1. Ryan

So, it turns out my new roommate’s a dick.

I don’t mean a borderline case. He’s not kind of a dick. He’s definitely not a micropeen or anything like that. I mean an honest-to-God confirmed case. A massive, gargantuan cock. The stereotypical epitome of a dick.

I know it the second I first see him.

The door to my new dorm room swings open, and there he is on his bed, long arms and legs sprawled out, taking up way too much space, mouth twisted into a cutting grin.

Picture the worst, most clichéd fuckboy you could possibly imagine. Tall, blond, unfairly attractive, right?

Have a clear picture in your mind?

Good.

Now, make him more attractive. Way, way more. Off the charts, outrageously good-looking. And you know the excess of arrogance fuckboys have? Scoop all that up, roll it into a ball, and double it. Seriously. Then you might have an idea of what I’m dealing with here.

Miller fucking MacAvoy. A name synonymous with a good time. Debaucherous nights and long days spent fist-bumping and ass-slapping and laughing too loudly with others of his kind. A kind I spend a great deal of my time and effort avoiding. And yet, even I know Miller. Know of him, at least. Everyone does.

“‘Ey,” he says, pulling himself up slowly into a seated position, feigning intent to help me with my bags without actually making any move to do so. He sniffs and raises an expectant brow at me.

Note how he hasn’t introduced himself but expects an introduction from me—Dickheadery 101.

“Uh, I’m Ryan. Ryan Haraway.”

“‘Ey,” he says again.

Ah, a riveting conversationalist.

Lucky me.

Just what I need. Just the type I’ve always wanted to be cooped up with. In a small space. For prolonged periods of time. With no way of escape.

He waves to the empty bed on the right side of the room, magnanimously offering it to me. There’s a black wrought iron bedframe and a mattress with a dark cover. I can’t begin to imagine the sins it hides, nor do I want to.

The room is painted a cheerful off-white. A sunny buttercup cream, I think you’d call it. Meant to create the illusion of light in other rooms, but in this one, with the oversized window between the twin beds, it does a surprisingly decent job of injecting a less-than-dire vibe into the space.

There’s a dark timber desk between the two beds. He must have claimed it for himself because there’s a multi-joint study lamp, a keyboard and screen, a phone charger, and nary an errant piece of paper or anything else that might hint at the desk being used for the purpose of tertiary education on it.

My desk is at the foot of my bed near the closets. On his side, there’s a two-seater navy sofa and a white shag rug. On the far wall is a dresser, a fridge, and two doors, one that leads to the hallway and one to the bathroom.

It’s a far bigger room than I’ve seen anywhere else on campus, and believe me, I’ve seen a few. This is the fourth time I’ve moved in the year and a half I’ve been here, so I don’t mean to brag, but I’m kind of an expert in the matter. This room confirms a suspicion I’ve long held that Ivy League schools have a robust process in place to ensure that the spawn of the rich and famous are offered preferential treatment to keep them in the style they’re accustomed to.

“That all your stuff?” A puzzled brow creases. The fact that not everyone’s dad is a property magnate is brand-new information to him.

“Yep.”

It seems almost a waste to unpack as I won’t be here long, but at the same time, I don’t want to encourage any more questions. I don’t care what Bev or anyone else from Student Services has to say. Miller MacAvoy and I are not going to work out as roommates. Call it irreconcilable differences or whatever you want, but believe me, I’ll be out of here the first chance I get. I’d rather move back in with Steve and his deviated septum and penchant for lighting blunts in the bathroom than live with this asshole.

By the time I’ve unpacked and set up my laptop, Miller is on his feet, poised to get ready for a night out.

“…going to The Pardon,” he says. “You should come. Everyone will be there.”

I consider pointing out that his idea of “everyone” and mine are vastly different, but it’s been a long day, I’m exhausted, and I’m positive that any attempt to educate this guy will be a colossal waste of my time.

He’s in the middle of the room, a few feet from me. He lifts his T-shirt, a big hand curling under the hem and dragging it up. Deep lines and gullies dip into his torso as he disappears under luxe knit fabric. When he reappears, his hair has fallen into his face. He swipes it back effortlessly, and infuriatingly, it stays exactly where he puts it. A wavy blond swoop up from his roots, falling carelessly to one of his temples. Even with extensive use of hair products, it’s a look most people spend their whole lives trying—and failing—to achieve.

He balls his T-shirt up and shoots it into the hamper in a corner on his side of the room without taking aim. It drops in with a soft swish. He looks at me expectantly, lips bowed up in a smirk. I can’t tell if he’s expecting praise for his dunking skills or for his abs, but either way, he’s clenching so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t burst a blood vessel.

I ignore him completely.

Not my monkey, not my circus, and all that.

He pushes his sweatpants down and repeats the performance with more aplomb. I look pointedly at the door of the bathroom and use every ounce of my telepathic powers to scream, Get changed in the bathroom with the door closed, you dick!

My telepathy must be on the blink because he doesn’t catch my drift. Miller turns and preens at his warped reflection in the shiny silver surface of the kettle. He tilts his head in satisfaction, then reaches back leisurely and untucks his boxer briefs from the crack of his ass.

“So, what do you say?” he says.

“‘Bout what?”

He smiles patiently. “Coming out tonight.”

“Nah, can’t, thanks.”

“How come?”

“‘Cause I’ve got to work, is how come.” I use a little more heat than I mean to, but fortunately, it goes over his head.

“Well, swing by when you’re done if you want. We’ll be there.”

I smile thinly and grab my bag and notes, giving him a curt nod as I head out. A Friday night in the library seems like a small price to pay to avoid being trapped in a confined space with a naked, freshly showered Miller MacAvoy.

I wake in the early hours, the fist in my chest clenching tightly, squeezing the blood from all four quadrants of my heart at once. I sit bolt upright, pulse racing as I struggle for breath. I reach shakily for the glass of water I left on Miller’s desk and sip it slowly until the fist releases. I lean heavily against the wall, the icy coolness of the surface an unpleasant shock but not quite enough to snap me out of it fully.

Numbers swim in my vision. Tuition fees. Housing. A ridiculous quote for engine repair for my truck. A reminder from the dentist for an appointment I can’t see myself being able to afford any time before I turn forty. I didn’t get a shift at Pepe’s tonight, and it’s five days until I get paid. My bank balance currently stands at forty-one dollars and thirty-three cents.

Forty-one dollars

Thirty-three cents

Forty-one dollars

Thirty-three cents

I try to breathe through it, but no matter what, I can’t make the numbers add up. I can’t because they don’t. I’m flat fucking broke, racking up more debt every second I’m here. My breath quickens, shortening into harsh, uneven gasps as I start adding up what I’ll owe by the time I get my degree.

The fist finds me again. My rib cage screams from the intrusion. I feel hot and sweaty, and a high-pitched buzz threatens to fry my brain.

There’s a scratch of metal on metal. A key slides into the lock. I glance at the door and throw myself back down on my bed, pulling up my covers and turning onto my side so I’m facing the wall. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.

A crack of light slices into the darkness. I turn my face and try to pretend I’m asleep. The only thing worse than feeling like this is having someone like Miller MacAvoy know about it.

I think that might actually kill me.

“Nah,” he murmurs. “Told you, you can’t come in… Why? ‘Cause my roommate’s new.” I hear a smug smirk in his voice. “Don’t want to traumatize the poor guy on his first day.” The sliver of light widens. “I’ll see you around, though, okay?”

A feminine voice makes soft, unhappy sounds but begrudgingly concedes. The door closes and I hear him taking his shoes off. The bathroom door opens and closes. A tap runs and is switched off a couple of times as I lie in my bed, trying to imagine a world in which I’d turn down a girl who wanted sex. I come up with nothing. Nada. Not one single thing.

I can’t even remember what it feels like to be with a woman at this point. If I’m not studying, I’m working, and if I’m not working, I’m trying to save money. I tell you, hooking up when you’re socially awkward and can’t afford jack isn’t as easy as you’d think it would be. I’m touch starved to dangerous levels, and yeah, right now, I’m jealous. I admit it.

Miller’s life isn’t as perfect as it looks from the outside. Moneyed golden boy worshipped by everyone—up close and personal, it’s much better. A man in his early twenties turning down sex with a consenting coed? It’s unheard of. The fucker.

The crack of light outlining the bathroom door goes black, and Miller stumbles to his bed in the dark, undressing as he moves. There’s a soft sigh of fabric hitting the floor as he drops his T-shirt. A metallic clank of zippers and belt buckles as his jeans follow suit, and a second later, he gets into his bed. He sighs in contentment, and before long, his breathing lengthens and slows. He falls asleep quickly. Not a care in the world, I suppose.

Meanwhile, I count the hours until I have to be up for work.

Four hours.

Three.

Two.

By the time the light changes, I’m exhausted. Groggy and dry-mouthed. Sleep threatens but doesn’t take hold. It’s probably not a bad thing. Falling asleep now will make it even harder to get out of bed.

Miller is still asleep when my alarm goes off. He’s twisted half on his back, half on his side, head tilted to face me. One hand is tucked under his pillow and his legs are splayed out, covers all but kicked off. Blond hair. Tanned skin. A tiny pair of white boxer briefs that cover almost enough to be considered decent but fall short. A hefty bulge lolls to one side and his underwear rides up on one leg, exposing the smooth pale skin of a milky thigh.

Chill. I’m not looking.

I’m not, okay? He’s just here. In my space. In plain sight. It’s not like I can totally avoid him.

Miller is up by the time I get out of the bathroom, fully showered and dressed. His hair stands up at his crown, giving him a slightly disheveled air, but his eyes are focused and bright. Looking at them, you would be forgiven for thinking he got a nice early night, not that he came slinking in after three in the morning.

“Cream and sugar?” he asks, pouring steaming coffee into two mugs. A blue one and a pink one, both intricately patterned. Fine China by the look of them, decorated with pale vintage roses and vines.

“Black’s fine,” I grunt, a lot more grateful for the offer than I’d like to admit.

He hands me the blue mug, and it’s not until I lift it to my lips that I notice an assortment of erections and testicles nestled into the roses and vines. Veiny and straining, swollen crowns curved this way and that. He watches me intently, eyes dancing when I flinch slightly. I quickly correct so as not to give him any more satisfaction, arranging my face into a picture of neutrality, purposefully ignoring the fact that I now notice the pink mug has an array of boobs of all sizes tastefully hidden in the floral pattern.

See?

Told you he was a dick.