I traipse along behind him toward the double doors in the hallway where the stacked washing machine and dryer are, craning my neck to peer into the living room as we pass by.
It’s dark, but I glimpse the couch (dark leather) and an ottoman (also leather). A huge television on the wall above our matching gas fireplaces. It’s a stark contrast to the wall color, but I guess it goes with the furniture.
When I pay special attention to the windows, my mouth tips into a satisfied grin.
It’s strange how it’s the same apartment with different things inside of it. No wonder he was so wigged out at the sight of mine.
He stands in front of the compact laundry room—a luxury in an apartment complex, even one as exclusive as ours—pulling open the door and flipping the light on. It’s a tidy space with a suspension rod spanning the upper length, a few dress shirts already hanging on black velvet hangers to dry.
Just as we enter, the washing machine chimes, coming to a complete stop, the bin inside done spinning.
“Perfect timing,” I comment, leaning against the doorjamb, crossing my ankles and arms to watch him.
A man who times his laundry so he can swap it out?
Unheard of.
Brooks gets to work, yanking open the washing machine, arm reaching in to pull out a few wet garments. Tosses them into the dryer.
Repeat.
He sticks his arm in again, rooting around.
A dark garment catches my eye as he pulls a bag from the washing machine, unzips it, then gives it a good, healthy shake. It’s a heavy fabric and looks like a blazer, but I can’t be sure.
Definitely a fancy jacket of some type, made out of a fancy material.
“What’s this?” I lean forward, stroking it. It feels like wet velvet.
Brooks ducks his head, embarrassed. “This is my, um—it’s a smoking jacket.”
Why does this not surprise me?
“I can see that now.” I laugh, able to make out the trimmings of rich brocade and detail work. “What’s it for? Halloween?”
“This thing I have with my friends.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah, we do this thing.”
“What kind of thing?” Guys are so strange.
“Just stuff.”
“And you need a velvet and brocade jacket to do it in?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you trying to tell me you and your buddies have a secret club?” I joke, not realizing I’ve hit the nail on the head. But I have. It’s right there, written all over his panicked face.
Brooks twists his mouth into a frown.
“Lordy, please do not tell me you and your buddies have a secret club.”
“I won’t.” He won’t even look me in the eye.
Dead.
Giveaway.
They totally do. I squint over at him. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know you’re making fun of me.”
“Because it’s a secret club?” Man, I love teasing him. It’s so easy.
He fidgets, buttoning the jacket up the front and laying it flat on top of the folding table. Pressing down on it with his palms so it dries without wrinkles. “Stop pestering me about it.”
If there is one thing that frustrates me, it’s when guys automatically assume you’re nagging them when all you’re doing is trying to find out information. To learn more about him so the two of you can become closer; what’s the harm in that?
Also, I’d make an amazing spy.
“Pestering you about what? The secret club you have with your friends?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to—it’s written all over your guilty face, and you’re pressing the wrinkles out of a sopping wet smoking jacket, weirdo.”
“Uh, excuse me, but this jacket is fucking awesome.”
It does look fucking awesome. Impressive, too.
“I never said it wasn’t fucking awesome.” I almost choke on the profane word but relish the expression on his face when I let the F-bomb fly. “I’m just saying it’s a strange thing to own for no apparent reason.” My blue gaze grazes up and down his torso. He’s standing in the center of his tiny laundry room, next to his stiff jacket that may or may not be for some dumb boys-only club. “Unless you’re a freak about Halloween and are already planning your costume—in which case, I can’t for the life of me figure out what you could possibly be.”
“Can we just drop the subject?”
“Your wish is my command, your highness.” I dip into a debutante curtsey, as if Brooks is royalty, but my expression is far from adoring. Then again, he’s the one who owns a blue velvet jacket like a complete and utter jackass.
Once he’s done starting an entirely new load of laundry and ignoring me, I follow him back through the apartment and back out the door, waiting until we’re in front of my door before asking, “You don’t want to hang out at your place?”
“No.”
“Why? I didn’t think you liked my cat. Besides, your leather couch is super comfy.”
“It is, but you have better pillows for snuggling on yours.”
“We’d better be careful or we’re going to make a habit of this. You don’t want a reputation.”
And you don’t want me to end up liking you…
“A habit of this? Hardly,” he scoffs.
“Um, honestly—we’ve done nothing but hang out this week.”
Brooks laughs as if I’ve just told a joke. “No we haven’t.”
Is he serious? Yes, we have.
“Brooks, do you even know how many nights we’ve hung out this week?”
“Two.” He is extremely confident for someone so wrong, butt planting itself in the center of my sofa, remote control already in his hand. He holds up the peace sign then says, “Two,” again.
I make a buzzer sound. “Uh, try four.” Then, for his edification, I explain so there is no question that I’m right. “Saturday we rented movies and had takeout, Sunday you came over for lazy Sunday, Monday was soup and grilled cheese, and today is reality TV Tuesday. So yeah, I’m right—it’s been four nights.”
Brooks sits up on the couch like a shot has been fired. “Fuck.”
I throw my hands up. “Now what?”
“I have to go.”
Of course he does. Because he’s a weirdo.
After he’s gone and I’m in bed, lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the last thing I wonder before drifting off to sleep is if his reaction has anything to do with this mysterious club he and his friends have…
14
Brooks
I’m at her place again.
And again and again.
Like a bad habit I’ve picked up and can’t kick, I’ve been flocking to Abbott’s apartment like it’s my second home. Except I slipped up last week and stayed far too many days in a row, breaking a rule I fabricated for the BBS.
Rule 2: No seeing the same woman more than three nights a week. Mix it up.
At least I have half the rule locked down. But for real, why would I ‘mix it up’ when Abbott is across the hall? So fucking convenient not having to go to a bar to find someone to spend time with—even if we aren’t hooking up and I haven’t had sex in…