Rooter (Double H Romance) (7 page)

“It was to me.”

“Why?”

“Because it was inconsiderate. He saw that you’re on crutches. He could’ve said excuse me.”

“Maybe he thought he could get by.”

Rooter shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He fucked up and deserved to be called out on it.”

“The guy was scared to death. I’m surprised he didn’t piss himself.”

Rooter chuckles. “Now that would’ve been funny.”

I have to turn around to hide my smile. I can’t be mad at him. As I start to hobble away I’m stopped by his warm hand on my arm.

“I wasn’t going to hurt him, Sophie.” His expression is soft, but worried. “I was just trying to teach him a lesson.”

“I’d say you succeeded.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I appreciate you standing up for me, but you took it a little too far.”

The ride back to my house is a quiet one, but the silence isn’t awkward. Rooter pulls up in front of my house and helps me out of the truck.

“I’ll walk you to the house and then bring the bags in.”

Once inside we find Mike sitting on the sofa. His expression is a mixture of fear and displeasure. The way his eyes are scrunched together and his upper lip is raised in disgust makes me want to laugh.

“We gonna have a problem?” Rooter asks him.

“No.” Mike says and softens his expression.

Rooter turns to me. “I’ll be right back.”

I shuffle to the coffee table and set my purse on it. Mike looks at me like he wants to say something, but isn’t sure he should.

After a moment he asks, “Why is he here?”

“He took me grocery shopping.”

“I thought Miranda was going to the store tonight because you aren’t supposed to be walking.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m not about to tell him I lied to Rooter and convinced him to take me so I could spend time with him. But when I turn around, Rooter is standing only a few feet away from us. The look on his face conveys he overheard our conversation. He carries the bags into the kitchen and then heads out for more.

“Thanks for offering to help,” Rooter snipes at Mike with his arms full of bags, on his last trip. “I assume you won’t be eating any of this.”

Once he’s in the kitchen, Mike goes up to his room. I gimp into the kitchen after Rooter.

“So, you lied to get me to take you to the store?”

“Rooter, I’m sorry. I just…” I can’t finish the sentence. Mortified, I look to the floor.

I hear him step closer, but don’t have the courage to look up. “Why?” He asks.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My breath hitches. “Because it’s the only thing I could come up with to get you to hang out with me.”

He laughs loud. “What?”

Exasperated, I look up, which is a mistake because the amusement in his eyes only increases my humiliation. “You’re dead set against me getting to know you, so it wasn’t like I could call to chat or ask you to come over.”

He sighs and pinches his eyebrows together. “Sophie, it’s for your own good. Deep down, you know I’m right.”

“No, I don’t and you won’t give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

Rooter exhales sharply and rubs his forehead. The look in his eyes conveys that he’s torn between his conviction and mine. “What you saw in the store tonight… That’s who I am. Do you really want to be around that?”

“You were defending me.”

“Why do you constantly make excuses for people?”

“I’m not making excuses. It’s what I believe.”

He exhales and takes a step back. “You know what I believe?” He asks but doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “You need to forget about me. Forget about me and focus your attention on the guy who woke up in your bed this morning.”

Miranda suddenly appears before us. Talk about bad timing.

“Can you put these away?” Rooter barks at her before I can state my defense.

Shit!

“Of course,” she says, her eyes are wide, and she’s frozen in place.

“Rooter, last night wasn’t what it looked like,” I try to explain but he’s already walking away and I’m in no shape to run after him. “Rooter,” I shout.

He throws a hand in the air. “It really doesn’t matter,” he yells and stomps out of the house.

“It does to me!” I say, but it’s too late, he’s already gone.

“What was that about?” Miranda asks.

“More of the,” I make air quotes with my fingers, “I’m better off not knowing him shit.”

She makes a face that reiterates she thinks he’s right.

I hold my hand up to her. “Miranda, don’t.”

She puts her hands up in the air and steps away. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it all.”

“Well, he seems pretty persistent about it. Maybe you should spare yourself the trouble and let it go.”

“Maybe you should leave me alone and quit telling me what to do!”

“I’m not telling you what to do, dammit!” She kicks a bag and sends frozen pizzas flying across the kitchen. “Excuse me for caring about my best fucking friend!”

I desperately want to run after Rooter and explain Ryan is just a friend. A gay friend. I pick up my phone to text him, but my battery is dead and my charger is upstairs in my room. If it wasn’t for my injury I’d run and get it so I could text him, but that isn’t an option. And there’s mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in one of these bags.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve managed to put away the contents of two out of the nine bags of groceries when Miranda plods back into the kitchen.

“Here,” she says with a gentle smile and takes the canned vegetables out of my hands. “I’ll finish this. Go sit down.”

“Thanks.” I shuffle to the dining room table, relieved to be off my foot. Tears brim in my eyes, whether from the pain in my foot, or the argument with Rooter, I’m not sure.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and comes over to me when she sees the tears in my eyes. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Me either.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I answer, although I really wish she wouldn’t because I have a sneaking suspicion I won’t like it.

“Why does getting to know that guy matter so much to you?”

I roll my eyes. “Rooter,” I correct her for what feels like the hundredth time.

She gives me a contrite smile. “Sorry, Rooter.”

“I know it seems silly, crazy even. There’s just something about him. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt.”

“Like what?”

Where do I start? I exhale a long breath. “Safe.”

Chapter 8
Introducing The Slut

Miranda’s eyes bulge from their sockets and she takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s trying to stay steady and calm so not to upset me. “Safe?”

“Yes,” I respond defensively. “Safe.”

She shakes her head. “I honestly don’t get it.”

How many times must we have the same conversation? I realize she doesn’t understand my interest in Rooter. There’s no way I can explain it to her, when I don’t completely understand it myself. All I know is we don’t get to choose to whom we are attracted. I didn’t choose to be attracted to him. I just am.

“I know, Miranda.” I won’t bother to try explaining it. All I want to do is get a hold of Rooter, so I stand and grab my crutches. “I’m going to my room.”

The look on her face tells me she wants to continue the conversation. Whether it’s due to genuine interest or if she wants to try to rationalize the situation with me, I don’t know. Though, I’m sure it’s the latter.

She’s always been that way. Whenever I date or like someone she doesn’t care for, she tries to get me to see her point of view and change my mind. She has my best interest at heart, but it’s annoying. While it’s her prerogative not to agree with everything I say and do, she doesn’t have the right to control me. I wish she’d just let me live my life my way.

Sure, I make mistakes, but so does she. It’s a part of living and learning. Maybe this situation with Rooter is a mistake, but there’s only one way to find out. As my best friend, it’s her job to be there for me when I need her, not to tell me how to live my life.

Once in my room, my eyes go straight to Rooter’s bedroom window. The light is off. I lean my crutches against the wall, sit at my desk and plug my phone into the charger. I’m super impatient and the forty seven seconds it takes for my phone to power on pisses me off.

“Hurry up!” I yell at the device.

As soon as I’m able to enter my passcode, I call Rooter. After three rings, it goes to his voice mail, indicating he rejected my call. “This is Rooter,” the smooth sound of his voice gives me goosebumps, “leave a message.” Forget that. I hang up and hit redial. It rings twice before going to voicemail.

“Seriously?” I gripe to myself and hit redial a second time. This time, it rings, and rings, and rings before going to voicemail yet again. “Rooter, please answer the phone. I need to talk to you.”

I hang up and hold the phone in my hand, staring at the screen hoping he’ll hear my plea and call me back. After five or six minutes, I figure he isn’t going to call me back. Rather than calling again, since I know he won’t answer, I send a text instead:
Please call me
.

I wait a couple of minutes and after no response, send another text:
Just so you know, that guy who woke up in my bed this morning is gay. Call me.
I pray that this will convince him to call or at least text me back. After another long four minutes, I conclude he isn’t going to.

As I sit in my chair staring at Rooter’s window, I get an idea. His blinds are open. At some point he’ll go to bed. I’ll get his attention then.

Four hours and thirty nine excruciating minutes have passed. My eyelids are getting heavy when I see the lights come on in Rooter’s room. I jerk upright in my bed and stick my head out the window, flailing my arms like a mad woman.

“Rooter,” I holler. “I need to talk to you!”

Our eyes lock as he walks toward his window. My pulse races. His expression is a mixture of amusement and irritation.

“Open the window!” I yell.

He continues to stare at me a moment and I move my arms in an upward motion, indicating I want him to open his window. Instead, he reaches for the string on the blinds and snaps them shut.

“Fine!” I slam my window down and turn around to find Miranda standing behind me.

“Everything okay?” She asks.

“What do you think?” I snipe.

She lets out a deep breath, closes my door and sits next to me on the bed. “Talk to me,” she says gently.

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I promise not to judge or tell you what I think.”

I want to so bad. I need to someone to talk to and I want that someone to be her. I decide to give it a shot, but I’m not sure where to start.

First, I come clean about the depth of my infatuation with Rooter and when it began. Then I tell her about our conversation the day I sprained my ankle, of all the things Rooter found out about me, and how he paid for my prescription. Everything. Just as she promised, she listens until I finish without saying a word.

“And now, he won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do,” I whine.

A moment passes while Miranda processes the information. She looks me in the eyes and takes a deep breath. I prepare for the worst.

“He can’t ignore you if you’re standing right in front of him.” She grabs me by the arm and tugs me from the bed.

“You want me to go over there right now?” I ask, ignoring the pain in my ankle from Miranda’s jerking.

“No time like the present.”

I glance at my alarm clock. “At present, it’s almost two in the morning. I can’t go over there.”

“Then you’ll go first thing in the morning,” she says with a sympathetic smile and when she yawns I do the same.

“You should go back to bed. Thanks for listening,” I say and reach out for a hug.

“I realize I haven’t been very supportive when it comes to him, but if this is what you want, I’ll support you.”

“Thank you.”

I set my alarm for seven, so I’m stunned when I’m woken by the sound of Rooter’s Harley. I check the clock. It’s only six thirty. He never leaves this early. I peek out the window and watch as he pulls out of his driveway.

So much for going to his house first thing this morning. I guess I’ll have to wait until he gets home later. Since I have nowhere to be I roll over and drift back to sleep.

When I wake again it’s after ten. I check to see if Rooter’s bike is in his driveway even though I’m sure I would’ve heard him pull in. It isn’t there, but there’s a brand new, red convertible Mustang I’ve never seen before.

Three hours later the car is still in the driveway. I’m in the dining room when Rooter’s back door opens. Dopey runs out and a skanky blonde with a mammoth rack follows. I choke on my soda.
Who the hell is this chick?
I’ve never seen her around. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone at his house other than his biker friends and an older woman I can only assume is his mother. Does Rooter have a girlfriend or is this his way of making a point to me to back off?

Unconsciously, I pick my phone up and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail which surprises me because I can’t imagine he’d leave his phone off.

I spy on the girl through the dining room window. She doesn’t appear to be familiar with the dog. She doesn’t like it when he jumps up on her and gets grossed out by his drool covered ball when he brings it over for her to throw. I cackle at the face she makes when she wipes her hands on her leggings. I hope this means she isn’t Rooter’s girlfriend and that she’s as unfamiliar with him as she is with the dog, though I seriously doubt it. Rooter doesn’t strike me as the kind who would allow someone he doesn’t know well into his home.

By nightfall, the blonde is still there and Rooter hasn’t come home. I’ve called him four times today and each time it went straight to voicemail. I’m beginning to suspect he blocked my number.

I’m in bed trying, and failing miserably, at paying attention to the sitcom playing on my television. All I can think about—all I’ve been thinking about—is the girl at Rooter’s house and why I can’t get through to him.

The light comes on in his bedroom, but the closed blinds obstruct my view.
Why is that skank in his bedroom? She needs to get out of there now.
I keep my eyes on his window until the light goes out a few minutes later. I can only assume she’s sleeping in his bed.
Bitch.

Knowing the slutty blonde is sleeping in Rooter’s bed keeps me up most of the night. I can’t take my eyes off his window. This is the worst kind of torture.

At six I give up and get out of the bed, but not before flipping the bird at his house.

It’s somewhat of a warm morning, so I take my coffee out to the back porch. Not an easy task in my condition. I stumble on my way out, and my cup shatters on concrete.

“Fuck!” I holler and throw my crutch into the lawn.

The grass is overgrown, again. I’m not surprised. It’s not like Miranda or Mike can possibly find the time in their busy schedules to help with shit around here.

“You okay?” A strange, female voice asks.

I turn to my left and find miss perky boobs staring at me. I hate that she looks perfect this early in the morning. Without a word I turn around and hobble into the house.

“Slut,” I mutter and slam the door.

“Who?” Mike asks.

“No one.” I try my best to shuffle to the coffeemaker without my crutches. When I grimace in pain Mike gently takes me by the elbow.

“Just sit. I’ll make you a cup.”

“Thanks.” I peer up at him in surprise as he helps me to the dining room table.

Blondie is still outside when Mike hands me a new cup of coffee.

“That the slut?” He asks.

I nod and take a sip. Not near enough creamer, but I can’t bring myself to ask him for more.

“She’s hot.” He ogles her through the window.

Yeah, she is. “You would think so.”

His head snaps in my direction. “What does that mean?”

“Just that she would be your type.”

“Because my type are sluts?” He scowls.

I shrug and take another sip of my coffee. The last girl he brought home didn’t look much different from this chick. They met in a bar and spent a couple nights together. He got what he wanted and sent her on her way.

“And what does that say about you?” He asks.

I furrow my brown, confused. “Why would that say anything about me?”

“I seem to remember a time when I found you attractive. If I’m attracted to sluts, wouldn’t that make you a slut?”

I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Mike.”

He leans down closer to me. “The only reason you’re calling her a slut is because he fucked her instead of you.”

I shove away from the table causing pain to shoot up my leg.

“Don’t bother. I’ll leave,” he barks and stomps out of the room.

“What was that about?” Miranda asks with squinty eyes and her hair bunched up on her head.

I motion to the girl sitting on the stairs of Rooter’s back porch.

She pulls her eyebrows together. “Why are you arguing over her?”

“Because I called her a slut and Mike said the only reason I called her that is because I’m jealous.”

Miranda crosses her arms. “And he’s right, isn’t he?”

“Miranda, look at her!” I wave my hand in the trollop’s direction. “She looks like a slut!”

She shifts her weight to one foot. “Perhaps, but you wouldn’t even care if she wasn’t at Rooter’s house.”

I sigh. I have no response because she’s right.

Another day has passed. Rooter still isn’t home, and the girl remains at his house. I assume she’s staying there to take care of the dog which gives me hope there isn’t anything going on between them. But it also piques my curiosity. Where did he go? Vacation? Has something happened? Is he okay?

I try calling and texting him a few more times, but each time it goes straight to voicemail. I’ve officially concluded that he blocked my number. One way or another, I’m rectifying that shit the moment he gets home.

Finally, fifty six hours and thirteen minutes later, I hear the rumble of Rooter’s Harley. I watch and wait for the bimbo to leave so I can go over there and make him talk to me. But hours pass and she never leaves.

Rooter’s bedroom light comes on and his blinds are open. I sit on my bed and watch as he walks to the window with the blonde right behind him. Our eyes meet and he closes the blinds.

Yep. She’s definitely a slut.