Just Roommates

Chapter 1

Ugh. My neck is positively aching, and I let my heavy, book-filled backpack fall from my shoulder to relieve it as I prepare to exit my last class of the day. Why I chose to take on such an intense course-load is beyond me—I guess my anxiousness to finish college and start my career as soon as possible could have factored in at some point.

Regardless of my reasoning, it's what I chose, and I am suffering the repercussions now in my sophomore year at Arizona State.

As I stumble down the last few steps, My English prof, Professor Berty, calls me over to his desk and hands me my latest paper. I groan when I see the giant red "B–" that's written at the top of the page as well as all the little notes and comments. Considering I want to get a job within a publishing house, I can't exactly afford my marks to keep declining the way they have been. I already know I'm going to have to study my ass off for midterms coming up right away, which is going to piss Adam off since I'll be locking myself away more than I already have been.

"Not your best work, Miss David," Berty tells me.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at him, nodding solemnly instead. "I know."

"What happened?"

It's clear that he doesn't really care, but I decide to answer him anyway. "I guess I'm just feeling overwhelmed by my courses this semester. I'll work harder, I promise."

Berty acknowledges me with a nod and then waves me away.

Shoving the paper into my bag and throwing it over my other shoulder, I think about what I'm going to tell Adam. He isn't going to be happy that I'm canceling our movie date tonight—especially since it will be our first one in weeks, and I took the night off from work so we could spend some time together.

At least he's been understanding about it, I tell myself as I head outside the main building and toward the dorms. As I make my way, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and dial Adam's number to let him know I have to stay in and study. It sucks, because I was really looking forward to seeing anything that's not the inside of a textbook.

There's no answer, leading me to believe he's probably on his way over and I'll have to cancel our date face-to-face, which will probably irritate him because he'll have come all this way just to go back home. With a sigh, I enter the building that my room is in and trudge down the hall. The closer I get to the door of the room I share with this year's roomie, Leah, I can clearly make out what sounds like breathless moans coming from inside. This isn't new; Leah has a reputation, and apparently she feels the need to uphold it.

Annoyance flares up because I can't just walk into the room. Well, I suppose I could, but walking in on someone having sex isn't something I particularly enjoy doing—just ask my therapist. I'm pretty sure I still suffer from a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after seeing my mom and dad on the kitchen counter the last time I swung by the house to say hi.

You can bet your ass I called from that point on . . .

Dropping my book bag to the floor with a heavy thud, I lean against the wall, sliding down until I'm sitting on the hard tile with my elbows on my knees and my hands in my hair. Other students walk by, going to and from their rooms and the washrooms, and every time one of them looks down at me, I feel like an animal on display at the zoo. They probably think I've locked myself out. Of course, if they know my roommate—which most of the male population does—they know what's really going on.

The sounds coming from behind the thin door are escalating. People are staring, not just at me now, but at the door too. Warmth blooms beneath the skin on my face, and I offer each and every one of them a shrug, only to be met with sympathetic eyes. If I could afford private housing, I would be there in a second.