Page 5 of Rent: Paid in Full
He laughs softly, and for the first time, the look in his eyes almost matches the look on his face. “I don’t know. I’ve never been able to catch him at it, and believe me, I’ve tried.” He deliberates for a second then a dark glint takes hold. “He was super weird about it when I came out at sixteen. He said all the right things, but he just kept looking at me in this weird way. It was Thanksgiving, so he was stuck at home with us. Trapped, you know. It was hell. He spent the entire weekend looking and looking but not saying what he was thinking. It pissed me off big time. It pissed me off so much I threatened to tell my mom he was having an affair with his PA. I made an appointment to see him at work and everything. Called his PA and had her arrange it.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “I made him transfer a considerable sum of money into my bank account to keep me quiet.”
“You did not.”
“Yeah, I did. And he paid me too, so I must have been right.”
“You blackmailed your own father? Wasn’t he mad?”
“Nah, not at all.” He looks perplexed by the suggestion. “In fact, I think he was proud. It was a dick move on my part, sure, but I saw a way to make money, and I took it. That’s kind of my dad’s entire religion.”
Well.
Let’s just say Miller’s family and mine are nothing alike. They’re miles apart. Worlds. Light years.
I can’t imagine living in the kind of house Miller lives in. Or should I say, houses. I’ve heard rumors of homes in LA, the Hamptons, Vale, and the South of France, among others. But I also can’t even imagine living in a house with parents who hate each other and where a propensity for blackmail is seen as a positive attribute. “Why do they stay together?”
He smiles at me like I’m adorably naïve. “Same reason they do everything. For the money. For what people think. For how it looks.”
There’s a knock so loud it sounds like someone is punching the door. I jump. Miller moves unhurriedly to open it.
“Mac. A. Voy. Mac. A. Voy,” chant both guests with near equal gusto, falling over each other as they make their way into the room.
The first one in is Dan…Dane…Dwayne? Something like that. I’ve seen him hanging around with Miller in the quad outside the library. His hair is short and dark and over-styled for eight in the morning. He has thatI know how to use all the equipment in the gymlook about him in a very big way.
I don’t know the other one, but I’ve seen him around campus quite a bit. Redheaded and pink-skinned. Usually spotted with his hand stuffed deep into a packet of Cheetos.
Yo Bros,if ever I’ve met them.
“D’you know Dean and Trip?” Miller asks me.
“‘Sup,” says Trip.
“Yo,” says Dean.
What did I tell you?
“Hey, I’m, uh, Ryan,” I say before diving headlong into panicked indecision as to whether I should get out of bed to greet them or stay in bed, sipping my coffee like a kept woman.
It doesn’t seem to matter either way. They aren’t vaguely interested in me, nor do they pretend to be. They pepper Miller with questions about his night as he throws on a pair of athletic shorts and a tank. They’re headed out the door in a matter of minutes. Miller turns and gives me a cocky wave that turns into a mild bastardization of a salute. He drags a few fingers through his hair before lowering his hand, and dammit, it stays exactly where he puts it. Again.
I only relax completely once their loud banter and the metronome squeak of their shoes in the hallway have faded to nothing. I drain the last of my coffee, indulging in a lively internal debate about the merits of getting out of bed to hunt for the granola bar I’m pretty sure is still in my bag versus staying right where I am and letting my stomach lining gnaw at itself until I pass out.
It’s a tough one.
I’m up and showered, sitting at my desk working on a sociology paper due on Friday, when Miller and the Yo Bros return. They pile into the room, smelling like a ripe gym locker. Trip and Dean take a seat on the sofa. Trip digs around in his bag for his water bottle, has a few gulps, burps loudly, puts it back in his bag, and whips out a packet of Cheetos.
Jesus.
Miller lies back on his bed, bending an arm under his head to prop himself up. He looks at me for a while and then gives me a slight up-nod. “I like your Superman glasses.”
“Actually, they’re not Superman glasses. They’re Clark Kent glasses. Superman has x-ray vision, heat vision, and telescopicandmicroscopic vision, so he doesn’t need glasses. Clark Kent wears them as part of his disguise.”
If you haven’t already formed a robust personal profile of me, I bet it’s coming into crystal-clear focus now, huh?
The Yo Bros’ jaws drop slightly. They’re not in the least bit impressed by the cheek of me. Trip’s brow draws down while he slowly masticates the bright-orange sludge in his mouth, waiting to swallow before dealing with me. His smile has turned into something I recognize. Something threatening. Something nasty. Something I know all too well from this kind of person.
My heartbeat quickens, an early warning of fight, flight, or freeze about to engage. I wish it didn’t. I wish to God people like this didn’t affect me, but after all this time, they still do.
Before he opens his mouth to rip me a new one, he glances at Miller.