Just Roommates Page 5

  I’m engaged!

  “Well, well, look who it is,” Maliki deadpans, meeting me at the front of the bar as if he’s been waiting for me. “The future Mrs. Kinda Sorta.”

  “Not funny,” I grumble, dropping onto a stool.

  “You know what else isn’t funny? Marrying someone you don’t love.” His lips curl back in disgust. “But hey, what do I know about love? I’ve never had a healthy relationship like you where I break up with a person a few dozen times.” His response is precisely how I imagined.

  I sigh, my shoulders rolling forward. “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated?” His eyes widen. “He proposed. You said yes. And, now, you’re wearing a diamond on your finger. That isn’t complicated, Sierra.”

  I can’t stop myself from drifting my hand upward and admiring the ring. Devin did a fantastic job. The view of Maliki’s bitter smile when I look back at him erases all the happiness of my new accessory.

  “In fact, why don’t I make you a celebratory drink? What about The Heartbreaker? That’s the future of your joke of a marriage.”

  My eyes burn, and a tear slips from the corner of my eye. My hair conceals that side of my face, so I don’t bother wiping it. He can’t know he’s not the only one doubting this marriage.

  “Don’t, okay?” I muster out.

  He lifts his arms and snarls. “Don’t what? Tell you you’re stupid for saying yes? I don’t fucking lie, Sierra.” He stops and drops his voice when he notices people are staring. “If you want someone to believe in your sham of a relationship, it won’t be me.” He slams his hand down on the bar and backs away. “When’s the big day? According to what I’ve heard, you’re putting something together quick.”

  I nod and level my eyes on him. “It’ll be a short engagement.”

  He cringes and comes closer. “Holy shit, you’re pregnant. You’re pregnant, and your parents are forcing you to marry him.”

  “What?” I shriek. “No!” I hold my hand out and control my breathing. “Look, my mother hasn’t been this happy in years. Years, Maliki.”

  “Buy her a fucking puppy. Don’t marry someone to make her happy. That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

  “Maliki,” I breathe out.

  “I have a job to get back to. Enjoy the married life.”

  Maliki isn’t here tonight.

  That’s odd.

  He always works Friday nights.

  Mikey is running one side of the bar, and Liz is working the other. Liz has made it clear she doesn’t support my closing parties with Maliki. Well, my past closing parties with Maliki, given we haven’t talked in weeks.

  I’m ready to move to Mikey’s side and ask where Maliki is, but I’m stopped by Liz.

  “He’s not here tonight,” she states, irritated.

  She doesn’t bother asking if I need a drink. She knows why I’m here.

  Liz has the same dark hair as Maliki but with softer features and kinder eyes. Well, kinder when they’re directed at anyone but me. She’s older than Maliki, and according to him, she moved into the mother role when theirs left.

  “Stay away from my brother.”

  “What?” I stutter out in surprise.

  “You sent him an invite to your stupid wedding.” She gives me a frigid stare. “That was pretty fucking shitty, you know.”

  This is what I was scared of.

  She’s right.

  I wavered on inviting Maliki to the wedding. Would it piss him off to invite him … or not invite him? I was unsure but finally mailed the invite. Maliki ignoring my text, asking if I could stop by the bar, gave me my answer. He’s pissed.

  I muster up the courage to defend myself even though I feel like an absolute ass, like Ellie said. Guilt consumes me.

  “It’d have been shitty not to invite him.”

  “You’re so clueless.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re marrying another man, but you come here to hang out with one you’re not marrying. Is that not a warning that, I don’t know, you shouldn’t get married?” She taps her temple.

  She’s right, but the wedding is paid for, family member flights are booked, and my mother is over the moon.

  “Can you tell him I stopped by?”

  “Nope.”

  All righty then. I clench my fingers around my phone. It’s been in my hand all night while I’ve waited for a reply from him.

  “No offense, but you’re a selfish brat,” she continues without allowing me a chance to speak. “Grow up. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good night, and leave my brother the hell alone.”

  I have cold feet.

  Not ones I can fix with tugging on a pair of comfy UGGs.

  Cold feet about marrying Devin.

  The night before our wedding.

  The closer it gets, the more nervous I get.

  Devin is nice. Sensible. Secure.

  Maliki is wild. My future with him would be a mystery.

  That’s if he’d even want anything more than just friendship.

  When we used to close together, he made it clear that we were staying in the friend zone.

  But I can’t marry Devin when my heart isn’t one hundred percent with him and wants someone else.

  I texted Maliki an hour ago, but he hasn’t replied. He’s turned into a master of avoiding me. Every night I went to the bar, Liz said he was gone.

  Until now.

  Earlier, as my stalker ass had done for the past week, I drove past the bar’s back lot. Tonight, Maliki’s car is parked in his spot.

  He’s back.

  It’s a sign, and him being home is all I can think about. When I went over last-minute arrangements with my wedding planner, I merely nodded, not paying attention to what changes she’d made. I canceled the bridesmaid sleepover at my house, claiming I wasn’t feeling well, and told my mother I needed alone time.

  I need to see him. I’m about to turn my life upside down.

  I unlock the door to the pub and walk in. Maliki gave me a key pre-engagement. Sometimes, I would come to the bar after closing and let myself in.

  The jukebox is statically playing a song I don’t know, and I don’t see Maliki.

  Weird.

  He usually turns off the music promptly at closing, in need of peace.

  What’s also weird is, the bar isn’t cleaned. Trash litters the tables and floor, the stools are randomly thrown around the room, and the bar top isn’t wiped down. I slip the keys into my purse and head toward his office, hoping to find him there.

  I freeze when I hear it.

  “Yes! Harder!”

  It’s a woman’s voice. A woman’s breathless voice.

  Nausea rises up my throat, but I talk myself down. Whoever is in the office is fucking, but it can be anyone—Mikey, Liz, or hell, even a cook.

  I’m praying for any of those alternatives to Maliki as I stupidly migrate closer to the office.

  “Oh my God, Maliki!” she cries out. “Your dick is amazing!”

  Well, there goes that hope.

  “Fuck,” a man groans out. Maliki groans out.

  My heart splinters into shattered fragments, and I can barely breathe as I push myself to continue in their direction. The echo of smacking skin is screaming at me in warning to run, but I can’t.

  I have to see.

  I cover my mouth, in fear of vomiting and making a noise. The office door is cracked open, and my weirdo self peeks through the narrow crack.

  A dark-haired woman is spread naked on the desk. Maliki is standing between her long, tan legs, just as exposed. Their moans continue, and I can’t walk away.

  Then, my attention shifts to only him. His chest is beautifully sculpted with muscles, and sweat glistens his abdomen. I can detect his cock pumping in and out of her, but the desk cuts off my view from eyeing anything lower.

  The desk moves with each thrust as he wildly fucks her. He reaches forward to skim his p
alms up her chest and squeezes her breasts—breasts that are fuller than mine.

  I’m comparing every inch of myself to this woman.

  “Shit, I’ve missed you,” she moans. “I love you so damn much.”

  She lifts herself up on an elbow, reaching for him, and he leans down, smashing his mouth to hers, devouring her.

  Tears hit my eyes. I’ve never experienced hurt so hard. I taste bile and anger and hate toward Maliki and this mystery bitch for taking what I crave to be mine.

  You can’t be mad.

  He doesn’t belong to you.

  You did this.

  I was stupid and played games.

  I should’ve told him how I felt. It’s too late now. He’s having sex with a woman, kissing her, and she told him she loved him. There is a connection between the two. They’ve had sex before. That’s why he’s been avoiding me—not for the invitation, but because he has a girlfriend.

  Even though I can be arrested for watching them, even though it’s ripping me apart, I can’t turn away.

  That changes when my phone rings, the ringtone blaring.

  Everyone stops.

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  This is not happening right now.

  I jump backward as I shakily tug my phone from my pocket, careful not to drop it, and silence the stupid thing. I don’t look back while sprinting out of the bar as if Michael Myers were chasing me.

  If Maliki pulls up the camera footage to find who was creeping on him, I’m moving out of Blue Beech for good.

  Six

  Sierra

  Three Months Later

  Loud knocking on my front door wakes me up.

  I yawn and check the time on my alarm clock.

  Five a.m.?

  No, thank you.

  They can wait until regular waking hours.

  Whoever’s banging on the door doesn’t agree with the waiting game and only pounds harder. I push off my blanket, expletives falling from my lips, and stomp into the living room.

  “Chillax!” I yell. “I’m coming!”

  I grip the doorknob but withdraw a step when my name is called on the other side.

  Hell to the no.

  This isn’t going down at five in the fucking morning.

  I attempt to calm my breathing—failing miserably—and the knocking persists.

  I’m hallucinating.

  This is a dream.

  Only one way for me to find out. I stand on my tiptoes and check the peephole.

  Nope. Not dreaming.

  It’s him.

  Shit!

  This can’t happen now.

  I need time to prepare myself before facing him—words need fine-tuned, an outfit chosen, and a minimum of three hours of meditation done.

  Maybe if I don’t answer, he’ll give up.

  I count to twenty, and the knocking doesn’t cease. He gives me no choice but to answer unless I want my neighbors to call the cops on him. They’re assholes like that. It’s no biggie for them to have wild sex all night, but it’s a crime for me to jam to Britney in the morning.

  I swing open the door, air knocking from my lungs, and cover my mouth in fear of vomiting. Maliki is standing in front of me, and even though it’s been months, he looks the same. Well, except he’s now wearing clothes and not sticking his penis in another woman. I shudder, my stomach knotting at the memory of seeing him and her.

  Our eyes meet, and he doesn’t look happy to see me.

  Why is he here then?

  My hand drops from my mouth, and I rest against the doorframe, hoping it makes me look collected when, in actuality, it’s so I don’t fall on my ass. I wait for him to explain his unexpected wake-up call.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he states.

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “You know why.” I’m shocked at my honesty, surprised I didn’t throw out excuses like I’ve been working late or I had to wash my hair.

  After my wedding, Maliki texted me with a simple, Congrats. I didn’t have the guts to reply. He sent another text after I returned from my honeymoon, and I wanted to throw my phone as I read it. He’d watched the camera footage and seen me watching them that night. An apology was added in his text, but he didn’t fail to add a jab after it, claiming I had no right to be angry with him because I was climbing into another man’s bed at night.

  That time, I didn’t reply out of anger.

  Our friendship is over.

  There’s no moving past my marriage and his office-screwing.

  He scoffs, “Because I was with another woman?”

  He had a brief fling with the woman he’d screwed that night, according to Ellie. She had been appointed my Maliki informant. Just because I refused to step foot into Down Home or reply to his texts didn’t mean I couldn’t keep tabs on him. Two weeks ago, she told me the chick was no longer coming around.

  “Yep,” I clip out.

  “You’re pissed at me for sleeping with another woman. Meanwhile, Sierra dearest, you were fucking engaged to another man.”

  “And, now, I’m married to that man.” Why did I find it necessary to define that? It was a blow to compete with his asshole attitude.

  “Wrong. You were married to him.”

  I wince. “Excuse me?”

  He motions toward the inside of my condo. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

  This is when I realize I didn’t change before answering, not that he gave me a chance to. I’m wearing the pub shirt he gave me the night I came to him after the news broke about my father’s affair and short strawberry-patterned boy shorts. I don’t know why I’m wearing the shirt, given our fallout, but I’m blaming it on the comfort of it.

  I cross my arms to cover the shirt. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He juts out his chin. “Get fucking dressed, Sierra.”

  “What’s going on? I work in three hours.”

  “I’ll return you in time.”

  I sigh. “You’re not taking no for an answer, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  I wave him inside. “Fine. Give me ten to brush my teeth and change clothes.”

  “Nice shirt, by the way,” he remarks as I head toward my bedroom.

  My back stiffens, and I don’t bother looking back at him. “I’m behind on laundry.”

  “Liar.”

  What is happening?

  Confusion crackles inside me as I get dressed in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, tug my hair into a messy bun, and slide on flip-flops. I’m worried his visit has something to do with Devin. Swear to God, my husband had better not have done anything stupid enough for me to castrate him for.

  Maliki is holding a gold-framed photo when I return to the living room. My wedding photo.

  I clap my hands. “We need to make this quick.”

  He gives the picture one last glare and sets it facedown onto the table. “After you.”

  I hop down each step and spot Maliki’s Camaro as soon as we hit the parking lot. I inhale a deep breath when I get in, attempting to pick up the scent of a woman as if I were a golden retriever. All I detect is the rich amber of Maliki’s cologne.

  Maliki doesn’t say a word, and I tug my phone from my purse. There’s a text from Ellie, a voice mail from my mother, and nothing from Devin. I talked to him before I went to bed last night.

  I respond to Ellie’s text and drop my phone in my lap. As much as I want to call Devin, I can’t. Not yet. When I peek up, I notice we’re driving out of Blue Beech.

  “Whoa, where are we going?”

  Maliki keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t say a word.

  That only pisses me off further. “I want goddamn answers, Maliki, or I’m jumping out of this car.”

  His fingers clench around the steering wheel, and he still stares ahead, as if he were waiting for something to run out in front of us. “Trust me on this. No matter what’s happened between us, you know damn well you can trust me.”

  “Are you kidnapping me?”<
br />
  “Negative. If I recall, you once told me you’d make the worst hostage—something about hot wings and hair shit. Not dealing with those problems.”

  I can’t help but smile at the memory.

  He scrubs a hand over the stubble of his cheek. “Do you love him?”

  I stare blankly in his direction, his question taking me aback. “Who? Devin?”

  “No, the other man you’re married to.”

  I punch his arm. “I forgot how irritating you are.”

  He rubs the spot I hit, and relief hits me when he finally glances my way. “You love how irritating I am. Just like I love how fucking irritating you are.”

  Momentarily, in my mind, our situation dissipates, and I shut my eyes, savoring his compliment.

  Then, I remember I’m married.

  I adjust my ring and fix my eyes on the solitary princess cut diamond.

  “Seriously,” I say. “What is this about?”

  “Answer my question.” Aggravation is in his voice again. “Do you love him?”

  “Obviously. I wouldn’t have married someone I didn’t love.”

  “Do you love him or the idea of him?”

  “This is ridiculous. Take me home. I have better things to do than defend my marriage.”

  “You’d better not defend it after today.”

  “Please, stop talking in code … or circles … or whatever the hell you’re doing. I’m getting pretty dizzy over here. Did I tell you about my motion sickness? Blue Beech Fair 1999, the Tilt-A-Whirl had me puking up pink cotton candy all night.”

  “You want straight up?” he grinds out in a raised voice. “Your husband was partying last night at a bar. I saw him there.”

  His response doesn’t bother me and isn’t what I expected.

  “I’m well aware he was at a bachelor party,” I deadpan.

  His irritation grows. “Are you also well aware he was fucking another woman at that bachelor party?”

  Disbelief rushes through me. I struggle to breathe, struggle to think … hell, I even struggle to remember my own name.

  No way. I open my mouth to protest, but fear constricts me from speaking.

  Our relationship isn’t perfect, but since our wedding, Devin has been the model husband. I’ve never doubted my trust in him. There have been no signs of an affair—no whispering in the other room or a passcode on his phone, none of the signs my friends have busted their husbands with.