ROOMMATE

(Present)

Emerson's Pov

The lights dimmed, the final notes of the music fading through the air, cut short by the cheering crowd. My heart pounded in my chest, droplets sliding down my temples as I held my drumsticks tightly to me. The rush of adrenaline was fluid fire, running through every corner of my body with electric charge.

"Encore! Encore!" The crowd screamed, their voices a wave that crashed over us.

Ivory, our lead singer, flashed a devilish grin, pumping his arms to rally the crowd. Brad, our lead guitarist, hurled his pick into the midst of wailing fans, his black eyes glinting from across the stage. I grinned, spinning my drumsticks in my fingers before slamming them out one last time on the snare. The roar became cacophony.

God, I fucking loved this.

That time was brief, though. Offstage, there was a mood shift. Perspiring bodies milled about, stripping off leather jackets and working out cramped limbs. Beer and cigarette odors mixed in the air as we huddled in our corner, waiting for Brad to split up the night's profits.

"Okay," Brad panted, rooting out a wad of bills from his jacket. He licked his fingers and counted, palms to us. "Three hundred to each of you."

I reached for mine, but Brad thrust another fifty into my hand, his expression unreadable.

"What the crap, man?" Ivory snapped before I even had time to react. His lip curled, and he turned on Brad. "Why the crap is he getting more?"

River, our backup guitarist stayed silent. “Hey, buddy, be fucking fair," he growled, waving a finger at me. "We all did the same show."

I breathed a sigh, rolling my shoulders. "Ivory, it's all right—"

"The hell it is!" Ivory snapped. He took a step closer to me, flashing blue eyes. "You've been pulling this shit for months, Brad. You wanna tell us a good reason why in the hell Emerson always gets such a bigger cut?"

Brad pressed his teeth tightly together. "You know why."

“No, I don't. Why don't you fucking tell me?" Ivory pushed him hard, and Brad backed up.

Brad's nostrils flared, and before I could stop him, he attacked. Their bodies crashed into each other, fists flying.

"Goddamn it," I growled, stepping between them. I swung at Ivory, and held up my hand to Brad. "fucking stop it."

Ivory wiped the blood from his split lip and spat on the floor. "This is bullshit, man."

Brad's tone was low, lethal when he soke, clutching his shoulder. “You know he needs it more than any of us, Ivory. Have a little fucking conscience!"

Silence, thick and strained, filled the room. I breathed out, stepping forward and dumping the money on the table. "I don't need anyone's sympathy. Fucking have it, Ivory.”

I spun my drumsticks in my hand, turned on my heel, and stalked out.

---

The alley outside reeked of spilled beer and body sweat. I reached into my back pocket to grab a cigarette and light it, pulling slowly on it.

It was going to get better. It was going to get fucking better. It had to.

I spat on the sidewalk, exhaling smoke into the evening air.

Two years of living on my dime was fucking torture, living as people's pity story. I must have relied on my pops too much, although could you blame me? I had just turned eighteen, and never needed a job before that.

Now I had two jobs, and picked up anything else I could find. I played every gig we could get and tutored people off and on.

Thank god I had the band and college. Otherwise where the hell would I sleep? How would I pay tuition? I could barely afford cigarettes. My life was a greased fuck.

"Fuckkkkkkkkk," I screamed out, my chest burning. Things would get better.

I ground my cigarette into the pavement, stepping on it with my boot. Then I grabbed my helmet, and threw my legs over my bike. Revving the engine, I lowered myself down.

Hands forced their way into my pockets. Brad's. I hadn't heard his approach because of the noise of my bike. He'd crammed something into my pocket, probably the damn money. I opened my mouth but he immediately cut me off. "Just take it, man. No damn arguments."

"I'm not a charity case, Brad."

"No, you're not. You're my friend. Now shut up and spend it on eating something better than instant ramen for a change."

I didn't respond, just revved my engine and split. But the truth burned my throat. I needed the cash. I needed every damned penny I could get.

The ride to my dorm was cold. Wind at midnight lashed across my body as I rode along the nearly empty roads on my motorbike, the engine growling underneath me. The adrenaline of the fight still lingered in my system, but it was dulled by the weight of exhaustion. My fists ached from where I had punched Ivory, and my head throbbed with the recollection of our fight.

By the time I reached campus, the majority of the dorms were dark. Streetlights and the odd lit window where students were either gaming or cramming were the only lights. I chained my bike and took off my helmet, running a hand through my sweaty hair. The day's events stacked up on me like a goddamn mountain.

I climbed the stairs to my floor, clutching my keys in a tight fist. My room was my one solace— the one thing my father hadn't been able to take from me when he cast me out. I still didn't believe I'd been able to keep it, but Mrs. Meyer, the dorm advisor, had told me she wouldn't tell the school authorities about my situation. She knew. She knew I had no other place to go.

I shifted my bag over my shoulder and opened the door, stepping in— and stopping dead.

There, in the middle of my room, standing over a duffel bag, was none other than California Bulldogs' golden boy himself— Adam Pierce. What the fuck?

He looked up from his phone, his eyebrows furrowing the instant he saw me. "What the fuck?"

"My fucking thoughts exactly," I said, dropping my bag to the floor. "What are you doing in my room?"

He didn't have the time to answer when the door creaked open behind me. Mrs. Meyer stood in the doorway, her expression blank. "Emerson, I was waiting for you."

"What is going on?" My voice was tight, held in. She'd helped me so much. I could never raise my voice at her, not even when i was angry. "Why is he here?"

She exhaled, folding her arms. "Your school account bounced a few months back. The school was going to find out, and if they did, you would've lost your room. The only way to salvage it was to pair you with someone who needed a room. Adam was the best option, he needs a place near the field and there are no other open dorms."

My jaw clenched as I stared at her. "So, I don't have a choice."

Adam snorted. "Like I wanted this either."

I shot him a dirty glance before turning my attention back to Mrs. Meyer. "And what if I say no?"

"You'd have to live elsewhere, Emerson." Her voice gentled. "I know it's far from ideal, but there's no alternative."

There was a silence as thick as fog in the room. Adam looked like he’d rather be sleeping underneath a bridge than beside me, except a bridge wouldn’t be close to the field. I was considering it, I didn’t need to be near his stupid field. The cold might kill me before the drug addicts do though.

Mrs. Meyer sighed. "Just do your best to make it work. And, Emerson— keep a low profile." She went out, shutting the door, leaving a tense silence in her wake.

Adam gave a harsh laugh, his head shaking. "Yeah, this is exactly wh

at I needed!"

I rubbed a hand through my hair, blowing out a sharp breath. I fucking hated this too.