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Murphy
The next morning, I wake up while the rest of the house is still silent. The morning after a game, we always take it easy. None of us run, and we don’t hit the weight room today. I usually start the coffee and make some breakfast for the house. Today, I’m thinking waffles. I pull up my sweats and grab my glasses off my nightstand. I’m usually the only one up this early, so I’m surprised when I open the bathroom door and find a girl brushing her teeth. Bash’s Crusaders t-shirt is barely covering her ass, and her dark brown hair is hanging down her back in messy waves.
When she looks up at me through the reflection in the mirror, there’s no scream or shriek. She’s not freaked-out that I’ve just walked in on her. I get a raised eyebrow, highlighting the mascara smudges beneath her eyes.
Huh. This is an interesting development. Bash has refused to let anyone spend the night the entire time we’ve lived here.
She stands up and turns to me. “Listen, if you want to watch, I charge extra.”
“The fuck you just say? You’re the one in my bathroom.” I look around, making sure I’m not in some fucked up alternate reality.
Nope. Still my room.
Who the hell is this?
She spits out the toothpaste and smiles. The girl might be a bombshell, but I’m pretty sure there’s a train wreck hiding beneath the surface. “It’s attached to the bedroom I slept in.”
“I’m Murphy.” I hold my hand out to her like my momma drilled into me.
Her eyes move from it back to my face, leaving my hand hanging.
“Emma.” She turns back to brushing her teeth.
“I’m gonna go make coffee, Emma. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but that’s yet to be seen.”
She watches me leave through the reflection in the mirror, and then I hear the click of the lock on the door behind me. I glance over at Sabrina, who’s still in my bed. The blanket is covering her from the waist down. Her hair is spilling down her creamy back, and her face is practically smothered in my pillow with her hands hidden underneath. I’m tempted to wake her up now, but I let her sleep because we woke each other up a few times last night, as evidenced by the condom wrappers littering my floor. I grab them as I go and throw them in the trash.
Coffee and waffles, coming up.
* * *
I’ve got The Killers playing in the kitchen. The smell of bacon crisping up is coming from the oven, and my favorite waffle batter is going in the waffle iron. I’ve cut up a bowl of strawberries and set out the bowls of mini chocolate chips, hand-whipped vanilla cinnamon whipped cream, and warm maple syrup.
We all eat pretty clean during the week, but Sundays are when I go overboard on breakfast. I enjoy it. I also enjoy making a fucking mess that the guys have to clean up. I cook, they clean. Those are my rules.
Brady comes downstairs first. It’s usually the smell of coffee that gets him moving. Actually, it’s the smell of coffee that usually gets Nat moving, and where she goes, he goes. Brady’s quiet as he grabs his Captain America mug and fills it, inhaling before taking his first sip. Coffee is on a different level for him and Nattie. The rest of us drink it, but these two love it. Nat likes keeping us stocked with all kinds of fresh beans in fancy glass jars that sit on the counters. Today’s were Jamaican Blue Mountain.
“You alone down here, Murph?”
“I am.” I pop out a waffle, then add more batter to the iron.
“Didn’t sound like you were alone last night.”
“You jealous you were jerkin’ off alone last night while your girl’s in Boston, QB?”
“Fuck off, Murph.” He shoulder-checks me as he passes, then watches as coffee sloshes over the edge of the mug. “Fuck.”
Flipping the waffle maker over, I answer, “I’m good, thanks.”
QB leans against the counter and sips his coffee. “It’s the first time she hasn’t slept in my bed since we moved in. I slept like shit.”
“Aww, boo-hoo. Poor baby.” I love messing with him. He makes it so easy.
“Fucker.” He glares and walks over to the table.
I look up when I hear the footsteps coming down the stairs, but it’s not my girl. The train wreck from the bathroom walks into the kitchen. She’s dressed in dark-washed skinny jeans that fit her like a second skin and a tiny, white strappy tank top that hangs low in the front. No way there’s a bra under there. A black leather string is wrapped around her neck a few times before being tied in a bow with the ends hanging loose. Tall black heels with expensive red soles we don’t usually see on campus make her legs look as long as mine.
She walks into the kitchen like she owns the place. “Ahh, Murphy. Again with the staring.” She hops up onto the kitchen counter, tilts her head to the side, and pouts her lips in a move that looks practiced and calculated. “Whose dick does a girl need to suck for a cup of coffee?”
