Page 7 of Personal Foul
He gestures for me to follow him toward the guest bathroom. I’m not sure why one guy needs a three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment all to himself, but this one apparently does. Must be nice.
Not that I’m having trouble making rent with my roommate or that my parents are forcing me to have one—though Mom did say something about making sure to be more budget conscious for now considering the investigation—but I know they wouldn’t spring for a three-two just for me. I’d get a studio or a one-bedroom at most if I wanted to live alone.
I wanted a more typical college student experience, though, and that means a roommate. Plus, I grew up hearing my sister Hope’s stories about college and how much fun she had with her roommates—who were both bridesmaids in her wedding—and I’ve always wanted that too.
Dylan reaches in the open doorway and flicks on the bathroom light, then stands back and gestures me inside without a word.
Inside, I find my “uniform” hanging from the shower curtain bar. “You havegotto be kidding me,” I exclaim before I can think better of it. I yank down the skimpy French maid’s outfit and brandish it at Dylan. “You seriously expect me to wear this?”
He spreads his hands like he’s helpless. “Family policy. Nothing I can do.”
“‘Family policy,’ huh? Nothing you can do? Is it ‘family policy’ to blackmail people into doing your chores for you? Or is it just the humiliation that’s policy?”
He cackles. Oh, he tries to hide it behind his hand, but his aqua eyes dance with mirth, his shoulders shaking. He thinks this is fucking hilarious.
Drawing myself up to my full height, I shoot daggers at him with my eyes. Or wish I could, anyway. Doesn’t one of those superheroes in the movies have laser beam eyes that kill everyone in the way? What I wouldn’t give to have that power now. I’d even wear this stupid uniform if it meant I could do that.
“Fine.” With the uniform still balled up in my fist, I use both hands to push him out the door. He’s big enough that I couldn’t possibly move him against his will, but he gets the idea and backs out, still laughing as I slam the door in his face.
“He wants to make me wear a uniform? Fine. I’ll wear a fucking uniform,” I mutter to myself. He thinks he can embarrass me and make me regret agreeing to this, but I’ve put up with him and his kind for too many years to show any weakness in the face of humiliation now.
If this is what it takes, this is what it takes.
* * *
Given Dylan’s obvious desire to humiliate me and make me as miserable as possible, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that he’s not actually a slob. He left a list on a sticky note on the bathroom mirror, and it doesn’t look too terrible, all things considered. I get the laundry started first, since I have to get everything put away before I can leave. Then I get to work on the rest of the house. Most of it’s pretty basic—clean the bathrooms, sweep and mop the hard floors, vacuum the carpets. The floors are picked up, so I’m able to get right to work there. When I get to the kitchen, I discover the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, so I empty it and load it up with the few that he’s dirtied so far today.
Despite making me dress up in this ridiculous outfit, he stays out of my way and doesn’t follow me around leering at me like I expected when I put it on. Because it looks and feels like a cheap Halloween costume that’s a size or two too small. Or maybe it fits just right.
It’s a good thing I don’t have bigger boobs, or else I’d be spilling out the top. As it is, my modest B cup is on display far more than I’m used to, and I keep having to tug the skirt back down so I don’t show off my plain cotton hipster panties. It seems funny to wear them with this outfit, since I’m sure most people who wear it voluntarily are trying to be sexy if not full on slutty.
I’m sure he’d have some comment if he caught sight of them. Maybe try to convince me to wear a thong next time. Or worse, buy me a thong and demand I wear it as part of the “uniform.” It’s “family policy,” after all.
What a crock of shit.
At least he doesn’t seem bothered by the royal blue Converse I’m wearing with my “uniform.” I realize sky high black or scarlet heels would look better, but they wouldn’t be functional at all. Not that I’m sure he cares that much about functionality considering what I’m wearing …
Every so often, he wanders by, I’m guessing to check up on me. But he doesn’t linger unless I need to ask a question—which I do a few times, since I haven’t cleaned here before. Fortunately he only has the one load of laundry today, so I’m done in just under two hours.
Honestly, I think the worst part is probably folding his laundry. I barely fold my own, for one thing. For another, it feels ultra gross to be handling this guy’s underwear—boxer briefs with a few boxers in the mix as well—even if they are clean. But I block out my discomfort just like I did with my ridiculous uniform and soldier through it.
Once I’ve finished putting his clothes away, I find him reading on the couch in the living room and clear my throat to get his attention. He raises his head, then smirks at the sight of me. I wish I could punch that smirk off his stupid handsome face.“Do you need something?”
“I’m all finished.” I try to say it as politely as possible, but I think it might be a little on the sharp side regardless.
If so, Dylan seems unbothered. He places a piece of paper in his book to mark his spot and closes it, setting it on the coffee table before rising and stretching. His T-shirt lifts, giving me a glimpse of his abs covered by tanned skin.
How is this guy tan in March in Washington? Does he go tanning? Or maybe he takes private jets for weekend getaways to Cabo or something, though I guess he could’ve gone over spring break last week.
When he lowers his arms, I tear my eyes away, bringing them back to his face. His smirk looks far more amused, like he noticed me looking at his stomach and thinks I was checking him out or something.
Please.
Like I’d want to check out someone who’s reduced me to my current state.
“Let’s see how you did, and then you can change back into your regular clothes.” He heads toward the kitchen. “I’ll keep your uniform here so you don’t have to worry about keeping track of it,” he calls over his shoulder.
“How very generous of you,” I mutter as I follow him.
