Page 1 of Rent: Paid in Full

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Ryan

So, it turns outmy new roommate’s a dick.

I don’t mean a borderline case. He’s not kind of a dick. He’s definitely not a micropeen or anything like that. I mean an honest-to-God confirmed case. A massive, gargantuan cock. The stereotypical epitome of a dick.

I know it the second I first see him.

The door to my new dorm room swings open, and there he is on his bed, long arms and legs sprawled out, taking up way too much space, mouth twisted into a cutting grin.

Picture the worst, most clichéd fuckboy you could possibly imagine. Tall, blond, unfairly attractive, right?

Have a clear picture in your mind?

Good.

Now, make him more attractive. Way, way more. Off the charts, outrageously good-looking. And you know the excess of arrogance fuckboys have? Scoop all that up, roll it into a ball, and double it. Seriously. Then you might have an idea of what I’m dealing with here.

Miller fucking MacAvoy. A name synonymous with a good time. Debaucherous nights and long days spent fist-bumping and ass-slapping and laughing too loudly with others of his kind. A kind I spend a great deal of my time and effort avoiding. And yet, even I know Miller. Know of him, at least. Everyone does.

“‘Ey,” he says, pulling himself up slowly into a seated position, feigning intent to help me with my bags without actually making any move to do so. He sniffs and raises an expectant brow at me.

Note how he hasn’t introduced himself but expects an introduction from me—Dickheadery 101.

“Uh, I’m Ryan. Ryan Haraway.”

“‘Ey,” he says again.

Ah, a riveting conversationalist.

Lucky me.

Just what I need. Just the type I’ve always wanted to be cooped up with. In a small space. For prolonged periods of time. With no way of escape.

He waves to the empty bed on the right side of the room, magnanimously offering it to me. There’s a black wrought iron bedframe and a mattress with a dark cover. I can’t begin to imagine the sins it hides, nor do I want to.

The room is painted a cheerful off-white. A sunny buttercup cream, I think you’d call it. Meant to create the illusion of light in other rooms, but in this one, with the oversized window between the twin beds, it does a surprisingly decent job of injecting a less-than-dire vibe into the space.

There’s a dark timber desk between the two beds. He must have claimed it for himself because there’s a multi-joint study lamp, a keyboard and screen, a phone charger, and nary an errant piece of paper or anything else that might hint at the desk being used for the purpose of tertiary education on it.

My desk is at the foot of my bed near the closets. On his side, there’s a two-seater navy sofa and a white shag rug. On the farwall is a dresser, a fridge, and two doors, one that leads to the hallway and one to the bathroom.

It’s a far bigger room than I’ve seen anywhere else on campus, and believe me, I’ve seen a few. This is the fourth time I’ve moved in the year and a half I’ve been here, so I don’t mean to brag, but I’m kind of an expert in the matter. This room confirms a suspicion I’ve long held that Ivy League schools have a robust process in place to ensure that the spawn of the rich and famous are offered preferential treatment to keep them in the style they’re accustomed to.

“That all your stuff?” A puzzled brow creases. The fact that not everyone’s dad is a property magnate is brand-new information to him.

“Yep.”

It seems almost a waste to unpack as I won’t be here long, but at the same time, I don’t want to encourage any more questions. I don’t care what Bev or anyone else from Student Services has to say. Miller MacAvoy and I are not going to work out as roommates. Call it irreconcilable differences or whatever you want, but believe me, I’ll be out of here the first chance I get. I’d rather move back in with Steve and his deviated septum and penchant for lighting blunts in the bathroom than live with this asshole.

By the time I’ve unpacked and set up my laptop, Miller is on his feet, poised to get ready for a night out.

“…going to The Pardon,” he says. “You should come. Everyone will be there.”

I consider pointing out that his idea of “everyone” and mine are vastly different, but it’s been a long day, I’m exhausted, and I’m positive that any attempt to educate this guy will be a colossal waste of my time.

He’s in the middle of the room, a few feet from me. He lifts his T-shirt, a big hand curling under the hem and dragging it up.Deep lines and gullies dip into his torso as he disappears under luxe knit fabric. When he reappears, his hair has fallen into his face. He swipes it back effortlessly, and infuriatingly, it stays exactly where he puts it. A wavy blond swoop up from his roots, falling carelessly to one of his temples. Even with extensive use of hair products, it’s a look most people spend their whole lives trying—and failing—to achieve.