Page 6 of Rent: Paid in Full
Wait. Does he need Miller’s approval to be a dick to me?
Whether he’s looking for permission, approval, or encouragement, I honestly can’t tell you, but either way, he doesn’t get it. Miller smiles broadly at me and then looks at Trip with steely gray eyes that don’t flicker or blink.
Permission denied.
It’s hard to say who’s more surprised: Trip, Dean, or me.
“Hmph,” says Miller lightly. “Guess I like your Clark Kent glasses then.”
For the next twenty minutes or so, I pretend to work while the Yo Bros scrape the barrel for dregs of stimulating conversation. They come up empty. Still, anthropologically speaking, their behavior is not completely without interest to me. There’s the posturing. The pecking order. The undercurrent of worship. Believe it or not, there appears to be clear rules governing this buffoonery. Jokes, topics of conversation, and even whospeaks or how loudly they laugh all seem to depend on Miller. His reactions are minute. Well-practiced and all but hidden. A suggestion of a cocked brow. The slight crease of a frown.
Yes.
No.
He doesn’t say a word, and you could be forgiven for missing the interaction, but it’s there. Believe me, it’s there.
I have a trio of dicks in my midst, and they’re reigned over by my insufferable roommate.
One dick to rule them all, if you will.
God help me.
Though I try not to, I lose control of my face as they leave, turning my nose up at the stench of cold sweat and fake cheese.
“Not a fan, huh?” Miller grins after he’s let them out.
“Uh, I-I—”
“It’s the fucking Cheetos, right?”
He smiles as if we’ve made a connection and he considers that a victory. Even though I badly don’t want to engage, I can’t find it within myself to let him have it. “Nah, just can’t stand people like that.”
“People like what?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The unspoken wordspeople like youhang in the air like a blimp with a huge sign trailing out of its ass.
I turn back to my assignment and do my best not to react when I feel the light breeze of Miller’s gym clothes flying through the air and into his hamper.
He comes out of the bathroom a while later, clad in nothing but a white towel. A towel that’s wrapped so precariously low on his hips that my breathing falters for a second. He leans against the foot of his bed, a sprinkling of water droplets glistening on his shoulders and chest. His hair is wet, towel-dried and messy. His face is perfection. Flawless skin, pink lips. High cheekbonesand hard masculine angles. Hooded eyelids and narrowed eyes that give him an almost Slavic look.
He catches me looking and smiles, reaching down and playing with the corner of the towel tucked in at his waist, flicking it this way and that.
His torso curves as he does it. Muscles tense, drawing long lines down the middle of him. A dark shadow where his navel dips in. Smooth, tanned skin. A fine trail of golden hair catches the light as he moves. Tiny curled hair all but insisting that one look lower.
His lips peel back, exposing full square teeth. “Protein shake?”
“Gguck.”
Not sure what’s happened to me, but for some reason, something in my brain or my eyes has malfunctioned. I can’t drag my gaze off the hand on his towel. It’s not that I don’t want to. I want to. Believe me, I do. It’s just that right now, right this very second, I can’t seem to remember how to do it.
He flicks the towel again. Metacarpals protrude. A thick vein meanders just under his skin. Long fingers curl.
The towel drops to the floor.
A fluffy white puddle pools at his feet and a vast expanse of gold skin shimmers from the overhead light.
You better believe that reminds me how to move my eyes. My head too. My whole body, in fact. I whip around in my seat so fast that my chair scrapes against the floor. I don’t move again. I sit completely still, head twisted sharply away from Miller as I stare at my screen, trying to make sense of the utter bullshit I’ve written this morning. I can’t follow a single sentence. The room is silent. Dead quiet. No sound to be heard other than those coming from inside me: shaky breathing and the slightly too-fast beat of a heart.