“YOU, UH, NEED SOME help with that?” I slam the door to my work truck and approach the blonde chick balancing a couple of tote bags on top of two giant Louis Vuitton suitcases as a little pug on a leash circles her feet.
I suppose it’s in poor taste to decide you don’t like someone before you even know them, but in the first five seconds of seeing my new roommate, I’ve already confirmed she’s exactly what I expected—which is … she’s everything that’s wrong with L.A. girls these days and exactly the kind of person I don’t want to be shacking up with for the next six months.
For one, she’s an “aspiring actress” according to Nick. That says it all right there.
For two, she comes from some famous family, and me and the silver-spooned types don’t exactly mix.
And third? Who the hell wears high heels to move?
Melrose tries to maneuver up the cracked walkway to my bungalow, stopping every few steps to rebalance everything.
Her heels click along the pavement, her tits bouncing with each step, damn near spilling out of that fitted white top of hers. On top of that, she’s cradling her cell phone on her shoulder.
“Let me call you back,” she says when she sees me. At least I think she sees me. Can’t tell through those giant Chanel sunglasses hiding her eyes. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Or you could just make two trips,” I say.
She pulls her glasses down the bridge of her perfect nose, studying me.
First impression? Hot AF.
Second impression? High maintenance AF.
Third impression? This is going to be a piece of cake.
When my original roommate, Hector, took a job across the country, he sent some guitar-playing Casanova named Nick Camden to take his place.
All right. Fine. Whatever pays the rent.
But a month later, Nick’s band got signed to some big-time record label and he got word they were going to be touring all over the country for the next half year. Nick, being the cheap ass that he is, wasted no time filling his spot with an old friend of his.
He assured me we’d get along, that she was “cool as fuck” and “laid back,” and he promised me that if it didn’t work out or if she decided to leave, he’d still pay his half of the rent each month.
One look at this piece of work and I can already tell we’re going to lock horns like crazy. We’ll probably spend the next couple of months going back and forth, bickering over who left the toilet seat up (wasn’t me) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes in the sink (hers, naturally). And after a while, she’ll pack up and go move back into her grandmother’s Brentwood guesthouse and curse the day she met me.
I see no harm in helping speed the inevitable up a bit …
I’ve been living with roommates for the better part of the last decade, and I’m fresh off the heels of a long overdue breakup with a girl who put the “cling” in “clingy.”
All I want is some goddamned breathing room and a little time to myself.
“Is Melrose your real name?” I ask, strutting toward her and grabbing one of her bags as I get a closer look. The scent of expensive perfume fills my lungs and I hope to God she’s not as extra as she looks. “Or is it some stage name you made up to make yourself stand out?”
Her head tilts. “Sutter Alcott sounds like the name of an old, rich, white guy.”
Touché.
I fight a grin, twirling my keys on my finger before finding the right one and shoving it in the lock on the front door. She stands behind me, waiting, and I’m sure I smell like ass. I’ve been running wires all day on some new build in Encino and it’s been an unseasonably hot March.
All in a day’s work.
We head in, and I place her bag to the left of the foyer, but this is where my assistance ends because I’ve got three priorities right now and three priorities only: a hot shower, a cold beer, and a juicy ribeye.
“You know where you’re going?” I ask.
“He said it was upstairs. The bedroom on the left.”
I chuckle. “Nick’s a directionally-challenged moron. My room is on the left. His—yours—is on the right.”
It’s odd imagining the two of them as friends, let alone best friends. He’ll wear the same t-shirt three times before washing it and she’s got on a pair of those red-bottomed heels I always see the women on Robertson wearing.
“You always dress up on moving day?” I ask, noting the curls in her shiny blonde hair and the coat of dark pink lipstick on her full mouth. I’m not sure if that’s her God-given pout or if she’s the product of some Kylie Jenner fad because it’s impossible to tell in this town these days, but her lips are a work of art, like two pillows shaped like a heart.
“I’m not dressed up.” She peers down at her pointed heels before meeting my stare. “This isn’t dressed up.”
Maybe where she comes from …
“Ah, I see. So you just wanted to impress me then,” I say.
Melrose’s full, pink mouth shapes into a circle. “For your information, I had an audition today and I spent all day driving all over town. I didn’t have time to change.”
“Nick said you were an actress,” I say. He told me all about her and how he’d known her since they were kids and that her grandma was some award-winning movie star named Gloria Claiborne, which meant fuck-all to me. “But I haven’t seen you in anything.”
I’d remember a face like that.
I’d remember tits like that too.
Her pretty eyes narrow and she squares her shoulders. “Can you please go longer than thirty seconds without underhandedly insulting me?”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I wrestle a smirk.
“Nick said you were cool,” she says. “He didn’t tell me you have the personality of an overconfident frat boy.”
I place my palm across my heart, pretending to be offended. “Can you blame the guy for overselling me? He’s cheaper than hell. He’d do anything to save a few bucks. I’m just glad I can finally get that Old Milwaukee piss-water out of my fridge.”
Melrose glances down, like she’s having a hard time comprehending that her lifelong bestie sold her out just to save a few grand. She releases the handle on her suitcase and folds her arms across her chest.
“He wouldn’t put me in this position,” she says. “He wouldn’t ask me to live with someone if he thought we wouldn’t get along.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did?” I shrug, like it’s not my problem, and it isn’t. “I’ve always gone by the assumption that everybody lies and everybody’s in it for themselves. Life’s much less disappointing that way.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Bullshit,” I cough. “Everybody lies. And if they say they don’t, they’re lying.”
“I disagree, but okay.” She rolls her eyes at me and blows a breath between her lips. My gaze lingers on her distracting bee-stung pout once more. Everything about her exterior is flawless—from her creamy complexion and curled lashes to her shiny blonde waves and tight little ass, and if I’ve learned anything in my ripe old age of twenty-eight, it’s that perfect on the outside almost always equates to ugly, crazy, and dysfunctional on the inside.
I should know.
My last ex was the same way, just took a bit longer to crack through her ironclad veneer to get to the core of who she really was: an insecure, superficial Bel-Air princess parading around like some vegan philanthropist with an organic vagina.
“Do you always have a giant stick up your ass or did I catch you on an off day?” I ask, genuinely curious but fully prepared not to give a damn either way.
“What are you doing?” Her brows meet and her dog paws at her leg. Clearly, he’s over this conversation. “Are you testing me? Trying to feel me out? See how far you can push me before I push back?”
Close … but not quite.
“I think I did the same thing once … when I was a toddler,” she adds.
“Ouch.” I head to the stairs, feigning an emotional wound. “You done now? Can I go take my shower?”
“Just because I’m nice, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I read people, Sutter. And I can read you. I know exactly what you’re trying to do, and I highly advise you to stop.”
I rub my hand across my chest, chuckling. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
Melrose’s lips form a hard line. “Nope. Just telling you to knock it off.”
“Knock what off? Exactly?”
“Whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she says. “Because I can promise you, it’s not going to work on me. I have thick skin and patience for days.”
I’m beginning to wonder if I underestimated her. All this time, I assumed she’d be some typical Brentwood Basic Bitch with zero personality, sky-high ambition, and dungeon-level self-esteem.
But … now I’m thinking there might be more to her than meets the eye.
“So …” Her manicured brows rise and she steps toward me, levelling her body, her posture mirroring the confidence of a queen. “How about we start over?”
“What?”
Extending her right hand, a slow smile claims her pretty face. “Hi, Sutter. I’m Melrose, your new roommate. It’s so wonderful to meet you.”
I don’t know if she’s trolling me or if she genuinely wants to start over—she could be acting for all I know, but I don’t think that’s how this works.
Regardless, I play along. I refuse to be bested at a game I personally started.
“Melrose, so lovely to meet you. Nicholas thinks the world of you. I’m sure I’ll adore you just the same,” I say in an over-the-top, saccharine-sweet voice as I meet her hand with mine.
Two can play this game.
“Much better.” She exhales as if she’s partially satisfied before reaching toward a luggage handle.
I fully expected to meet a Bel-Air princess today, a junior Paris Hilton with an entitlement complex. What I got was a whip smart beauty who wasted no time putting me in my place.
And that’s … if I’m being completely honest with myself … really fucking hot.