The Roommate Equation - Jillian Quinn Page 0,2
least I wish it were fake.
Because this sure looks real.
I rip the paper off the door, reading it several times before reality sinks in, and I have to stop myself from crying. Six weeks ago, my car broke down and ate up most of my paycheck. I didn’t have much money before that happened, and now, I’m two months behind on the rent. My landlord agreed to let me pay him in installments, but apparently, he’s going back on our deal.
This is my life.
I’m the Murphy’s Law girl.
Anything that can go wrong will.
I stick my key into the lock and cheer when the doorknob turns. At least my landlord didn’t lock me out, not yet, anyway. Stumbling toward the kitchen, I kick off my heels, starved and ready to devour the leftover pizza I saved for dinner.
I stare into the mostly empty fridge, save for last night’s pizza, and a few cans of Coca-Cola. Until a minute ago, I thought I could stretch a few more dollars to make my limited funds last until the end of the week without having to bum some cash from Sloan.
But now, I have no choice. If I don’t pay within three days, I will be homeless. And I have sixteen dollars in my checking account.
I hate asking my brother for help, even though he offers it all the time. I can’t handle another conversation about my financial situation. My older brother tried to warn me about the cost of living in Los Angeles before I followed him here. Of course, I didn’t listen to him. I wanted to pursue my dreams without Sloan telling me what to do.
Sloan lives in a mansion in Malibu with seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and an Olympic size swimming pool, complete with a view of the Pacific Ocean. I live in a one-bedroom slice of hell in Studio City with a landlord who offers to reduce my rent in exchange for sexual favors.
My brother has asked me to live with him dozens of times. Except there’s one problem—Dylan Banks owns half of the house along with Date Crashers, the anti-dating app that has made both of them millionaires overnight. Dylan used his brilliant brain and my brother’s people skills to pitch the idea to venture capitalists in Silicon Valley while at MIT.
His app is also what ruined our secret relationship. Five years ago, online daters across the country fell in love with the app, and even more in love with the sexy tag team who invented the service. They have become the hottest guys in tech while I’m, still struggling to move up the ladder at Brenton-Lake.
As I set the pizza box on the kitchen counter, an unwelcome banging causes me to jump. I ignore it and flip open the lid, stuffing a cold slice into my mouth. I chew a few more bites before another loud sound penetrates the air.
Who’s knocking on my door?
It’s not like I have any friends in this neighborhood. I bet it’s another Jehovah’s Witness trying to convert me, or someone begging for money and support for a political campaign.
I’m not interested, and I don’t have any.
I ignore the knocking and shove the remainder of the pizza into my mouth, moaning as the spicy sauce hits my tongue.
“Ash, I know you’re in there,” Mannie yells so loud his voice shakes. “Open up, sweetheart.”
Chills roll down my arms at the sound of my landlord’s deep, creepy voice. I hate dealing with him. I would prefer to mail my mostly late rent checks to the main office, but he insists on giving his tenants the personal touch.
I swing the door open and frown when I take in the sight of him. Mannie’s dark hair is greasy, as usual, slicked back off his forehead in waves.
“I got the notice,” I snap. “I thought we had a deal.”
“Yeah, about that," Mannie says. “You need to pay your rent or move out. The owner isn’t down with the rent layaway program.”
“But I’m paying what I can. You said we could do this on the down-low.”
He shakes his head. “No can do, sweetheart. The owner put this in motion. My hands are tied.”
“There has to be some way.”
He leans against the door frame, and the scent of stale cigarettes and beer hit me in the face. “Not unless you want to work for it.”
Mannie has offered to pay my rent for sex dozens of times. I’m almost always late and have been since I moved into this building. But