My Sweet Demise (Demise #1)
Read My Sweet Demise (Demise #1) Online
Authors: Shana Vanterpool
My Sweet Demise
The Demise Series, Book 1
By Shana Vanterpool
My Sweet Demise
Copyright © 2015 by Shana Vanterpool.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-432-5
ISBN-10: 1-68058-432-4
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my mom.
She never gave up on my dreams.
For Matthew.
He showed me the way to the greatest escape.
I miss you, Matt.
Table of Contents
The ad has the wrong apartment number.
It’s one more wrong thing at the end of a long day. The sun is setting behind the apartment buildings as I approach, giving the seedy crowd of the neighborhood permission to leave their caves. A group of men wearing all black creep past me, leering through their dark hoods. I quicken my pace, attempting to not appear rude while still keeping a safe distance. I usually do my best to be nice; there are already plenty of people in this world who don’t. Right now, however, I’d channel my sister Becca and, as she so often puts it, kick some monkey ass if anyone messed with me.
I am wound up and hungry, and this heat is exhausting. It clings to the air like steam, sticking to me everywhere it touches. Summer refuses to release Florida from its clutches, squeezing every ounce of heat from it that it can.
I am hoping this next room wasn’t full of creeps and their sleaze. If it is I don’t have another option. As of this morning I’m homeless. I’ve been out all afternoon checking up on ads I found online. Each room progressively worsened. One belonged to a middle-aged man with a horde of cats. The cats had their own room and I would’ve been stuck on the fur-covered couch for an obscene amount of money. My waitressing position at Oblivion, a bar in downtown Jacksonville, only allots a minimum amount plus tips—and tips aren’t always reliable. I tend to focus on the reliable things in life. If it isn’t set in stone I consider it unattainable. Still, after nothing but disappointment, it would be nice if this room worked out. It’s within my budget and only a fifteen-minute drive to work. I don’t require much else. Perhaps I should, but it feels like asking for more than the bare necessities in life will only end with me being let down.
I blow a breath out in irritation and take the stairs, pushing my hair out of my face. It’s disgustingly hot out. My tank top is sticking to the small of my back and my shorts chafe against my thighs. I want a shower and a cold glass of something wet.
As I search for apartment fourteen—instead of one-one-four like the ad had specified, which got me a confused mother of four after knocking on her door—I start to let my despondent outlook take over. This room is going to be as bad as the last one. I’m going to be homeless. I curse my ex-roommate, the bubbly wannabe sorority sister, Camden, for finding me unfit. That was her description. So I don’t have a lot of money, Daddy isn’t paying my rent, and I don’t sleep with frat boys in the hopes they’ll assist my social status. I’m not unfit. After a huge blow-out this morning, upon my return from letting off some steam, I found all of my stuff out on the front lawn. I packed what I could fit into my car and would have to return for the rest as soon as I found a way.
Suddenly apartment fourteen looms over me.
I take a deep breath and knock tentatively.
Before the occupants answer I stand back, leaving me enough room between them and the stairs. After this morning I can’t be too careful.
Finally the lock sounds and light spills out of the open door. I examine the person on the other side of the threshold fearfully. He looks around my age, normal…and
hot
. I frown at him. Where are the cats? Where are the weird smells and that creepy
I’ve got bodies older than you in my basement
look the last guy gave me? I peek around him and spot a relatively decent-looking apartment. No fur, no plastic tarps, and his serial killer’s outfit must be at the drycleaners.
After establishing that my life isn’t in immediate danger, I examine him. After all, looks can be deceiving. Beneath his mussed light blond hair may be a man who is far more dangerous than one and his cats. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Considering this heat, I don’t blame him. His black jeans elongate his lean legs, emphasizing his height. I start at his toes for some reason, long, pale toes, and work my way up, noticing how his jeans hang off his narrow hips and how those hips lead up to a set of perfectly taut muscled abs set within the most delicious V’s I’ve ever seen. His chest and biceps both bulge slightly, as if he works out to look hot but not enough to show off. I follow his chest up to his long pale throat, past his strong jaw, and over a pair of sculpted, soft, pale pink lips.
Swallowing hard, I finally meet his eyes. They are bottomless and black, and like motor oil, they gleam in the light.
I inhale sharply and step back further.
This guy is insanely hot. I wasn’t expecting this. A dirty creep, maybe. Not a man who looks like this.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Can I help you?” His deep voice fans over me as he takes me in as well.
I wonder what he’ll see. I haven’t stopped to consider my outward appearance all morning. I’m sure my hair, a few shades darker than his, is matted to my scalp in a tangled mess. My eyeliner is probably smeared around my hazel eyes and I picked out my clothes in a rush this morning after my argument with Camden. I lick my lips nervously and find that the peach gloss I applied earlier is gone. I’m a sweaty, sticky mess.
He’s still staring at me expectantly.
He asked me a question. Now he thinks I’m sweaty
and
stupid. “My name is Raina. I’m here for the room. I’m looking for…” I look at the ad on my cell and read the name quickly. “Kent Nicholson. Is that you?”
He frowns. “You want to live with me? Did you even read the ad?”
I quickly skim over it. “650 dollars a month for one room, utilities included. Preferably college male of drinking age. Party friendly. First month’s rent up front. No lease.” My heart sinks and I look up at him in dismay. “I’m not a college male.”
His eyes slide over my body lazily, particularly my breasts. “No. You are most certainly not.”
Pig
. “Can you make an exception?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Are you cool? Are you going to be my wingman, put the seat up when I puke, or sleep somewhere else when I’m bagging someone on the couch?”
“Bagging?” I repeat, making a face. “You bag people on the couch?”
He laughs at my reaction. “I bag them all right.”
Too much information. “I need a room. If you need a wingman, I’ll be your wingman. If you puke, I’ll put the seat up. And if you’re bagging someone on the couch, I’ll put my headphones in and pretend it’s the bass from Katy Perry’s latest hit. I really need a place to stay. Please? Pretty please? Please don’t make me say please again.”
“One more time.” He crosses his arms over his chest. His face is serious, but his eyes are mirthful.
“Please, Kent?”
“No penis?” he checks, disappointed.
“Are you gay?” I guess.
His face doesn’t react. “My mistake. Let me clarify something. I bag women on my couch. Not men. Although,” he continues, eyes gleaming humorously. “I would make one incredibly irresistible gay man if I do say so myself.”
“Totally,” I agree, knowing he could say anything and I’d agree right now.
By the look he gives me I suspect he knows it too.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one. How old are you?”
“The same. Birthday’s not too far away actually. I hope the gift you buy
satisfies
me.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes, not missing the double meaning in his words. “The gift I buy will satisfy you,” I promise warily.
“And you want to move in here. With me,” he stresses.
“Yes.” What is so bad about him?
He stares at me closely, trapping me in his gaze.
I prepare myself for disappointment. I’m not a wingman. I barely even drink, I can’t stomach throw-up, and I think sex is a normal part of human life but should happen behind closed doors. But I need this room. I make my expression hopeful, widening my eyes and jutting out my lower lip. It works on Becca every time. When Kent’s eyes soften, I know I’ve still got it.
He runs a hand though his messy blond hair. “You know what? I’ll give you a shot. But the first time you get in my way you’re out of here. No cock-blocking, no bitchy attitudes, and please don’t fall for me. I don’t do the sweet ones. If you can promise me that, then this should go smoothly.”
Don’t fall for him?
Jerk. I raise my hand. “I promise. In fact I’ll even treat you to a free round of drinks at Oblivion. I’m a waitress there.”
He grins suddenly. The sight of his mischievous smile makes something foreign flutter in my stomach. It isn’t a reaction I have to men often. The feeling sends off alarm bells in my head. His black eyes glisten with his naughty thoughts.
“You waitress at Oblivion? I haven’t been there all summer. I went home to Tampa for the summer,” he explains when I stare blankly at him. “Anyway, that’s my spot. You go to the university?”
“No.”
He frowns. “No frat parties?”
“No frat parties. Unless you want me to come, of course. Wingman and all.” I smile sweetly at him.
He stares at my smile doubtfully. “Already slipping.”
“Slipping or saving my ass. Depends on how you look at it.”
“Hmm.” He steps back. “Come in, then. I’ll show you your room. You won’t be on the lease, so keep yourself scarce when the landlord comes around. Makes things easier on both of us when we part ways.”
“Makes sense.” I step into the apartment after him.
We enter into the living room. It’s spacious, with a long dark beige couch and a similarly colored coffee table. The entertainment center contains a large flat screen, video games, and a stereo system. The walls are bare. The carpet is clean and looks like it was recently vacuumed. The room is also hot. Sweat drips down the small of my back and trails between my breasts.
“Why’s it so hot?” I ask, fanning myself with my tank top.
“The A/C went out last week. I’ll fix it with your rent money. You have your rent money?” He looks over his shoulder as he pauses in front of a door in the hall.
I nod enthusiastically.
“Good.” He turns the knob and steps back, waving a hand inside. “Welcome home.”
The pressures of the last few hours evaporate at his welcome. I sigh in relief and step inside. It’s completely and utterly bare. The carpet is fluffy and clean. The walls are painted white. It’s a simple room, but the promise of having it calms me further. The window is open to the apartment pool area. I walk over and peer out. There are girls in bikinis splashing around in the hot tub. Kent joins my stare and we both watch them bounce and giggle.
“You see the one in the green?”
I spy a brunette in a lime green bikini. “Yes.”
“If she ever comes to the door, tell her I don’t live here anymore.”
My suspicions flare at his warning. “Clinger?”
“Level ten. Pregnancy scare and everything. Her name is Arissa.”
“Did you get her pregnant?”
“No. I said a scare. She was lying. She wanted me to be with her.”
He sounds so cold when he speaks of her. “Did she love you?”
His dark eyes bore into me. “She blew my last roommate in the laundromat and then came over to have some fun with me and gave me a kiss. If that’s love then she was head over heels.”
I cringe. “How did you find out?”
“My roommate told me after he saw her kiss me. Nice guy he is.” His tone is bitter. “You can’t trust women in this world, Raina. They’ll get you every time.”
I suspect it is wise to overlook his comment. “Did you love her?” I ask shyly, ignoring his rant.
“No. I don’t do the love thing. Not anymore.” He swallows deeply and then blinks his emotions away. “So this is your room. My room is off limits. The laundry room is downstairs under apartment twenty. You buy your own food. I won’t touch yours if you don’t touch mine. Same goes for our other roommate.”
“Other roommate?” I ask, worried.
“Yeah, his room’s in the back. He’s a quiet guy. Sticks to himself. We grew up together so he gets a free pass.” He looks away as we exit my room. “Don’t talk to him unless he talks to you, all right? He’s…shy.”
I can sense his unease about the other roommate. I wouldn’t push him anyway. Especially since I need this room. “All right.”
“This is the bathroom. James has his own so you and I will be sharing this one.” He nudges open a door with his foot and flips on a light.
The bathroom is clean and neutral, with a tacky see-through shower curtain. Becca would change it immediately. She prefers a lot of color. I’m kind of satisfied with the neutral tones. It’s strangely descriptive of our personalities. No matter, this is home until I can find somewhere more palatable to how I prefer to live. I’m sure Kent doesn’t want me here. He’s being nice. I’ll take it. Right now nice is all I need.
“Where’s your stuff?”
I follow him through the hall and out into the living room. “Some of it’s in my car downstairs. I have to get the rest. You wouldn’t happen to have a truck, would you?” I apply my hopeful expression again.
He turns around and stares at me. “No. So you can stop trying to get your way with those sexy pouty lips. I only have a motorcycle.”