“I need to talk to you about your roommate,” I said.
I started into the house before I’d finished talking.That’s another trick they don’t put in the textbooks at the academy, but like the waiting game, it works a surprising amount of the time.People don’t know what to do, so they do what they’ve been conditioned to do: play nice, go along to get along.He stepped back automatically, letting me into the apartment, and I shut the door behind me.
We stood in a cramped entry hall, in the weak daylight that filtered through the windows, and the kid wasripe.He was still sweating out the booze, and the musk of weed clung to him.The hall opened up after a few feet; on the left, I could see bifold doors that stood open to reveal a washer and dryer—talk about living in luxury.Clothes were piled on top of the dryer, and it was impossible to tell if they were clean or dirty.To the right, the apartment opened up into a large, combined living space: kitchen and living room crammed together.The furniture was the usual secondhand junk—a sofa with plaid upholstery; an armchair done in black vinyl, now ripped; a coffee table that looked like it had come from a grandmother’s house via Goodwill.On one wall was aRuPaul’s Drag Raceposter, and somebody had hung a plastic lei from the overhead light.
By that point, Rory had recovered enough to ask, “Who?”
“Your roommate.”
“Yeah, which one?”
“Tip,” I said.“Who else lives here?”
“Just Jordan.”
Which neither Tip nor Jordan had mentioned, although, to be fair, I hadn’t asked.Maybe they’d assumed that I’d known.Or that it had been implied by Jordan’s view, at least, of their relationship.
Rory nodded.Even in the dim light, his color was bad, and he had one hand pressed to the side of his head.
“You want to sit down?”I asked.
“Can I take something for my head?I, uh, kind of overdid it last night.”
I followed him into the kitchen—oak cabinets, oatmeal-colored laminate counters, linoleum patterned in a truly hideous brown.He got a glass and a bottle of ibuprofen, and he took four of the pills with water.Then he leaned against the counter, rubbing his temples.A little window behind him looked out on an alley, where a dumpster sat under a sign that said NO DUMPING – YOU ARE BEING RECORDED!
“Was it a good party, at least?”I asked.
He shrugged.But then he looked at me.A steady look.He didn’t flinch or let his eyes slide away.After a moment, he said, “I know you.Have I seen you at the gym?”
I burst out laughing.“Does that still work?”
A grin spread across his face, sheepish and surprisingly sweet, and he shrugged.“Sometimes.You’d be surprised.I do know you, though.”
Maybe he did.Something about his voice, at least, was familiar.“Yeah?”
“I mean, everybody knows you.”When he smiled, he had dangerous dimples.“Plus, I’ve seen you at the Pretty Pretty.You’re cute.”
He crossed his legs, and the pose made his dick visible against the thin fabric of the cut-offs.He brought one hand up, and his fingers hooked the collar of his tee, the movement playful, maybe even meant to look abashed—and, at the same time, giving me a hint of a toned, tan chest.
And of something else.
“Must have been good,” I said, gesturing to my neck in the same spot where, on his, fresh scratches stood out in raised lines.I hadn’t been able to see them earlier because the house was so dark, but now, with the window behind him, they were visible.
“Oh.Yeah.”His gaze was startlingly direct again.“Some guys are into that, you know?”
“Did you know Tip was attacked last night?”
He gave a nod.“That’s so messed up.”
“Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“Huh?”
“I’m surprised you’re not at the hospital with your roommate.He got hurt pretty badly.”
“Yeah, man, I know.”A hint of color moved into his cheeks.“His psycho parents wouldn’t let me see him.And anyway, what was I supposed to do?Jordan would lose his mind if I tried to hang around all day.”
“So, you did go to the hospital?”
