Legal Bindings

5. Nick

Nick peeredthrough the tatty living room curtains for the umpteenth time that morning. The potential roommate—Evan—was ten minutes late. A bad sign, considering he was the only semiworthy candidate to respond to Nick’s ad. In fact, Evan was the first person Nick had even offered to show the house to. Granted, he hadn’t had a wealth of options. A quick Google search about one candidate had brought up several articles describing a string of arrests for bar fights, and the only other possibility had been a woman trying to get him in on a multilevel marketing scheme.

A plain dark-blue sedan slowed down, its occupant examining the mailbox, then pulled into the drive. Nick straightened and went to open the front door just in time for Evan to get out of his car.

Nick immediately wished he would get back in, because at first glance, Evan was a lot—a slight, elfin frame swathed in a swirl of contrasts. He wore a floral shirt that looked straight out of old Laura Ashley catalogs, paired with a beige cardigan that Nick’s grandmother might have owned. His lower half was clad in a pair of paint-spattered jeans that were cuffed to show off his bright-yellow Doc Martens. All that was accompanied by too many rings and necklaces to count, topped off with a pair of thick 1970s-style frames that Nick suspected were a complement to the look rather than a necessity. As for his face—well, his face was fine, as pixie-like as the rest of him with a slightly upturned nose and a bow-shaped mouth that was… glossy pink. Evan was wearing lip gloss.

Gay, Nick assumed, which prickled the hairs on the back of his neck because he knew he ought to be standing in solidarity with Evan’s right to be as free as he wanted to be with his outward appearance. Only he had never known what to do with gay men who were so… aesthetic. That was the only word he had for it. He felt like he’d missed the memo on self-expression. His teenage years had been spent playing down his sexuality at every available opportunity, and by the time he was old enough to decide for himself, it seemed safer to play it straight. Not that he was closeted—he’d been married, for Christ’s sake. He just didn’t like to call attention to any part of himself that didn’t conform to society’s rules of engagement.

Evan, on the other hand, was a tiny rainbow beacon shining brightly and telling the world that he was here, he was queer, and fuck you if you didn’t like it.

“Hi,” Evan said, smiling as he shut the car door and raised a hand. “Nick?” His voice was deeper than Nick had expected, and when he climbed the steps to the front door and shook hands, he had a firm grip.

“Hi, yeah.” Nick forced a smile as he looked down at Evan, who was a good four or five inches shorter than him. “Ah, so, this is the house.”

“I figured.” Evan ran his hand over the porch railing. “When was it built?”

“In 1914. Right at the height of the Craftsman trend.” Nick opened the front door then hesitated. “I only moved in about six months ago, so she’s a fixer-upper.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you didn’t put up any pictures. But I like a place with a bit of character.”

That was something—the house had character in spades. Nick stepped inside, and Evan followed him into the entry foyer. The living room was on the left, the kitchen on the right, and the hallway that led to the bedrooms lay straight ahead. Everything was on one floor, save for the attic, which the previous owners had used as a playroom.

“You weren’t kidding,” Evan said, and Nick could picture it through his eyes—the peeling wallpaper, the exposed lath and plaster, the warped floorboards that needed sanding down or replacing.

Making excuses seemed pointless—Nick should have done more work on the house in six months. He’d just been lazy. There was no way Evan was going to be interested, and besides, the idea of a roommate had been idiotic to begin with. There was nobody coming to help him save his house.

“It’s fantastic!” Evan said to Nick’s surprise, walking over to examine the molding around the living room’s pocket doors. “Wow. Is all of this woodwork original?”

“As far as I know, yes. The original owners lived here until they passed, then one of their kids moved in with his family, and they let it fall apart.”

His real estate agent hadn’t known the whole story, but the house had been advertised as a gem in need of loving restoration. In truth, it had been a hoarder’s nest, and Nick had spent weeks using every odor-eating device in existence to get the smell of mildew and cat piss out of the air.

“That’s a shame.”

“It is. So I bought it, but the, um, the cost of the restoration got away from me a bit.” That was the cover story he had decided to go with rather than explaining his joblessness to a stranger.

“And you said in the ad you don’t mind a month-to-month lease?”

“Correct.” The last thing Nick wanted was to be stuck with a roommate for longer than he had to be.

“Fantastic. I’m working on a big project right now, and I don’t want to be tied down to a lease if I need to move.” Evan walked as he talked, heading for the fireplace in the living room. “Jesus, this is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. Um, what kind of project?” A project sounded ominous, as if Evan was an axe murderer and might need to make a quick getaway. Or a spy. Or a secret agent. Though Nick was pretty sure that secret agents didn’t wear bright-yellow Doc Martens.

“I’m an artist. Painter, mostly, but I sculpt too. Can I see the bedrooms now?”

An artist made more sense than an axe murderer, though not by much. Why anyone would choose such a flighty, unstable path for themselves, Nick couldn’t fathom.

“The downstairs room is nicer,” he said as he led the way. “There’s this one and my bedroom, and then there’s the attic space.” There was a third bedroom, too, but its flooring was in such rough shape that Nick hardly trusted it to bear his weight, much less that of any furniture. “My room has an en suite, so the hall bath would be yours until I find someone to rent the attic.”

Evan walked around the empty bedroom. Nick had dusted, but no amount of cleaning could hide the strips of wallpaper hanging down and the water stain in one corner that floor polish had failed to improve.

“This should fit my bed,” Evan declared after a moment. “And I have living room furniture, too, if you wanted to supplement what you have now.”

There was no way to take that as anything but an insult. Sure, Nick’s couch had been purchased from a hotel liquidation sale for a song after he’d sold his better furniture to pay for the landscaping, but still. “There’s not a lot of room in there.”

“Maybe just a chair or two? A couch?” Evan asked. “Saves us having to snuggle.”

The tight hand of reality closed on Nick’s throat, and he took a step backward. In all his imaginings, his roommates had lived in a bubble, staying in their spaces and leaving the rest of the house a sanctuary. But that was stupid—of course, whoever moved in would have full run of the place, including the living room. And its furniture.

“As long as it fits.”

“Sure. Can I see the attic room now?” Evan asked.

“Why? This one’s nicer.”

“I need a studio too.”

Nick frowned, sure he’d misheard. “You what?”

“I can afford it, I promise.”

A spark of relief bloomed in Nick’s chest at the thought of killing two birds with one stone. One roommate—even a flamboyant, elfin artist—was better than two. So he took Evan back down the hall then opened a narrow door that might have been mistaken for a closet, behind which lay a set of steep stairs that weren’t up to any sort of modern building code.

“Okay, Narnia. Love that,” Evan said.

Nick let Evan take the lead, not bothering to point out that access to Narnia came through a wardrobe. The attic ran the whole length of the house, with big rectangular windows at either end, the farthest one spilling warm afternoon light onto the unvarnished wooden floorboards. A chimney stack bisected the space, sporting chunks of missing brick and mortar, and along each wall, the previous owners had built benches—padded on top, with two shelves beneath, creating both functional storage and seating. Above the benches, the walls rose straight for another few feet before angling in to create a slanted ceiling anchored by exposed beams. One of the windows was broken and taped over with plastic wrap, and the padding on the benches was worn through and patchy, but Nick could see how the room might be appealing to an artistic sort like Evan, who was wide-eyed and grinning as he turned in a slow circle.

“Holy shit, this place is amazing. Have you seen Moulin Rouge?”

Nick shook his head. He knew of it, of course—some campy Nicole Kidman vehicle that had come out when he was in high school and trying desperately to pretend he wasn’t interested in campy Nicole Kidman vehicles—but it was a relic from an era he preferred to forget.

“It reminds me of this just because… okay, Ewan McGregor lives in an attic with John Leguizamo and Boromir’s brother from Lord of the Rings, and they’re all tragic artists.” Evan went to peer out the front window, still smiling. “Obviously, it’s based on the real Moulin Rouge, and it’s cheesy as hell, but I love it. I love this. Where do I sign?”

Nick was still trying to figure out what Ewan McGregor had to do with Faramir, so Evan’s offer took him by surprise. “You what?”

“It’s perfect. I mean, it’s not perfect, but I could see myself being very inspired here.”

The transaction was happening quickly, and Nick wasn’t one for rushing into things. Plus, he was supposed to be extending the offer rather than having the offer foisted upon him. “Hang on a second. There’s a contract you should review, and I want to run a background check. I’m a lawyer.” As if those things weren’t mutually exclusive.

“You look like a lawyer.”

What the hell does that mean? Nick straightened, the top of his head brushing the slanted ceiling. “I don’t know what a lawyer looks like, but the contract is standard issue. Rent agreement, rules, things like that.”

“Rules?”

Feeling very square, Nick cleared his throat. “Yes. Such as, um…” He hadn’t actually written the contract, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. “No drugs in the house.”

“Not even pot?”

He hadn’t considered pot. “Pot’s… I guess that’s fine. But no smoking inside.”

“Fair enough,” Evan said before letting out a laugh that was nearly a giggle, and Nick felt a peculiar embarrassed tingle at the base of his spine. “What about guests?”

“Like a partner?”

“Are you asking if I’m single?”

Nick didn’t think that was flirting—it felt like teasing, and he hated being teased. “No. I simply want to know if there might be overnight guests.”

“Sure, there might be. But I use live models in my work, so I was thinking more along those lines.”

“Oh.” Nick’s cheeks warmed as he imagined what sorts of models might traipse in and out of the house all day. “Fine. I probably won’t even be here—I work long hours.”

That was a lie, and a stupid one, to boot. Now he would have to take himself out of the house every day, lest Evan grow suspicious. But maybe that wasn’t the worst thing—the point of this exercise was to motivate him to get out and find gainful employment. Evan, with his mannerisms and his models, was sure to put some pep in Nick’s step when it came to getting his house back.

“Perfect.” Evan went to poke at one of the bench cushions, which puffed up a cloud of gray dust far bigger than the ones on the stairs. “Ew.”

“Those aren’t mine,” Nick blurted. “The old owners’.”

“It’s fine. Oh, one quick thing—my background check?”

“What about it?”

“I deal with cash, mostly, because of my work, so my credit history sucks, but I can show you bank statements to prove I’m solvent.”

“Oh. Uh, good. Thank you.”

“Totally, yeah. Anything else you need to know?”

Nick certainly had questions—everything from where Evan lived now to why in God’s name he would sign up to live here when he clearly had money to burn—but they didn’t seem appropriate. Besides, if there was sketchiness, the background check would catch it. “Not right now.”

Evan cocked his head then let out another one of those little giggles. “Okay, great. So, can I see the contract? I bet you’ve got copies in triplicate.”

Nick knew he was blushing all the way to the tips of his ears, mostly because Evan was right. He gestured at the stairs, stiff-armed. “At my office,” he lied. “I’ll email you.”

Evan raised a brow as he sashayed past Nick and down the stairs, where they exchanged stilted pleasantries before saying goodbye. Later that night, Nick drafted a contract, sent it over, and submitted an online order for the background check, all the while hearing Evan’s high-pitched laughter in the back of his head.