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CHAPTER1
Sugar
Can you call your own bedroom a hostile work environment? You see, I work from home. And I feel hostile in my home. So therefore it’s a hostile work environment…Right? There aren’t any human resources staff to complain to and I’m not on any clock when I’m most antagonistic. Of course, I’m also the hostile one so I’m creating my own environment. But there’s a very good reason to be this way.
It’s 1:00 a.m. in the morning and I’m lying in bed, staring up at my popcorn beige ceiling. The one the thirteen-year-old me would balk at. It should be covered in posters, or at the very least those crummy glow-in-the-dark stars. I do consider the stars every time I’m at the dollar store, living in the city with all its light pollution doesn’t exactly give me stargazing quality views.
But why am I not asleep, is the question, right? It could be because of the rhythmic thumping of wood on the wall behind my bed, or maybe the occasional moan, or the—
“Oh, God, Derek!” The wall doesn’t even muffle the scream of pleasure.
Yes, it could be that.
I don’t live alone in this hostile work environment. I have a roommate—Derek Lance. Cool as coal in your stocking, Derek Lance. When I moved out to the east coast, he had an ad in the paper—who does that still?!—looking for a roommate. After a brief interview, discussion of habits, hobbies, jobs, he offered me the spare bedroom.
Only thing I have to put up with is—
“Yes! Oh, God…Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes!”
Is that.
I cover my head with my pillow.
The screams of women in the throes of pleasure echo the hallways on a regular basis. Like my roommate is filming an adult flick of the saucy type. He’s a cop so that definitely isn’t the case. But I can still picture him in a little velvet red and white number with a Santa hat, while he plows an elf in the workshop.
I really shouldn’t be having these kinds of thoughts about him, especially while another girl is on the other end of his north pole.
I should count myself lucky that it only happens every few weeks.
Except it’salwaysaligned with his days off andalwayswhen I’m home.
I know because we both have access to the security video on our doorbell. There’s never been a girl here when I’m running errands, out of town, or the rare occasion when I have to pop into work in person.
Who could blame Derek? If I was a dude or maybe playing for the same team, I’d be high fiving him and asking for tips and hints on his extreme sexual dexterity. The women are always stunning. Like twenties on a scale of ten. He has a uniformed job. What women doesn’t love a man in a uniform who protects others? Muscles like a Greek statue. If he’s not working out with a woman, he’s working out with his gym in the basement. And a shit-ton of tattoos hide behind his uniform, strategically placed not to show to give his position the respect it deserves.
And with all of that going for him, I somehow expect him not to plow the fields that God has bestowed him? He’s every woman’s wet dream and I’m just…his roommate.
So I’ve created my own hostile work environment.
Maybe for Christmas I’ll ask for earplugs?
Giving up on sleep, I slug my way to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Correction, for anavoid my roommate’s fuck-noises snack.
The sugar cookies I’ve yet to frost, in shapes of trees, snowmen, angels, and stars, will do. Somehow between nibbling on the arm of a star and getting milk, I begin to create little bowls of colorful frosting, mixing powdered sugar, milk, and all-natural food dyes.
The dark hallway beyond the kitchen fills with whispers and the sucking noises of sloppy kisses. I scowl at the snowman in my hand, his blue scarf askew and top hat a dirty brown color. The snowman isn’t going to make me scream his name.
Derek walks his conquest to the door, helping her into her coat, her wrinkled mini dress nothing to the winter wasteland of a city outside. They share a goodbye giggle and she’s off to catch her waiting ride downstairs. They never sleep over. Once the deed is done, off they go, to never return. He doesn’t stand for—or lay down for in this case—repeat offenders.
He spots me in the kitchen, his dark gaze lighting up as he notices the cookies sprawled out over the island. He jaunts over, only wearing his boxer briefs, helping himself to a frosted cookie. The man doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat, let alone done the deed.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen him like this. I often have late night snacks to protect my sanity from my roommate’s rampant rambunctious activities. Him in his underwear, and me in an oversized t-shirt and underwear. I used to wear shorts until I stopped giving a shit.
I wish I could say I’m used to him practically naked because of the frequent exposure, but each time, my breath hitches, and low in my core a tight ball coils that won’t undo itself until I put proper distance between us.
With a couple days off from work, his facial hair is scruffy which only draws the eye to his sharp jawline more. His eyes are almost black, but in the right light or when he’s shoving cookies in his mouth after midnight, do they shine a molten golden hue in their dark depths. He has one full sleeve of tattoos, while his back, thigh, and opposite bicep have a smattering of tattoos. But my favorite is a small random one on his left hip: a red button that saysdo not push.
“Hey!” I shout, smacking his hand as he reaches for a freshly frosted angel. He’s like a child dipping his hand one too many times in the cookie jar.
