Beneath

3 THE THIRD ROOMMATE

C A M I L A

The elevator dings on the 74th floor. I step out with my gym bag slung over my shoulder. The carpet is clean, the walls are shiny, and the numbers on the doors are gold. At unit 5, I stop and slap my cheeks. A few stubborn dark curls escape my attempt to tuck them back into a bun. It's Thursday. I'm really doing this.

As I knock, I fight the urge to sprint away and forget about this. But the door swings open to reveal Fox in a forest green hoodie and jeans.

"Sport! You showed up!" He beams, stepping aside to let me in. I step inside, slipping off my worn runners and lining them up next to a collection of dress shoes and sneakers.

The apartment extends before me, smelling like a new car. Sprawling views of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows at the back wall and cream-coloured furniture that drawls I cost more than your tuition. My eyes snag on a pristine white grand piano by the back windows, framed by the Goldwen's skyline.

Holy shit. No way three men live here.

"Jed's around here somewhere. Noah's at the store. Come on, I'll show you around."

I follow Fox, my eyes drinking in the marble countertops in the kitchen and an island surrounded by shiny stools. A flat-screen TV on the wall with the white sofas. I make a mental note to touch anything.

"So, where's the throne room?" I half-chuckle, half-wince as we pass a set of spiral glass stairs going up to another area. "What the fuck, Freckles? Two levels?"

"That's Noah's loft; he doesn't let anyone upstairs. Just wait till you see the balconies."

The tour continues. There are a few more hallways, bedrooms, bathrooms, and offices. I'm trailing behind Fox when he screams, "Jed! The girl has landed!"

We turn a corner into a bedroom. Yellow and red themed. Crooked bookshelves, rocks everywhere, lava lamps, and posters on the walls, but they're all versions of the periodic table of elements. And here he is, Jed, the alleged third roommate. He's got an afro, and he's wearing yellow shorts and a Star Trek tee-shirt. He's slouched on a white bean bag, lap full of crystals, surrounded by books at his feet on subjects ranging from volcanoes to, I kid you not, the occult.

Jed's dark eyes flick to Fox, then to me, and back.

"Cam, this is Jed," Fox says with a gesture that feels a bit like he's offering me up as a sacrifice. "Jed's into...a lot of things."

"Geology and the dark arts," Jed corrects. His hands rise, revealing tattoos of eyes on his palms—one open, one closed. "I specialize in rocks and hexes."

I burst out laughing. "Which one gets you more dates?"

"There's a niche for everything."

"So, what, you just wave your hands and curse people?" I mockingly wave my empty palms at him.

"Only on days ending in y."

"Hell yeah."

Then Jed stands, tilting his head as he stares at me. "The guiltiest of men seek the sea. Not for absolution, but for the forgetting."

Fox clears his throat. "Moving on. Follow me, Sport."

I do, and we're back in the kitchen, beautifully naturally lit, everything shiny and new and cold to the touch. We settle across from each other at the kitchen island. I dump my bag on the floor with a thud that echoes, and pull out a stack of papers.

Fox slaps a one-hundred-dollar bill atop my papers. "Advance pay."

I blink at the money. "Are you joking?"