The Roommate, Kiersten Modglin [best books for 20 year olds .txt] 📗

was Saturday and my first meeting of the day didn’t start until early afternoon, I decided I’d run across town and try to grab a few things. I might even call Addy and see if I could pick anything up for the house, maybe get an afternoon with Rory. It had been three weeks; the least she could do was allow me an afternoon with our daughter.

After applying some of the unscented moisturizing cream on my neck, I tossed the towel onto the floor and walked out of the room, flicking off the light as I went. I dressed in front of the small, double-paned window that overlooked the vast expanse of the parking lot, littered with browning leaves and rusted vehicles. Everything here was old, falling apart. The motel was where things came to die.

Marriages included.

Once I’d gotten dressed, I pulled on my black jacket and tennis shoes and headed out the door, double-checking that the room key was safely in the pocket of my jeans. I jogged down the rickety stairs, each step creating a loud thud and the creak of metal that I’d grown to expect.

God, I needed to get out of that place and back to my home.

Thirty minutes later, I was walking down the aisle of a midtown grocery store, a basket hanging from my arm as I tossed a box of protein bars and Atkins shakes on top of the shampoo, body wash, replacement razor, shaving cream, and air fresheners. I would only buy what would fit in the basket. Anything else would last too long, and I couldn’t afford to stay much longer. Emotionally or financially.

I rounded the corner of the aisle, nearly running into someone, and stepped back quickly.

“My bad, sorry.”

“Oops, sorry about that,” he said at the same time. We both laughed as he turned sideways to allow me to pass. I smiled at him, ducking my head gently, and he met my eye so I could get a better look at him. He was tall and thin, an apostrophe-shaped scar just above his right, overgrown eyebrow, and his smile spread wide, revealing small, rounded teeth. I met his light blue eyes from behind the thick glasses that rested on his sharp, pointed nose, noticing that he looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t place him.

Just as the thought swam through my brain, his smile grew wider, his small eyes lighting up. “Wesley Gates?”

I sucked in a sharp breath as he said my name. So, I wasn’t imagining it. I really did know him from…somewhere. But where? I tried to place him quickly, racking my brain for some semblance of a clue. How did I know that face? Was he the friend of a client? Had I met him at a party or marketing event? Where did I know him from? He looked young. Younger than me, perhaps, but when he smiled, I saw the vague hint of wrinkles near his eyes that led me to believe he may have been older than he initially appeared.

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, revealing my embarrassment before I could staunch it. I met so many people at the many parties I attended for work—artists, managers, songwriters, crew, drivers, security, and even fans. I’d become better at memorizing faces over the years. Time had proven that even the most seemingly inconsequential person could refer a client to me, or become a client themselves.

“Hey, man,” I said, albeit lamely, “it’s good to see you. Sorry, you’re catching me a little bit distracted.”

He gave a dry laugh, patting my shoulder with a surprisingly powerful grip. “Oh, wow. It’s so good to see you, too. How long has it been? Fifteen, twenty years, give or take? How’ve you been? Do you still live around here?”

I tried to calculate. Fifteen years meant he wasn’t anyone from work, as fifteen years ago I was still in college, not yet an agent. Twenty years ago, I was still in high school. Which was it? “I do, yeah. In Green Hills. What about you?”

“Green Hills?” he asked, his jaw dropping slightly and his voice breathless, obviously impressed. It was the reaction I was used to getting whenever I gave anyone my address, despite the fact that we were drowning in debt to be able to live there, and if I couldn’t stop my impending divorce, the address wouldn’t be ours for much longer. Still, I smiled as if there were no worries plaguing me. I’d become wildly successful at pretending to have it all. “Rubbin’ elbows with the rich and fancy, eh? No wonder I haven’t seen you around.” He let out a dry laugh again, almost a cough. “Yeah, I’ve got an apartment a few blocks from here. What are you doing on this side of town anyway?” His eyes drifted to the basket in my hands.

I instinctively tucked it closer to my side. “Oh, just working. I have a few client meetings downtown this afternoon, and I needed a few things.”

“Oh, yeah? Where are you working?”

“I’m a booking agent for the Noel DeMarcum Agency.” The amount of pride I had when saying those words had never waned. I’d worked my way up from an assistant to an agent in just under ten years, and it was the one thing in my life I hadn’t managed to screw up.

“No shit? Wow.” The wrinkle in his forehead grew closer to the dusty blond hair atop his head. “Here I was feeling good about telling you I run my own business, but you’ve one-upped me again, Gates. Congrats.” His smile was stiff but friendly.

“You own your own business, though? That’s amazing. You’re your own boss, hm? Very cool.”

“Are you going to ask what I do?” The smile shifted from stiff to amused and, right then and there, I almost clasped onto who he was. Er, okay, not who he was, but where I knew him from. It was as if the answer had floated to the surface of my brain and