She’s such an amateur.
I smile to myself and roll over, shifting on the bed. I gasp when a rush of water pours down on top of me.
What the fuck?
I look up, just as an empty cup falls from the edge of the headboard and hits me square between the eyes.
I close my eyes, ashamed that I didn’t see that coming. I’m so disappointed in myself. And now I’ll have to sleep on towels, because my mattress is soaking wet.
I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the bed, only for my feet to be met with even more cups of water. I knock several of them over in my attempt to stand and it creates a sort of domino effect. I bend over and try to stop them from falling over, but I just make it worse. She’s placed them so close together, all over my bedroom floor, and I can’t find a safe spot to step.
I try to reach for the nightstand while at the same time lifting my right leg so that it doesn’t hit any more cups, but I lose my balance in the process and . . . yes. I fall down. Onto the remaining pile of cups that are full of water. Water that is now all over my carpet.
Touché, Bridgette.
• • •
I’m carrying the cups of water from my bedroom to the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth. Ridge is sitting at the table, staring at me. I know he wants to ask why the cups are now in my room, but he better not. I’m sure he can see by the look on my face that I don’t need his, “I told you so.”
The door to Bridgette’s bedroom opens and she walks out with her backpack slung over her shoulder. I pause and stare at her for a few seconds. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She has on a pair of jeans and a blue tank top. She’s usually wearing her Hooters uniform, which, don’t get me wrong, is fantastic. But this? Seeing her dressed down with her flip-flops on and no makeup is just . . . Stop looking at her.
“Good morning, Warren,” she says, shooting daggers in my direction. She glances at the cups in my hands. “Sleep well?”
I smile at her with vengeance. “Screw you, Bridgette.”
She crinkles up her nose and gives her head a quick shake. “No thanks,” she says, heading toward the front door. “Oh, by the way. We’re out of toilet paper. Also, I couldn’t find my razor, so I hope you don’t mind that I used yours.” She opens the front door and turns to face me. “And . . .” She scrunches up her nose again. “I accidentally knocked your toothbrush into the toilet. Sorry. I rinsed it off for you, though.”
She closes the door right when one of the cups of water flies out of my hand and meets the back of the door.
She’s such a bitch.
Ridge calmly walks past me, straight to his bedroom. He doesn’t even look at me, because he knows me better than anyone, and therefore, he knows not to speak to me right now.
I wish Brennan knew me that well, because he’s laughing, making his way into the kitchen. Every time he glances up at me, he laughs even harder. “I know she’s mean, but Christ, Warren. She hates you.” He’s still laughing as he opens the dishwasher to unload it. “I mean really hates you.”
I finish the trek across the living room and set the empty cups next to the sink. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say to him. “I can’t live with a girl.”
Brennan glances at me, amused. He doesn’t think I’m serious.
“Tonight. I want her out tonight. She can move in with a friend, or with that sister of hers she’s always on the phone with. I want her gone, Brennan.”
He can see that I’m not kidding. He straightens up and presses his hands onto the counter behind him, eyeing me. He shakes his head. “She’s not leaving.”
He reaches down and closes the dishwasher and presses the button to start it. He begins to walk away so I follow after him. “You can’t have final say in who lives here. I’ve tried for two weeks to get along with her, and she’s fucking impossible.”
Brennan glances at all the cups lining the countertop. “You think pranking her is making an effort to get along with her?” He looks back at me. “You have a hell of a lot to learn about women, Warren.” He turns away from me and walks back toward his room. “She’s not leaving. She’s our roommate now so deal with it.”
He slams his door, and it pisses me off even more because I’m really tired of everyone slamming doors lately. I stomp across the living room and swing his door open. “Either she goes or I go!”
As soon as I say it, I regret it. Actually, I don’t. I’m not going anywhere, but maybe the threat will change his mind. He shrugs.
“See ya,” he says casually.