head and try to focus. “Yeah. Is he home by chance?”

“Sorry, babe. Milo isn’t here.”

“Of course, he isn’t,” I mutter under my breath, shifting my weight between my feet. “How ‘bout Jake? Is he home?”

With a crooked yet arrogant-as-hell grin, the bastard chuckles. “Milo and Jake? I didn’t know they were into sharing––”

“Ew. Gross.” I shudder. “No, I’m Milo’s sister––”

“I’m sure you are. But I have company, and your boys aren’t here. Normally, I’d invite you in, but since I don’t do sloppy seconds, and I already have company…”

The wide-open door slowly begins to shut before I slap my hand against it. My palm burns on impact, but I stand my ground.

“No, you don’t understand––”

“I understand perfectly. You’re a girl who’s looking for two different men, neither of which happen to be home at the moment, while simultaneously wasting my time that could be spent buried deep inside my house guest.”

My eyes pop. He did not just say that to me.

“Babe, what’s taking you so long?” A gorgeous blonde appears from the other side of the door. She doesn’t even bother to look my way before sliding her hands along his abs and nibbling at the exposed skin along his strong jaw. It’s like I’m a ghost with how oblivious she is to my presence. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if I don’t let this guy close the door, she’ll start dry humping him within seconds. And I can’t really blame her. The guy’s hot. The problem is that he knows it, which is the only reason I’m not dying from insane jealousy as her manicured fingers toy with the hem of his gray basketball shorts.

Wait, is she really about to dive into his pants when I’m standing two feet away from her?

Is he really going to let her? I mean, I know she looks like a lingerie model and all, but seriously?

I’m right here!

Thankfully, my brother’s roommate can still see me, proving that I am not, in fact, invisible, and decides to throw me a bone. “Try SeaBird down the street. They like to hang out there.” Motioning to my hand that’s still preventing the door from closing, he adds, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

The door closes despite my feeble attempt to keep it open, and I’m left alone on the front porch of my brother’s house in the middle of a strange city with what little hope I’d been clinging to sliding from my grasp.

I’m so screwed.

A soft moan vibrates through the front door. It’s quickly followed by a loud thud that causes the gold knocker attached to it to rattle.

And apparently, I’m not the only one who’s getting screwed.

Dropping my head and looking toward the sky, I count to ten, then turn on my heel toward my car that’s parked in the driveway.

SeaBird, here I come.

 

 

The place smells like the beach, complete with coconut, rum, and a hint of salt. The combination is almost enough to ease the ache in my chest with memories of happier times before my phone buzzes with a text.

Ian: Babe. Come home.

 

 

My grip tightens around the screen before I type my response.

Me: We’re done, Ian.

 

 

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to reply. It’ll only encourage him to keep sending bullshit apologies.

Oh, wait. That wasn’t an apology. It was him being his usual controlling self. How could I forget?

With a huff, I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, march toward the bar, then find an open seat.

“Hey. What can I get ya?” a voice yells over the live band playing a cover song in the corner. Finding the voice’s owner, I’m met with a tattooed Adonis. His arms are etched with ink, stretched on both sides of him as he leans a little closer to hear my order, but I’m too speechless to come up with anything.

Again.

Dude. What is in the water here? And do they bottle it? Because I’m pretty sure I could make a fortune by selling it on the black market.

His straight, white teeth dig into his lower lip in an attempt to keep a teasing smile at bay as he catches me checking him out, but it’s pointless. The damn thing still makes an appearance as he prods, “You look like you’ve had a long day. Are you a whiskey girl?”

“I’m an any-kind-of-alcohol girl when I’ve had a day like today.”

Rapping his knuckles across the polished counter, he replies, “Well, then. First one’s on me.” He steps away to grab my drink. And boy, do I need it.

What the hell was I thinking? Did I really just throw away my whole life, my future today? Breaking up with Ian is one thing, but he was practically my boss. Now, I’m homeless, and I don’t have a job or a future career, for that matter. Hell, I didn’t even grab clothes for tomorrow.

I’m an idiot.

An idiot who stayed with the wrong guy for way too long, all because I was afraid to leave him.

But I deserve more than a shitty boyfriend/boss who cheated on me. Don’t I?

Where the hell is Milo?

I swivel around on the soft brown barstool and begin my search, but the place is packed for a random Thursday night. Bodies are grinding against each other in perfect rhythm with the base as I hunt for my brother in the crowd.

Milo, where are you? I want to yell, but I don’t waste my breath.

“Looking for someone?” the bartender calls as the small shot glass clinks against the dark, lacquered counter in front of me.

I nod before picking it up and swallowing the amber liquid in one gulp. The burn is a welcome distraction from the buzzing in my back pocket. Annoyed, I dig the phone out of my pocket and slap it facedown against the counter when I find Ian’s name flashing across the screen.

Leave me alone, asshole.

“Who are you looking for?” the hot bartender presses. “Maybe I can help.”

“His name is Milo. Milo Anders. Or Jake Jensen. Either of them will work, actually.”

As soon as their names roll off my tongue, a spark of recognition flashes in the bartender’s eyes that’s quickly followed by a quirked brow. “What do you want with them?”

“I’m sorry, is it normal bartender behavior to be so nosy?”

“Maybe. Depends on the day and if I’m serving a drinks anything girl or not.”

“Oh, so because I’m a little desperate for alcohol and have a vagina, you’re allowed to be nosy?”

He laughs, taken aback by my bluntness. “Was it that rough of a day, Drinks Anything Girl?”

My expression sours before I nudge the empty shot glass a few inches toward him. “You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He raises a whiskey bottle into the air, then pours a generous amount into the tiny cup that’s ten sizes too small.

After throwing it back, I answer, “Oh, you know, just…looking to escape reality, and life, and bad decisions. That kind of thing. And what better place to escape than this bar in search of my big brother who isn’t answering my calls?”

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