Page 26 of The Beautiful Collision
Then last night?
She’d brought someone home, and made sure I heard every fucking giggle through our paper-thin walls. My mind had gone wild, picturing her pale skin against dark sheets and imagining her sounds, and soon I’d found myself jerking off while in bed, listening to the orchestra in the room next door.
It was another move in our fucked-up chess game.
So this morning, I’d made sure to walk past her door in nothing but a towel, still damp from my shower, while her overnight guest was trying to sneak out. I’d given him a “morning, bro” that had made the guy practically sprint for the front door.
Point: Maine.
Except not.
Because Maya had emerged five minutes later in an oversized t-shirt that barely covered her ass, with sex-messed hair that made me want to mess it up more. And she’d put on a porn performance as she sliced fruit—licking mango juice off her fingers, giving a satisfied hum when she’d bitten into a strawberry.
I’d retreated to the safety of a cold shower.
And that’s the real problem. It isn’t passive-aggressive roommate bullshit anymore. It’s foreplay masquerading as territory disputes, two people who are used to winning turning their living space into a sexual tension thunderdome, and I’m one provocative yoga pose away from doing something stupid. And?—
“MAINE!” Rook’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Any day now, princess!”
I blink. The ball hasn’t moved. My club is raised like I’m about to perform surgery instead of hitting a fucking golf ball. The guys are all staring—Mike with knowing concern, Rook with gleeful mockery, and Cooper with his usual android analysis.
“Someone’s got his head elsewhere,” Rook announces, loud enough for the entire range to hear. “Can’t keep his mind on the job. What’s her name?”
“Your mom,” I fire back automatically, but my heart’s not in it. “Just getting in the zone…”
The swing, when I finally take it, is garbage. Complete trash. My follow-through is worse, the club head catching turf andsending up a divot of grass and synthetic rubber. And the ball? Well, it rockets left, so far off course it might hit someone in the parking lot.
Silence.
Beautiful, horrible silence.
Then the guys explode in laughter, Rook actually doubling over.
“Holy shit!” He gasps between wheezes. “That was beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! Like watching a baby giraffe try to ice skate!”
Schmidt winces. “That’s going to damage someone’s windshield.”
“That will damage someone’s soul,” Martinez adds quietly, his version of joining the pile-on.
Even Kellerman’s giggling behind his hand, probably euphoric that someone else is tonight’s punchline.
“Wind caught it,” I snap, grabbing another ball.
“What wind?” Schmidt asks with surgical precision. “The atmospheric pressure’s been stable all?—“
“Maybe he’s distracted.” Rook abandons his club, circling me. “New roommate situation must be fucking with his head. What’s her name again? Maya?”
My shoulders tighten. “My roommate has nothing to?—“
“Because Mike mentioned she’s absolute smoke.” He’s grinning now, all teeth. “Said she makes Instagram models look like lunch ladies. And you’ve been living with her for what, three weeks? That’s a lot of pressure. A lot of cold showers. A lot of hearing her through the walls at night?—“
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
But my voice cracks—actually cracks—and they pounce.
“Prove it, then.” Rook’s eyes glitter. “Hit this one straight, and I’ll believe your mysterious roommate isn’t currently living rent-free in your spank bank.”
I line up. Focus. Breathe.
