12. Queenie
CHAPTER TWELVE
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LET GO’ BY FROU FROU
I spend a restless night in my dorm room, with nothing but my circling thoughts for company. Trying, and failing, to come up with a solution for my homelessness problem and my image problem.
What Noah has proposed is a godsend for me, but I don’t want to consider it at all, regardless of his menacing threats at the diner. I successfully managed to keep the events of the party from my mind during the busy day. But the dread of not knowing still lurks under everything, a shadow monster I don’t know how to deal with.
Nothing happened, Queenie. Noah’s whisper echoes in me.
And I want to believe him. Because the man I’d been with the night before was a nice guy. A Nice Guy. He smiled easily and often; he winked too, and he did not have malicious intent writ anywhere on him.
Besides, I was the one who asked him to kiss me. Who agreed to spend the night with him.
I shudder in remembered humiliation.
Half of his anger is justified. Because if I hadn’t left him in a hurry, the video would not have this kind of impact. But now…questions linger on everyone’s mind. Mine too!
But if he knew what I’d been through…
That’s another reason I don’t want to live with him. He’s a guy. And guys are…guys. Right? How do I protect myself from someone’s basic nature?
The answer comes to me from a book I read awhile back. In it, the female character makes the male character sign a fake dating contract with the terms clearly spelled out. That is what I need to do, if I’m seriously considering going through with this lunacy.
On and on, my thoughts circle through the night. Even after I write the damn contract. And pack up my things because of the big, bold PLEASE VACATE notice pasted on my dorm room door. Even after I lie on the clunky mattress and stare at my girl boss anthem poster – Be the heroine of your own story.
Mischa’s dinner video call with me was full of dire predictions of ending up a news article headline and a lovely offer of moving in with her family. But the Bhargavs are five people crammed into a tiny three-room cottage on the other end of town. They don’t have space for me, even if their hearts are the biggest.
Finally, at around four am, I’ve had enough of my own misery and confusion. If I am moving, I don’t want to procrastinate anymore. And I want to surprise Noah ‘Asshole’ Dumaine into a heart attack, fingers crossed, by showing up unannounced.
I lug a pathetically small number of bags and boxes to my car. Secure them in the trunk and backseat and drive off toward 4 Clanbray Avenue, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Barrons Bay.
My parents’ split-ranch suburban in Pennington is a lovely home. The best. It always smells of cinnamon and laddus. And maintenance was done by my parents, my sister and me. It is nothing like million-dollar mansions that make up most of the real estate in Barrons Bay. I pass through Main Street and some of the lower-end neighborhoods before Clanbray Avenue comes into view.
The asphalt feels smoother here. Lizzie glides like a butterfly on it. I wonder at the kind of money Noah’s family has that they can afford to rent this place for their son.
This cul-de-sac only has eight houses. Although calling them houses is an injustice. They are gated communities. With tall fences, wild gardens with intoxicating scents and…in the distant, the thundering roar of the ocean.
I come to a screeching halt at number four’s sidewalk. It’s relatively smaller than the others. The gate is a normal-size instead of the twenty-feet spiked terrors on the other homes.
It’s a short squat structure made of red brick and sandstone. Three floors of windows float with white curtains in the early morning breeze. The garden is fairly small with rose bushes and daisies abounding everywhere.
But, somehow, it works. Maybe because of the sweet and feminine garden or the tiny gazebo on one side with climbing vine all over it.
I love it.
But it is not a cottage.
Which is good, because it means Noah was telling the truth when he said we won’t have to see each other at all.
I punch in the access code to the gate, also on Noah’s bill, and I drive to the portico. I want to stop and pluck one of the daisies to tuck over my ear. But I don’t. Daisies are cute and I cannot afford to be cute right now.
From there it’s a short walk to the massive, double-wide front doors, almost three times my height. I grab the agreement I created last night from the car and knock on the door.
My heart pounds painfully in my chest as I wait anxiously for the door to open. This is not the worst idea I’ve had this year. But it’s close enough I consider tearing the agreement and calling my parents to spill the whole sorry mess to them.
Depend on them to dig me out of this mess I created for myself.
Really, Queenie? You’re giving up and letting everyone win? A hated voice whispers in my ears.
I tilt my chin up. And shake my head. Fuck. No.
I’m doing this. Bad idea or no.
The door opens quickly, and I smell Noah – a familiar scent of sweat and musk and man. And, before I have time to change my mind, I thrust the paper at his face.
I even give him the Queen Bee-est look I can manage. All disdain and bated rage. “For the record, this is a catastrophically bad idea,” I begin haughtily. “And I don’t want to do it. But since I have to, I’m going to protect myself. So, you’ll sign this agreement before we go any further, Noah Dumaine.”
That’s when I notice the two huge dude bros on either side of Noah.
One of them is tanned and green-eyed with a hand full of tattoos, the other is a beautiful golden boy with stunning grey eyes.
All three of them are sweating.
My heartbeat picks up speed. My pulse echoes in my ears. My eyes widen as I take in the three of them, flanking the door. Blocking it.
My jaw drops even as Grey Eyes extends a hand and mouths some words at me. I can’t hear them over the tinny ringing in my ears. Every single warning Mischa gave me rings loud and clear as a bell.
Murder Statistic. I’m going to be a murder statistic.
The other guy stares narrow-eyed at me. Then he looks at Noah and murmurs something I can’t hear.
Then, the man I loathe lowers the paper and gives me a smile that’s pure evil.
“Hello, roomie. Guess I forgot to mention one or two things.” He is gleeful, quietly so.
I appreciate the check mate move, even as it hurts me.
But I am Queenie Madhavan. And I never let anyone get the last word on me.
My smile is blade sharp as I tighten the sloppy bun on the top of my head. Noah’s pitch-black eyes track the movement and lower to my chest.
I want to flush, lower my eyes. Instead, I stare defiantly at him. “Awesome, roomie.” My blade-sharp smile includes the two giants. I indicate them to let me in. Grey Eyes moves to the side. “You can sign the contract too.”
Then I breeze past them into my new home.
It’s not mission impossible to keep my jaw from dropping but it’s close. The Cottage is a proper millionaire’s mansion. With soaring walls, exposed wooden beams on the ceilings and Afghan throws on four black leather couches (yep, four) in the cosmically large family room. The fireplace in the middle is authentic stone with a black marble mantlepiece.
I resist the urge to pick up the poker to defend myself.
Instead, I put my shaking fingers in my jacket pockets and twirl in place.
I spy the foaming, thrashing waves from one of the many bay windows in the room. “Lovely view.”
“It’s lovely, yes,” the other giant rumbles.
Grey Eyes shoves him hard. And he gives him the finger.
Noah steps in front of both of them and walks toward me. “Quit clowning, you guys. Please.”
“Don’t stop on my account.” I grin at the tattooed giant. “If you want to shove him back, go for just under the boobs? It hurts a lot more.”
“I’m a guy, I don’t have boobs.”
I shrug. “I study anatomy. We all have boobs. Some of us get to show them off.” I thrust my chest out for five seconds. Like magnets, three sets of eyes go there.
My pulse speeds up at Noah’s look of anger and impatience and reluctant desire.
I stand upright and point at my nose. “Now that you’ve been introduced to the girls, let’s never look at them again, okay?”
Grey Eyes smiles and inclines his head, Mr. Tattoo shakes his head. But I see a smile on him too. Only Noah purses his lips, as if he’s witnessed something unpleasant.
It might not be a wise move, but the only way to deal with three testosterone-fueled men is to bring them down a peg or two. By talking their language and making it yours.
“You want me to sign this contract?” Noah peruses it.
“Yes. And him.” I nod at Grey Eyes. “And him too.” Point at Mr. Tattoo.
“I’m Ares and Mr. Boobs is Fox.” Ares plucks the paper from Noah’s hands and scans it. He whoops when he reads it. “You won’t cook or clean or pick up after anyone but yourself. And you want a red danger sign posted on your door.”
Fox takes a peek too and grins as he points lower down the contract. “No touching, unless explicitly permitted. Not even to save the female roommate from deadly death. Wow. That’s some serious commitment to dying, Queenie.”
“I’m not signing this,” Noah says flatly.
“Then I’m not faking it with you.” I fold my trembling arms. Match him look for flat look.
Ares laughs so loud at the retort, Fox winces.
Noah only watches me. Just watches me without a word. “If I put my mind to it, you’d not be faking anything, Madhavan,” he murmurs a moment later.
I lose my train of thought watching his perfect lips move.
But then Fox puts a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “We’ll give you two some space to figure this out. Ares and I are going up to work out before practice begins.”
Fox shoots me a cautious smile from behind Noah. “Welcome to the cottage, Queenie. I’ll sign the contract after Noah does. I promise you, you’re absolutely safe with us. Okay?”
I blink. He sounds so sincere and earnest. Just like Noah before he turned into the fucking devil. Am I making a mistake here, being so tart with him? Then Noah jerks his head, and Fox drags Ares out of the family room.
Leaving me alone with my fake boyfriend slash future roommate.