Just Roommates: a Beverly Hills 90210 fan fiction

JUST ROOMMATES

A Beverly Hills 90210 fan fiction

Windows 95 made Brandon's desktop PC run like a stallion. He sat in the dark in his upstairs bedroom at Casa Walsh, marveling at the effortless speed his modem and word processor now achieved. It was 11:35 on a Friday night in October. Brandon felt a twinge of guilt for skipping Steve's party at the KEG house, but the thought of driving a smashed Donna and Kelly to the Peach Pit for midnight curly fries wasn't setting him on fire. For the last hour he'd attempted to compile his mascot statue proposal for Monday morning's California University student government meeting, but his heart wasn't in it, even with his miraculous software upgrade. In fact, his heart was the last organ he was concerned about. Anonymous pangs of desire teased his body in carefree patterns, rising in intensity the harder he attempted to focus. Brandon switched off the monitor and paced his room impatiently. I finally get the place to myself and I'm shooting blanks, he thought. Weak. His parents Jim and Cindy were in Palm Springs until next Wednesday. Valerie had taken Dylan to some grunge concert at the Viper Room. They wouldn't be back until late, if at all.

He trudged down to the kitchen and poured himself a Corona with lime, taking it into the living room to distract himself. Ninety-five channels and nothing on. The beer eased blood into his head and relaxed his legs. He halfheartedly stroked his cock through his jeans, staring at the ceiling. First he thought of Emily last summer in San Francisco, then the time he caught Kelly skinny dipping in the pool at the Bel Age Hotel, then kissing Andrea on the mouth the first time he got drunk, then back to Emily. None of them made him unzip and finish. Shooting blanks bro, he thought again, not my night. Brandon muted the TV and stood up in a panic. The washing machine throbbed from the basement, set to the highest speed and load size. It spooked him a little. An L.A. earthquake couldn't have prepared him for what he walked into down there.

Valerie was perched on the edge of the washing machine, straddling it like a rodeo queen, wearing only a Van Halen tee. Her face was sweaty, her neck was flushed and half her hair was pulled up into a messy bun. Their eyes locked in bewilderment. They yelled their names. Brandon froze. Valerie quickly shut her legs and pulled strands of hair out of her mouth.

"You heard of knocking?" she hissed. Her tone was angry but the sly grin upturning the left side of her wet mouth contradicted it. She dismounted the washing machine and dashed past her roommate like a sparkler was lit between her buttocks. A shellshocked Brandon stood there another minute, maybe five, tripping on what he'd just witnessed. Finally he moved across the dim basement and unplugged the washing machine. Its rhythmic vibrations subsided.

"Fuckin' A," he muttered. He inhaled to calm himself. The scent of Valerie's excitement lingered from the spot where she sat just minutes ago, flooded with pleasure. He padded up the basement stairs. The kitchen and living room became a blur of adrenaline. Brandon mounted the stairwell of his parents' Spanish style split-level, the centerpiece of the entire house. His gaze darted from his bedroom door to Valerie's across the hall to the bathroom they shared in between. He swallowed and knocked on hers.

"Sorry Val," he began, "I had no idea you were here."

Brandon turned to retreat. Her words cut him short.

"Brandon," Valerie teased, her voice slightly muffled, "if you're so sorry, get in here and prove it."

Her room, though dim, was lavishly furnished, a grown woman's boudoir across the hall from his virtually unchanged high school bedroom. He grew self-conscious as he took in her environment, forgetting it was his sister Brenda's old room before she'd moved to Europe. He hadn't stood in here since the night Valerie moved in, when it was just a skyline of cardboard boxes. Even then, his girlfriend hadn't let him stray more than five feet from her hip.