Page 8 of The Black Table
“Pay me whenever,” she says. “You always do.”
“I…” He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable that I’m still here. “Thank you,” he intones.
I focus all of my concentration on not eavesdropping, or at least not looking like I’m eavesdropping, because it’s clear to me that my new roommate may be the campus weed dealer and may have some kind of situationship with this unfriendly, sword-wielding, six-foot-five golden boy who wants me anywhere but near him.
The perfect storm of a roommate match. If she snores, I’ll have a full bingo card and a miserable first semester.
No. No. Not thinking like that. Everything’s going to be fine.
I tug at the suitcase one more time and manage to get it halfway onto the mattress before a corner slips off the bed. It lurches for the floor, and I lurch with it, but it doesn’t hit.
Not because I catch it.
Because he does.
With one arm.
Wordless, he hoists it the rest of the way to the bed and lies it perfectly flat on the mattress. Like it weighs nothing. Like it should not have been any kind of struggle, even though his arms are twice as thick as mine and his hands could fit around my waist.
“Thank you,” I mutter. His response is to nod, and jerk his hand away swiftly and precisely, like he’ll get an acid burn if he brushes my skin.
I get it, okay? No need to be theatrical.
“Well,” Morgan says, winding a strand of hair around her finger. “I’dloveto chat,” she says in a tone that implies she’d love to do anything but, “but my new roommate here needs to get settled, so…”
“Of course.” He clasps his hands at the small of his back and nods again. “Thank you.”
The door clicks briskly, and his footsteps echo behind it.
I blink at my suitcase, at my roommate, at how for the last few minutes, the utter confusion of who these people are and what they’re doing has successfully distracted me from thinking about myself.
Morgan continues twisting her hair, staring up at the ceiling and humming something.
“That’s Kingston,” she says. “And yes, he absolutely has a stick up his ass. But he won’t be around much.”
“Oh,” I respond. I didn’t ask, but okay. No mention of whatever was in the drawstring bag. Fair—she doesn’t know if I’m a narc.
And…
Goddammit. And, now that she’s broken the seal, I have to ask. I’m itchy with not knowing, to the point where I’m willing to make thrice as much conversation as I ordinarily would.
“And Kingston is your…”
What she says next is not what I’m expecting.
“Stepbrother.”
“Oh.” I don’t mean to react or sound so surprised. I tug down the sleeves of my cardigan. “That’s—I didn’t?—”
“Didn’t what?” Her gaze whips around to me, as if she can swivel her head like an owl.
“Didn’t…anything. Nothing.” Like it’s my fault the term is…rhetorically loaded? Besides, I was not imagining that hair flip. I may be dead inside, but I can still recognize the movements of a girl being flirty.
“Well, whatever you’re not thinking, stop thinking it.” Her voice is eerily cool and even as she studies her nails, then flicks her eyes back up to me. “Although, for your information, King’s like a monk, anyway.”
I didn’t ask. But I nod.
Morgan, though, is not done. She’s considering. Gears turning. When she speaks again, her words are like spiked honey: sweetness concealing the burn of arsenic.
