4

AIDEN

 

 

If Bella smashed my phone, why the fuck is it ringing? Oh. Not my cell ringtone, it’s a landline. 

It registers that I recall seeing a phone in this bedroom, though I didn’t give it much thought, because who bothers with those nowadays? Yeah, this is my apartment, but I’m rarely here.

I reach over to the nightstand and, eyes still closed, I feel around until I find the handset. I lift it and make the ringing stop.

I’m dosing off, but I hear a male voice, sounding far off, calling out. “Hello? Hello? Anyone there? Carly? Hello?”

I’ve still got the handset. I drag it to my ear and grunt.

“Who’s this?” the male voice demands in response to my grunt.

“You called me, motherfucker,” I rasp and clear my throat. “Shouldn’t you tell me who you are?”

There’s silence.

My eyes flutter half open. Fuckin’ drapes must be wide open. Too goddamn bright in here.

“Is Carly there?” the bozo keeping me from sleeping asks.

“Who?” I fire back, aggressively.

“Carly. Carly Adler. I’m told she’s at this number.”

“No fuckin’ clue,” I say.

What was that chick’s name? Was it Carly? Did she even tell me?

“She got loads of curly hair and big tits?” I ask.

Silence. But yet it feels hostile. Shit, it could be her father on the phone. Not that I really give a rat’s ass.  “There’s a chick here but I dunno her name. She looks a little like whatsherface, singer with the hips that don’t lie. But call back later,” I mumble and put the phone down.

It starts ringing ten seconds later. I give the cord a sharp yank, making it stop, then close my eyes.

I hear it continuing to ring in the distance. It isn’t loud enough to stop me from passing back out.

***

I wander out of the room, feeling only half like death warmed over after getting a bit of shut-eye, and make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge and find it’s empty. As usual. Forgot I’m in this dump. Been here six days now with no staff.  In New York, someone cleans my apartment and stocks the fridge. Fuck. Wish I was home.

San Diego used to be home. This apartment is mine, though the spare room gets used for the company, tax write off, the deal is that no one uses my room. Now it’s where I am only when necessary, but fuck no, I don’t let them put anyone in my room.  I don’t even let the bitches I fuck into my room. Here or in New York.

I grab a glass from the cupboard, the last clean one, as the rest of them are all over the joint. I tap the glass into the alcove on the front of the fridge and water gurgles out.

It takes forever to fill. When it finally deigns to do so, I down the whole thing.

I’m recovering from how fuckin’ cold it was and the shock to my booze-battered body, when I hear a key go into the door.

There she is again. The chick staying in the other room.

She’s wearing jean shorts, has orange Toms on her feet, and a jean jacket with an orange t-shirt on. She’s on the short side, yet long-legged. She’s toned and curvy at the same time. She works out, but she also eats.  She’s got her curly hair pulled up into a knot on her head, pieces have come loose. There are sunglasses resting on her head.

I’ve got my eyes on her legs. She’s got arms filled with grocery bags. The girl raises her eyebrows at me and her eyes travel down to my feet and back up again. I’m still in my underwear.

She struggles to shut the door with her full arms, shit falling out of the bags, fruit rolling toward me, and then she gets to the bar and drops what didn’t already fall on the floor beside it. I put my water glass to the fridge and refill it then put it to my mouth and take another long guzzle.

When I turn around, she’s giving me the evil eye.

What? Did she expect me to relieve her of her bags?  Am I her butler?

I put the glass down on top of a stack of four already dirty glasses.

“Dropped your Tampax,” I inform.

Her eyes dart to the floor and she goes red-faced and then squats to lift the box as well as the two apples and box of granola bars that’d fallen out of her bag.

I catch a peek down the front of her shirt as she leans forward to fetch the apples.

She catches me looking. Her eyes narrow and flash with anger.

I saunter past her, back toward the bedroom. I can tell she’s about to mouth off and I am not in the mood. I need at least another few hours alone with my hangover in a dark room.

“Excuse me?” She snaps. I stop and turn around to face her.

“I’m Carly, as I said. You are?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Aiden.”

“And, you work for Carmichael?” she asks.

“I guess you could say that,” I answer.

“And, how long are you staying here?” she asks.

“As long as I’m stuck here.”

She gives me a befuddled look. “I was told I was sharing this apartment with Ally. Are you not leaving?”

“No clue who Ally is. This is my pad whenever I’m here. Sometimes there’s someone in the spare room, not usually. Guess this time it’s you.” I shrug and go to move away.

“Is this your mess?” She gestures to the room at large.

I look around and shrug. “Most likely.”

“And does Carmichael use a cleaning service for corporate apartments?” she asks.

“Not until it’s empty.”

“So, this is all your mess?” she confirms.

I fold my arms across my chest.

She eyes my biceps and then appears to give her head a shake, before she loses track of being pissed at me. This tactic typically serves me well. 

I flex a little and swear I hear the sound of her ovaries dropping eggs or some shit.

She swallows and glares at me. “Are you planning on cleaning this up any time soon?”

“Not particularly,” I return.

They usually hire a service after I leave. I’m usually only here a few days at a time. I’ve been here a week.

This is only the second time I’ve been saddled with a roommate while here.  Though last time it was a tech guy who stayed in his room, out of my way the entire time. This chick doesn’t seem like she’s about to stay out of my way. Though maybe I can use that to my advantage. After my headache fucks off.

I wander off and feel lasers burning into the back of me.

Whatever.