breaths. “That’ll leave us with six months on the lease, but we’ve got, what, a fortnight to find someone else to take over and smooth it with Simon?”
“I’ll help you out if there’s any overlap with timetables and moving days,” Ben said.
“Big of you.”
“No you won’t,” Gary put in and I swore they were ganging up on me. “It doesn’t matter.” I barely got out a decidedly unmanly squeak before he silenced me with a look.
He’d been taking lessons from Gemma, the duplicitous swine. “Simon won’t mind if we move someone else in as long as the money goes into his bank account every Friday. All it takes is running off another tenancy agreement and getting the new guy to sign it, and we’re golden. It’s fine. Really.” He flicked a glance my way and my stomach sank.
It wasn’t just the financial situation bridging the gap between Ben Taylor and Unknown New Guy, but the unknown new guy himself. Gary and Ben took the piss out of me on occasion and I very, very rarely even warranted such treatment, but a new tenant meant dancing around a stranger, being polite, a way of communication that didn’t sit well with me. I was used to people shrugging off my moods and saying, “Oh, that’s just Kit. Ignore him.” I’d have to put myself out and pretend to be civilised so I didn’t scare off our new housemate, if we got one. We’d need the money, so damn it, I’d just have to be civilised for once in my miserable, lonely existence.
I’d definitely need more beer for this.
“That seems like a roundabout way of admitting I was right after all.”
“You?” Gary asked. “About what?”
“Putting an ad in the paper? Duh. Far be it from you to say yes, Kit, you were right, but—”
“You’re not getting a female housemate, I can tell you that.” Gemma shook her head.
Firm, determined and resolute.
“I beg your pardon?” I began. “You don’t even live here and—”
“Not for my sake, don’t worry. I’m not that controlling and possessive, am I? Tell them I’m not, Gary.”
“Yes, dear.” But he winked and I think even I risked a brief smile.
“No, I mean this house couldn’t handle two lots of PMT. It’s bad enough already with Princess Pissypants over there acting like the entire universe revolves around him.”
“I’m the only practical one round here. You lot are too damn busy mooning over Ben’s thing.”
“My thing? My thing?” Every furrow in his brow screamed confusion and what the fuck are you on?
“Yeah, your relationship.”
“It’s not a dirty word, Kit.” Gemma lowered her chin and looked up at me through downturned lashes.
“Yeah, you would say that. You and him have got a…a…thing. As well.”
“You really are a self-absorbed shit at times, Blackman, you know that?”
“I like to plan ahead. I don’t enjoy having this sort of thing sprung on me at the last minute.”
“Which is why I told you guys now, not at the last minute,” Ben put in.
“Yeah, thanks for that—”
“Oh, piss off back to your hobbit hole, Kit.” Gemma waved a dismissive hand and I bridled, even though that was exactly what I wanted to do. “We’ll deal with this.”
“I thought it was me who came up with the idea of actually doing something?” I asked.
“You know, the ad? Doing something practical instead of getting all starry-eyed just ‘cause Ben’s pussy-whi—I mean moving. Out.” I gulped. My throat suddenly parched, I’d never needed a stiff one more than I did at that moment. Double entendre intentional. “Oh, fuck it, I’m going back upstairs. I’ve got work to do.”
“Missing you already, you twisted piece of—” Gemma began.
“And there better be beer in that fridge by the time I come back downstairs!” I yelled, before drowning out whatever they said in reply by stomping on each stair as if I hated them as much as I did my own life.
Chapter Two
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d picked up my phone and it was someone I wanted to speak to. Most of my friends—and by ‘friends’ I meant ‘people who hadn’t yet tried to kill me’—sent texts or emails when they wanted to get in touch. Only the brave or bastardly dared speak to me directly.
My boss wasn’t brave.
And I never learned.
Yes, I checked the screen first, planning to ignore whichever idiot saw fit to disturb me but this guy signed my paycheque at the end of every month and it wasn’t like I had much of a social life anyway, the aforementioned friends choosing to communicate from a distance, so…
I shrugged and slid open the mobile as I turned the corner onto the street where we lived and—remembered the definition of ‘we’ was about to change. Possibly. I’d put the ad in the paper, being something of a computer whizz—read: nerd—handy with a credit card and submitting the text online. Gary, though, had dealt with all the phone calls and interviews and informal chats and vetting the prospective masochists who thought living with us would be a good idea. Something to do with me not scaring anyone off.
But he’d told me about the guy who made balloon-animals as a hobby and whose greatest achievement in life was lighting his own farts without toasting his balls.
Then there was the fruit-loop who’d refused to arrange a visit during daylight hours because His Satanic Majesty preferred his minions to be nightwalkers.
It was the bloke whose resume for the past three years was blank because he’d been a guest of Her Majesty who’d prompted Gary to tell me even I looked normal by comparison.
“Somebody sober with no criminal convictions would be nice,” he’d said, adding a pitiful groan. “And I’m not sure Simon would be too happy if we moved in someone who wanted to paint the windows in Ben’s room black. His room, I mean. Whoever. The new
