6

 

 

 

I'm a creature of habit. There's really no denying it.

I thrive with routine, flourish on a rigid schedule, and damn if I don't love me an organized-as-fuck planner.

Knowing what I'm doing when, where, and why is important.

This desire for structure probably stems from my disorderly youth.

Nah, not 'probably'...

It absolutely originates from the anarchic environment I was raised in.

In order to succeed in a world where everything was constantly wavering, from houses to families to schools, having a sense of control and regularity was vital.

But I wasn't always the systematic guy I am today.

For many years, I was a direct reflection of my unruly surroundings. Coasting along aimlessly, no higher purpose guiding me down a more productive path...

With no rules or expectations, I did what any unsupervised kid would do in that situation.

Whatever the fuck I wanted.

It wasn't long before I got mixed up with a group of young teens who were as misguided and screwed-up as I was. I started dabbling in drugs—both dealing and recreational use. Homework was tossed aside in favor of sneaking out and getting high behind the local 7-Eleven. We'd all blow off school and meet at the abandoned train tracks on the outskirts of town, drinking beers and cursing the universe for the shitty hand we were dealt.

Life felt pretty fucking pointless for a while there.

At the age of fourteen, I received the wake-up call I desperately needed. Swear it was a freaking gift from above, the way it fell into my lap like it did.

I was promised a future that didn't have me behind bars by my eighteenth birthday, but only if I got my act together. That was when I realized shit needed to change.

It needed to change fast.

I spent the summer before high school cutting all the toxic sludge from my life: the people, the drugs, the pathetic victim mentality.

I had direction now. Dreams I wanted to see through and things I knew I was capable of achieving.

That's when I started implementing some much needed structure in my life.

Could I control the fact that I lived in a 1,000-square-foot home with six other foster kids and two caretakers who were in it solely for the hand-outs? A house that was in a constant state of pure madness?

Nope.

But I could control my schedule and how to work around the bullshit.

First thing I did was start waking up before everyone else. Before toddlers were crying and the TV was blaring and the stimulant-overdrive was preventing me from hearing my own thoughts.

I used the coveted silence to finish assignments, write down my goals, and plan my day.

That shit turned my life right-side up.

Seven years later and my crack-of-dawn habit is still going strong.

I do the exact same thing every weekday morning: shuffle downstairs, put on a pot of coffee, and open the shades to watch the sunrise. Then, while I eat breakfast and enjoy the uninterrupted quiet, I take a page from 14-year-old Cam and map out my day.

I've got a good thing going.

But when I step into the kitchen on this particular morning, I'm surprised to find the blinds already open, the first rays of golden sun striping the hardwoods.

And I'm even more surprised to see a girl digging through our fridge, her back to me as she pokes her head in the cold ice box.

Random, half-naked women roaming around the Treehouse used to be the norm, but lately that hasn't been the case. The two guys primarily responsible for that are now happily taken. Over the past six months, this place has undergone a transition from raunchy Playboy Mansion to family-friendly Full House episode.

The unidentified chick is wearing baggy cobalt-blue shorts and a black Adidas sports bra. Her hair's pulled up in a short ponytail with one of those scrunchie things girls are obsessed with. Going by the three additional hair bands on each wrist, I'd say she's no exception to that stereotype.

"Vaughn wasn't kidding," she mumbles to herself, fingers tapping the stainless steel impatiently. "There's no food in this freaking house."

"Grocery day's tomorrow," I explain as I walk up behind her.

"Shit!"

The explicative is screeched so loud it produces an echo.

Scrunchie Girl whirls around and I instantly recognize her.

"Jesus, Baby Blue." I hold a finger to my lips in a 'shhh' gesture. "Keep it down, would you? Your brother's gonna get PO'd if we wake him up."

Her eyes are still round with panic, hand splayed across her heart like she's in a damn soap opera. "You scared me so bad! What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Laughter rumbles in my chest as I reach over her shoulder and grab the almost-empty carton of milk. "Only one of us lives in this house and I'm pretty sure it's me. What are you doing here is the better question. You sleep over?"

She nods. "I crashed on the couch. Vaughn said it was okay and that I was welcome to help myself to breakfast." She jerks a thumb towards the barren refrigerator. "But y'all seriously have nothing."

I peer behind her and shake my head. "What are you talking about? There's plenty of shit to make a meal out of."

Alright, so maybe "plenty of shit" isn't entirely accurate. The pickings are slim, but it's nothing I can't work with. Being resourceful is something I take pride in.

Sydney clicks her tongue. "I mean, sure, you could make something, but would it be edible? Probably not."

I take her statement as a challenge.

"I could make a badass dish out of any item in there," I say smugly. "And not only would it be edible, it'd be damn delicious."

"Of course it would." Her sardonic response is punctuated with a playful eye roll. "Is an ego the size of Russia a requirement to live here? All you soccer dudes have some extremely inflated ones."

"Hey, this isn't just me talking a big game. I'm more than willing to put my money where my mouth is." I place both hands on her bare shoulders. In one fluid movement, I flip her around to face the sparsely-filled shelves. "Choose four ingredients and I'll whip you up something that'll have you beggingfor seconds. Guarantee it."

"Four ingredients?" A laugh bubbles in her throat. "What is this? A Chopped episode?"

"Yup." I glance around the countertops, eyes landing on an empty woven basket that's usually filled with fruit. I grab the container and thrust it in her arms. "Here. Make your choices."

"Ooh, I get all the power?" Her fingers wrap around the handles, a devilish glimmer in her gaze. "You might regret this."

I give an unbothered shrug. "Maybe."

"Definitely." She shoos me away. "You can't watch. Let me choose in peace."

I start making coffee while she fiddles around.

It doesn't take long for her to come up with the selections—no more than a minute or two of digging around. I wasn't worried before, but based on the occasional wicked cackle bursting from her mouth, I'm starting to wonder what the hellshe found in there.

"Finished!"

She closes the fridge and spins around. The basket's hidden behind her back and there's an enthusiastic grin stretched across her face.

The girl is strangely excited for this.

"Alright." With one hand wrapped around my steaming mug of caffeine, I use the other to make a 'give it here' motion. "Show me what I'm working with."

She immediately shakes her head. "It needs to be a good reveal, just like the show! Close your eyes," she urges. After a quick beat, she adds, "Please?"

I comply with her demands and squeeze my eyes shut, listening as she opens cabinets and rustles through drawers.

"Okay. Open sesame."

The container is on the kitchen island, a tattered oven mitt eclipsing the items inside.

Sydney straightens and puts on her best TV-hostess voice. "Okay, chefs. Well, chef, in this one-man episode. Please open your basket!"

She does a soft drumroll on the marble counter as I toss the oven mitt aside.

I pull an item out and Sydney starts narrating the action like she's calling a football game.

"First up, we've got chive and cracked pepper cream cheese. Very interesting! I prefer plain myself, but these Treehouse Boys must be a flavorful bunch. I'm also left wondering why they have an entire unopened container of cream cheese, but not a bagel in sight. Mysterious. What's next?"

I remove two bottles, frowning as I read the labels. "Vermont maple syrup and Welch's grape jelly."

Syd oohs and ahhs as if she didn't pick these items out five seconds ago.

"Two sweet and delicious breakfast toppings. Will they clash with the savory cream cheese? Will they mesh into a threesome sent from the heavens? Only time will tell." She sticks a hand out and pushes the basket closer to me. "Last thing. What could it be?"

"Hopefully something with substance," I murmur. "Otherwise, we're gonna be eating fried cream cheese balls."

"Portobello mushrooms," Sydney announces as I set the final package on the counter. "Always a crowd favorite. Not surprising, since mushrooms are such fun guys. Ba dum tsss!"

As she utters the classic punch-line sound bite, she pretends to play it on an invisible drum-set.

"A mushroom pun followed by 'Ba-dum-tssing' your own joke? Damn." I roll my eyes as an entertained smile curves my lips. "And that's the moment everyone at home changes the channel."

Sydney shakes her head. "Nope. That's the moment everyone falls in love with my TV-host charm and hilarity. Don't underestimate the general public's love of dad jokes. They're television gold."

She's got a point.

Her color commentary is goofy as hell.

It's also eerily similar to what Vaughn would do if he were down here.

"You are exactly like your bro, you know that? Like, it actually freaks me the fuck out." I level her with a perplexed look. "Y'all sure you're not twins?"

"Pretty positive, but people ask that so often I'm starting to wonder. Someone might've forged our birth certificates." She laughs before waving a hand across the small pile of ingredients. "Time limit is thirty minutes because I'm starving. Are you ready?"

"Yep."

I give a cocksure nod, but I have no fucking clue what I'm gonna do with this random assortment.

Guess I'll be figuring that out over the next half hour.

Sydney sets the timer on the microwave and hits start. "Allez Cuisine!"

"Wrong show."

Her head tilts like a confused puppy.

"That's Iron Chef," I explain. "The guy who does backflips and bites an apple and shit? That's his line."

"Oh yeah. You're right." She grins and takes a seat on a barstool. "My bad. Didn't realize I was dealing with a Food Network expert over here."

"Not an expert," I say with a snort. "I usually put the TV on when I'm trying to fall asleep. For some weird reason, Food Network's like a damn lullaby to me. Puts me out like a light, and I think all the shows and cooking tips seep into my brain while I'm snoozing or something. Swear to God, I've never seen an episode of Beat Bobby Flay, but I could tell you every detail about it. The format, stage set-up, the fact that Bobby wins majority of the time. It's creepy."

"Anyone could guess that last point, though. Bobby's boss. Now put that night-school education to the test and get to work. Time's a tickin'."

She nudges her head towards the clock in warning, but I brush off her concern.

"No rush. I got this. Watch and learn, Baby Blue."

I shoot her a confident wink and toss a hand-towel over my shoulder.

She shakes her head like I'm ridiculous, but she can't contain the grin that spreads across her face.

As I pull out the necessary pots and pans, I realize my morning ritual is basically fucked for today.

Oddly enough, this doesn't annoy me like it usually would.

I dunno why I'm so chill about it.

Maybe it's because of who caused a blip in the radar.

I turn on the oven, taking a quick glance out of my peripheral at the brunette watching my every move.

Sydney Steel.

Never imagined I'd be cooking us breakfast like this is a freakin' morning after situation.

She's the newest addition to our group of friends, granted automatic "admission" due to her kid sister status.

The younger Steel was a complete surprise—nobody even knew V had a sibling until this past December when she showed up out of the blue.

Although she and I haven't had a whole lot of interaction, there's an easy familiarity between us.

Maybe it's 'cause Vaughn and I have been best friends for years, and—like I mentioned already—he and Syd are cut from the same cloth.

Or maybe it's something else entirely, but she's pretty cool.

Athletic jock. Tomboy with a bro attitude to match.

Definitely a "one of the guys" type of chick.

There's also something else I've noticed about her in our few brief encounters...

Sydney is hot as fuck.

Not too shocking considering Vaughn's Mr. GQ of the team.

She's got dark, shoulder-length hair and deep indigo-colored eyes reminiscent of a midnight sky.

Olive skin, naturally plump lips, and an angular, model-esque bone structure render her effortlessly beautiful.

And her body...Jesus. Long, lithe figure. A four-pack of abs that somehow appear feminine, not bulky. The type of toned legs that only come from years of running around a soccer field.

The girl is fit.

But as drop-dead gorgeous as she is, one thing has been made abundantly clear by her brother.

Sydney's off limits.

The rule doesn't really concern me; getting involved with an underclassman isn't on my agenda for the year.

Especiallymy best friend's little sister.

Hope V's cool with our cooking competition, though.

——

The thirty minutes goes by in the blink of an eye. In the end, I manage to put together something that would definitely not have me on the chopping block.

I stuffed the cream cheese in the mushrooms and baked those bad boys for a while before adding a dollop of grape jelly on top. I was given permission by Hostess Sydney to use one "pantry staple"—there was some back-and-forth discussion as to whether or not Corn Flakes should be included in that category, but I came out victorious in the debate. They're definitely a staple in this house. After frying those up with a drizzle of maple syrup, I sprinkled them on top for a nice crunch.

Weird?

Extremely.

But it fits right in with all the experimental, fancy shit in the strange world of gourmet food.

I toss all the dirty dishes in the sink and we take a seat at the kitchen table. Sydney conducts a thorough inspection of the food, examining it from all angles.

"Hmmm. Nice use of color and textures. Plating is adequate. Slightly messy, but you are a college-aged boy, so I'll excuse it."

I grunt at the assessment. "Okay, Food Critic. No more yapping." I toss a fork in her direction. "Only thing I want your mouth doing now is tasting my creation."

The dirty innuendo is picked up by both of us; her cheeks heat in response and I laugh before pointing at the food.

"Dig in," I insist.

She takes a big bite, chewing for a moment as her head slants in contemplation. Once she swallows, she gives me an astonished look. "What the heck?!"

Her ambiguous reaction could be interpreted either way, but I know she likes it.

The dish is bomb.

"Good, huh?"

A smirk brightens my face as an annoyed frown taints hers.

"It kills me to admit, but it's good. Great, honestly."

"Told ya."

After stuffing another massive forkful in her mouth, she emits a satisfied sigh. "I don't understand how you accomplished this. It shouldn't work, but it's seriously amazing."

"Looks like you shouldn't have doubted my abilities." I lean back against the chair and casually cross my arms over my chest. "You wanna own up to your mistake?"

"Do I want to?" She shoots me a guilty grin. "No."

"Oh shit. Wrong decision." I suck in air through my teeth and reach forward, dragging the plate away from her. "Guess you don't get anymore."

"No!" She grabs the opposite end and jerks it back. Our game of tug-o'-war continues until she finally gives in. "Fineee. You were right; I was wrong. I officially eat my words. And now I'm going to eat every last crumb of this."

I quickly snatch two of the giant mushrooms for myself—if I don't claim some now, she probably will devour the entire plate.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before I realize something.

"You never answered my question," I say.

One of her dark brows arches and I continue.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you, of course," she teases.

"Yeah, that's a given." I put on a cocky grin. "There's gotta be another reason, too. Besides the obvious."

"There is. It's my new roommate. She's...well, she's kind of..."

Sydney pauses, unable to find the words.

"An asshole?" I offer. "Y'all don't get along or something?"

"No, no. It's not that." She shakes her head, a trace of disbelief in her eyes. "Let's just say I've never met anyone like her before."

"Nah, that's too vague. You wouldn't bail in the middle of the night for just anything. More details," I prompt.

"She tried to give me a tattoo while I was sleeping."

"What?"Rambunctious laughter bursts past my lips. "I've heard a lot of roommate horror stories over the years, but that's a first."

"Not a realone, thank you Lord, but still." Sydney blows out a puff of air. "I don't know what the hell she was thinking, but there's going to be some serious 'Room Rules' established the next time I see her."

"Where's the tattoo?" My head cocks in curiosity. "Or should I even ask?"

"Oh God—just on my arm, thankfully. If I caught her trying to give me a tramp stamp, I'd have been banging on my R.A.'s door faster than you can say personal boundaries."

"That'd definitely be grounds for a restraining order." I chuckle before glancing at her tan arms. "Alright, what's the damage? Let me see it."

She lays her left arm on the table. I take her wrist, twisting it slightly to reveal her decorated forearm.

Crawling towards her elbow in coppery-brown ink are the phases of the moon—some of them, at least. Syd must've woken up before her roommate finished the full moon and put the impromptu tat session to a stop.

The completed images are surprisingly well done, each lunar phase shaded in a realistic manner that I wasn't expecting.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I reach forward, two fingers gently tracing over the detailed design. Sydney tenses almost immediately, her breath hitching at my touch.

"I know it's not finished," I mutter as I continue my exploration of the tattoo. "And the girl's a bonafide maniac for inking you up in your sleep, but it's not half-bad."

Her eyes remain glued to my fingers still brushing over her smooth skin. After a moment or two, she snaps out of it and yanks her arm from my grasp. "Sorry—zoned out for a sec. What did you say?"

"I said the tat's not so bad. If that's any consolation."

"I'm glad you think so. I'm 99% sure this is henna a.k.a. I'll be rocking it for the next few weeks." She laughs and holds her forearm to her face, inspecting it further. "One more positive from the situation—I've always thought about getting a tattoo. Now I've got a chance to take one for a test run."

"If you ever decide to go permanent, you should come to me for advice." I nudge my chin towards my exposed full-sleeve. "Been around the block a time or two when it comes to tats."

"I can see that." Her intrigued gaze travels the length of my left arm—shoulder to bicep to wrist. Every square inch is covered with intricate ink of varying colors and designs.

"Painful?" she asks.

"Nah."

"Expensive?"

I shake my head. "I was good buds with the artist who did most of these."

"Sexy."

Her last word isn't a question, but a dazed, mumbled observation—one she doesn't realize she's verbalized out loud until I grin and say thanks.

"Huh?" Her forehead creases and she quickly tries to cover up the confession. "Cool! I meant they're really cool. Will you tell me about them?"

"Sure," I say with a shrug. "What do you wanna know?"

For the next hour, we polish off the food and just hang.

Sydney tells me about her classes and some more about her roommate, Crimson, whom I've officially dubbed the Wicked Witch of Windhaven.

I give her a detailed breakdown of my tattoos before filling her in on my "mentorship" with Bev.

The conversation flows easily, never a dull moment or awkward silence between us during the entire sixty minutes of discussion.

We're both nursing our second cup of coffee when we get onto the subject of soccer.

"Wait a minute. Let me get this right," I say. "You took a cleat to the thigh that slashed open a gnarly, massive gash and you still finished the game?"

"Well, yeah." She looks flabbergasted at my question. "It was the state finals! Losing a freaking foot wouldn't have kept me out of that match!"

She sticks out a long leg, lifting the hem of her shorts to reveal a five-inch scar. "I slapped the world's biggest bandaid on the thing, scored the tie-breaking goal, and got stitched up after the trophy ceremony."

"Damn." I let out a low whistle as I rub the back of my neck. "Impressive."

"I'm kind of an aggressive player. And slightly injury-prone. I've got a whole collection of scars from my time on the field," she admits as she twirls her eating utensil between her fingers.

"I noticed."

There's a faded mark across her right eyebrow, no doubt from a head-to-head collision. Her chin sports a silvery-white memento from a hard hit to the jaw. And the jagged line on her knee is one any athlete would recognize: a telltale souvenir from ACL surgery.

"You're a tough chick," I point out with a grin.

She laughs, shrugging off the compliment. "Pain doesn't register when you're in the zone."

"You must be pretty good."

"Decent." Her answer comes with a shy smile that suddenly morphs into a frown. "Although I am struggling with a few aspects of my game."

I'm about to ask for elaboration when her face lights up.

"You're a goalkeeper," she says with realization.

"I am a goalkeeper," I confirm, confusion in my voice. "What about it?"

"Maybe you could help me out?"

"With what?"

"My accuracy problem!" she exclaims. "Having someone as talented as you tell me what I'm doing wrong...that'd be invaluable."

I rub my chin in hesitation as she carries on.

"What do you think? Could you work with me? Just an hour or so a week. I could buy you coffee as payment or something. Sunday mornings, if that works for you?"

Sunday mornings.

I've already got my Sunday afternoons taken over indefinitely with the kid...now I'm being asked to give up basically the entire day?

As cool as Sydney is, and as eager and excited as she looks right now, I'm just not sure I'm willing to do that.

"I dunno, Baby Blue." I drag a hand through my bedhead and frown. "I've already got one babysitting gig. I don't need anoth—"

My sentence is interrupted by her fork clattering to the table.

"Ouch. Babysitting?" Offense is etched across her features at my descriptor of choice. "I know I'm younger than you guys, but dang. That's a little harsh, dontcha think?"

"Shit, no. I didn't mean it like that." I quickly try to amend my poorly-worded statement. "I just meant I wanna be able to enjoy my last Fall semester, not waste it."

Okay, fuck.

That might've been worse.

"Jeez. I get it. Say no more."

She abruptly stands, her chair making a harsh sound as it squeaks against the floor, and I follow suit.

"Sydney, damn. I—"

"It's fine, Cameron. Just forget I said anything." I'm cut off by her nonchalant dismissal and a flippant wave of her hand. "Thanks for breakfast."

As she heads for the front door, she stops to offer me one last tidbit of advice. "Next time a simple 'no' would suffice."

I stand there, foot in mouth as I watch the heavy wooden door shut behind her.

Real freaking smooth, Cam.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you fuck up a perfectly nice morning.