11. Ryan
RYAN
D eacon isn’t home tonight. He left a note saying he’d probably be out until morning, so that’s lucky and a good start.
Our awkwards don’t mix well, and while Bailey and Malcolm aren’t people I’m desperately trying to impress or anything, I don’t want any side-eyes regarding how little my roommate and I speak to each other.
I’d have to do introductions, and Deacon would have to say words, and it’s just a whole fracas I didn’t want to deal with. I’m glad I won’t have to.
Without him here, I can focus all my attention on Mal—his role in the project, I mean. Not his sudden interest in my daily habits.
The thing about my apartment with its living room gym is that the only place to be comfortable is my bedroom.
The word I’d use to describe it is cozy, and it’s where I spend the vast majority of my time at home.
I’ve got a flat screen mounted to the wall, a desk where I work and eat if I’m not eating in bed, and one of those giant beanbags over by the window where I sometimes read or take a nap.
It’s big enough to seat two people, but in the same way a love seat does—right next to each other.
But between that, the bed, and the desk chair, no one needs to be touching.
I grab my specially purchased pet hair remover that I use on furniture and start furiously scrubbing cat hair from every surface.
Whitesnake is in my head. Here I Go Again on my own.
Down the only road I’ve ever known… Luckily, I know all the words to this one.
Mal’s dad played it a lot in the mornings growing up for some reason. My mom loved it.
Once I’m satisfied with the lack of fur, I clean out the litter box in the bathroom and pray Bud doesn’t decide to use it while anyone’s here.
Just before seven, I light a stick of incense and gulp a glass of water. I worked up a light sweat, but not enough that I feel like I need to take another shower. I already took one at the gym. I wash my hands, run my wet hands through my hair, and the doorbell rings.
I don’t know why I was so prepared for it to be Bailey, but seeing Malcolm on my doorstep makes my breath catch.
I clear my throat and steady my breathing.
He’s wearing a lightweight white sweater which is such a good look on him, and then khaki cargo shorts that aren’t.
But the sight of his calves, the golden hair on golden skin and his bare ankles—I don’t know—it does something to me I’m not at all surprised by anymore.
I’ve got a thing for legs, and I guarantee I know when it started—tangled up in his.
Those.
“My face is up here.”
I glare at said face. “Fuck off.” I step out of the way and let him in.
I’m about to close the door when I spot Bailey coming up the steps.
She smiles and waves, not at all like the evil-eyed woman I sat across from that first day.
She’s downright bubbly when you take her out of the office.
Still a little scary, but more like a good horror movie.
She’s Get Out , if Get Out were a person. Entertaining and keeps me on my toes.
“How’s my billion dollar black cat?” she asks .
I flex my bicep for her, and she laughs, lifting a tote bag. “I brought a cheeseball.”
“Bud will love that.”
“I brought him something, too.” She sticks her hand in the tote as she approaches the door and pulls out a stick with a tiny stuffed mouse dangling from a string.
“A classic,” I tell her.
“It’s filled with catnip. You mentioned he’s a fan.”
“Do I talk about him that much?”
“You do in your comments.”
Once she’s inside, I turn to find Malcolm right there, looming over my shoulder. That almost gets a jump scare out of me. “Did you bring me anything?” he asks Bailey.
“A cheeseball, sweetheart. Like I said.”
“Sweetheart? Wow, I’m growing on you.”
“Pfft. It’s got onions in it.”
“Awesome,” he says.
He hates onions, but I guarantee he’ll suffer through Bailey’s cheeseball.
She takes a look around the equipment-filled living area. There’s a sofa, but it’s behind the bench press. “Um…”
“We can go to my room,” I say, gesturing toward the short hallway that separates my bedroom from Deacon’s. Malcolm wanders that direction while I help Bailey plate her cheeseball. It’s softball-sized and wrapped in cellophane.
“What inspired this?” I ask.
“Gotta keep my cash cows fed and happy,” she says.
I laugh and open the box of Wheat Thins she brought before pouring them into a bowl. Bud makes his appearance, leaping onto the kitchen counter and dropping a few hairs before I swoop him back to the floor. “He’s untrainable,” I apologize.
“He’s a cat. I have one, too.”
“Any chance he made it into the cheeseball? ”
She lets out a peal of laughter. “One way to find out.”
“Want anything to drink, Mal?” I call out.
“I’m good,” he says from my bedroom . I shake my head at the concept—too surreal to contemplate. This evening feels like a mindfulness exercise. Stay in the moment. Focus. Acknowledge the intrusive thoughts and let them glide by.
I make him a glass of water anyway. He’ll thank me later. Maybe not out loud, but I’m not picky.
He’s on the bed when Bailey and I come in with the food and drinks. That’s where I’d mentally placed Bailey, so I have to make a mental adjustment. I hand him his plate of cheese and crackers and the glass of ice water. “Thanks,” he says, meeting my eyes.
I nod. Bailey plops onto the beanbag, makes a spot for her food, and immediately pulls out her phone. I sit at my desk and swivel my chair around to face them.
Bailey opens with, “I spent twenty-five bucks. My little brother is all over TikTok, so I paid him to destroy his For You Page to find me all the biggest finance influencers. I found three I want us to stitch. One is a Harvard student, another is a trader on Wall Street, and the last one wrote a book called Money Sense . They’re all cis men, all white, which is good.
We don’t want to compete with people who are already marginalized. ”
She gives us each a look to make sure we understand she’s not joking.
Both of us nod agreeably.
“Okay, so the Harvard guy is the absolute worst. He puts the bruh in liberal elite.”
I snort a laugh.
“He’s all yours to take on, Ryan. You’re way smarter than he is.”
“Thank you,” I say, flattered she thinks so.
She glances at Mal. “You’re gonna study up on the author.
He’s got some stupid advice, but he’s cute, and he’s targeting housewives, telling them how to sneak box wine into restaurants to save money.
It’s so gross. Anyway—we’re gonna steal his ladies from him without playing into the mommy juice propaganda. ”
“Mommy juice?” I ask.
“Have you noticed how alcohol is marketed lately? Directly at women. What am I saying? Of course you wouldn’t notice that.”
“I’ll pay more attention,” I mumble.
“What about the trader?” Mal asks, saving my ass.
She scrunches her nose. “I’m gonna send you guys his handle, and you tell me what you think. He’s smart, good-looking, funny, and he’s got a killer apartment with a view.”
“Maybe we leave him alone then,” I say, knowing we can’t compete with that.
“Maybe we assess the situation first,” Mal says. “Put our heads together and see if anything comes up.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open a little. He’s got a half grin and that look he gives the camera when he’s giving a smoking hot tip.
“It’s up to you guys,” Bailey says, oblivious to the sudden shift in the atmosphere, but I certainly fucking feel it.
“Podcast,” I blurt.
“Huh?”
I tear my gaze away from Mal and look at our other partner, the one I’m not in danger of getting a boner for. “We need to think about scaling up. We’re not earning money on TikTok, and since that’s the goal?—”
“Right.” She stuffs a cracker in her mouth and flips through her phone. She tilts her head toward Malcolm. “Did you tell him about the Patreon idea?”
“Yeah. ”
“Good. I’m gonna set that up tonight then, and I’ll add the link to your TikTok bios. We’ll also add subscribe links to your videos. So, we test run that for a week, see if it’s getting any interest, and if it does, I’ll start building a contact list for potential sponsors.”
“We can help with that,” Mal says.
She shakes her head. “I appreciate it, but I need you guys making content. For the Patreon, we’ll have to give people something they’re not getting on TikTok. Diving deeper into money making strategies, yeah, but also behind the scenes stuff. Day in the life maybe?”
“Like what? Pictures of our breakfast?” Mal asks.
“Or your closet—getting dressed in the morning, how you wind down after a day at the office—whatever. You in your glasses for sure, Ryan.”
I grimace. “No one needs to see that.”
Malcolm raises a brow. “They do, actually.”
“He’s right,” Bailey says.
“People say they like my eyes,” I argue.
“This isn’t a discussion,” she says with finality, so I shut my mouth. “It’s a lot, I know. I’ve been reading a bunch of articles, and I’ll put a good resource list together that’s exclusive to the Patreon.”
“I have a ton of essays from school I can give you,” I offer.
“Great!” She looks at Mal.
“I’m not much of a writer. Sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful.
Bailey only shrugs. “Can you devote like an hour a night to interacting on the Discord, then? Answering questions? It doesn’t have to be literature or anything. Just bullet points if you want.”
“I mean, I’m not illiterate,” he snaps. “I can answer the questions. ”
“Okay. Awesome. What do you think of the cheeseball?”
There’s her evil smile. He hasn’t touched it, but he does now, scooping a large wedge of congealed cheese and green onions onto a Wheat Thin and shoving it into his mouth.
“Mm…” He smiles and nods as he chews. He chases it with half the glass of water.
“It’s good, right?” Bailey asks. “It’s my mom’s recipe.”
“Delicious,” he says.