Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(3)
Nah, I’m happy with staying twenty-six forever. Society can kiss my pearly white ass for demanding a change
I’ve just wrapped a towel around my waist when Clayton pushes open the bathroom door, eyes droopy and dull as he shoves past me, stopping in front of the sink. He follows the same routine as every night: wets his toothbrush with cold water, smears a thick line of spearmint toothpaste onto the rough bristles before shoving it into his mouth and brushing his teeth for precisely two minutes. I’m no shrink, but I would diagnose Clay with a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder any day of the week. But Wednesday’s are his worst.
We’ve been living together for two years now, and I would still only be able to explain his behaviour as erratically unerratic. He becomes zombie-like—undead and empty—every Wednesday morning, seconds before dawn. It’s like he’s taken a backseat and switched his brain into auto-pilot, deciding to kick back with a bottle of scotch in his hand and watch his body be controlled by something other than himself. The need to be perfect in every aspect of the word.
I should probably sit him down someday to talk about how creepy it is having a living, breathing robot walking around the apartment, eyes twitching with a murderous gaze whenever I so much as leave the cap of the orange juice a bit too loose. But I’m not even sure if he realizes that he does it—that he’s different on that taunting day of the week. I don’t know if it would do any good more than it would bad.
After exactly two minutes since he shoved the toothbrush in his mouth and started scrubbing every square inch of his mouth, Clay spits into the sink and wipes a fresh towel across his lips. He doesn’t tear his concentration from the small container of dental floss pinched between his fingers as he mumbles, “I forgot to tell you that there’s some sort of concert tomorrow night at SP, and you need to be there.”
I raise my brow, although he stays focused on the minty string slipping between his teeth instead of looking at me. “There’s a concert? At Sinners? Since when do they do that shit there?”
“Don’t know. Ethan got tickets or something from one of the bouncers last week. There’s one for both of us.”
“Could be fun.” I shrug and rub at the sting in my eyes, exhaustion stepping on me with its dirty shoe. I don’t give the invitation much thought. Ethan is an eighteen-year-old boy stuck in the body of a twenty-six-year-old man. This isn’t the first time that we’ve been told to go to out with him, and it won’t be the last. I just nod my head and follow along. Night clubs aren’t my venue of choice anymore, but a beer is a beer regardless of where you drink it.
Clayton gives me a nod but doesn’t look away from the mirror.
“I’m going to bed. Don’t forget that I need you ready to go to the gym at eight,” I remind him before leaving the bathroom. I don’t get anything more than a brief grunt in response, and I chuckle.
Our two-bedroom apartment—if you could call a full bedroom and a small den without a window two bedrooms—is so damn tiny that it only takes me a whole two seconds to walk down the hallway and reach my room. I was lucky enough to earn my right to the actual bedroom by sucking back two more shots of tequila than Clay at a pub on Halloween the night before we moved into this place. I’m damn grateful for my stomach of steel, too, since there’s no door or a lick of privacy leading to the den Clayton calls the Boom Room. But boom, it does not. Where I might seem picky about the women I bed, Clayton damn near refuses anyone that doesn’t meet his iron-set criteria to the absolute T. It’s safe to say the Boom Room is filled with more tepid echo than anything else.
I don’t bother turning on the light as I quickly swap out the towel for a pair of briefs that I find in a rare, clean basket of laundry and crawl into bed. When I get under the covers, I close my eyes and pray to God himself that I’ll pass the fuck out soon.
Chapter Two
Sierra
“I’m exhausted,” I groan in defeat. The three brown bags in my hands—each one filled with enough clothes and uncomfortable shoes to make my bank account and self-confidence beg for mercy—threaten to drop to the floor of the packed shopping mall. I can’t say that I would honestly complain if the ruby red high heels my sister forced me to buy ended up lost in the crowd of babbling shoppers, though.
"Tell me about it. At least you get to go home and relax now. What about me, you ask? I have a daughter just waiting to rip my head off for hiding her tablet before I left.” My older sister, Clare, huffs while pulling open the heavy frosted glass door with the name Courier Strip Mall scrawled across the pane and leads us into the packed parking lot.
The autumn sun beams down on my exposed, pale shoulders. "At least Liz is cute." I offer her a quick sympathetic smile. Raising a hand above my eyes, I squint to try and find the car we arrived in.
"Of course she is. She takes after me.” She fishes out her car keys before sending me a wink. The shiny, silver car sits tightly between an old van and an expensive-looking SUV when we finally reach it. After shoving my bags in the trunk, I slide into the front seat and cringe when my bare legs stick to the hot leather seats. "I want a picture of you tomorrow morning before you go to work, Sierra. I'm so damn proud of you.” Clare plops down in the driver's seat with a grin so wide I’m surprised that I don’t see the corners of her mouth splitting open. “You got hired by one of the top marketing firms in the country! This is amazing.”