CHAPTERONE
In the beginning, the gods created Whit Cristian. They also created me, Caleb van Beek. Two men, both the same age, walking around the same campus but opposites in almost every way.
Amazingly, we can cohabitate in the same space without killing one another.
Most days, I do things to try and gauge him and his responses. Although I don’t find myself wanting to hurt him. In fact, I just want to get a reaction from him.
It’s been futile thus far. I haven’t gleaned much about him.
He’s intriguing in an infuriating way. I want to crawl inside his mind and take along ass look at what’s in there.
Probably all nice and organized like his life.
I glance over at Whit from the corner of my eye and take a long sip of my beer. The cool liquid slips down my throat, and I close my eyes.
I don’t know Whit well at all. Just met him, in fact, after answering a roommate wanted ad two weeks ago. What I do know is that he’s quiet, and I can tell he’s brilliant. Smarter than me, that’s for sure. He’s always reading, his Kindle appearing in his hand at all times of the day. He must have a hidden pocket somewhere in those signature dark jeans of his.
You know, come to think of it, I’ve never seen him in anything but dark clothing. Black pants, dark grey long-sleeved Henley’s, black boots. Even his pajamas are black. Yesterday, in a fit of severe curiosity, I snuck a peek in his drawers, looking for any sign of color, and found none. Even his underwear is black or dark grey. This fucker has some serious color palate issues.
I have a serious urge to sneak a pair of colorful socks into his drawer and watch him lose his shit.
Not that he loses his shit. He usually just glowers.
I glance over at him, and if I squint my eyes just right, he looks a bit like Ben Barnes in that boring movie Dorian Grey. All mysterious and svelte.
I, on the other hand, need some serious help. My blond hair has grown too long and could use a cut. I eye my bright yellow shirt and rub at an oil stain streaked across the side. I look like a piece of dirty caution tape.
Well, hell. I’ll need to go to Walmart and grab a new pack of shirts soon. Probably should grab two packages just in case. With my current job at the scrapyard my uncle owns, my clothes are thrashed on a daily basis.
Running a hand through my messy hair, I lean back in my chair and take another swallow of beer. I rub at the stubble lining my jaw and note that I need to shave sometime soon.
Probably tomorrow, if I remember.
Maybe next week once the beard settles in.
Speaking of plans.
“Hey, Whit,” I say suddenly, drawing those dark eyes away from his Kindle.
He raises an eyebrow, and I feel myself blush slightly. God, this guy makes me feel like a fool for just existing. It’s a fantastic talent he has. He should capitalize on it. He’d make millions.
“Going out with some people tonight.”
Whit continues to stare at me, probably waiting for me to get to the point. He’s probably regretting his decision to share this space with me. Since unpacking my stuff, I’ve felt his disappointment in selecting me as his roommate. He probably can’t wait to kick me out once my lease is up.
“Want to join?” I finally ask, and Whit’s eyes widen slightly, no doubt surprised I’ve invited him. I’ve never invited him anywhere. Never planned to. This just happened. I like spontaneity, and I’m pretty sure Whit has never once been spontaneous in his entire adult life.
No, spontaneity requires a bit of mess, and Whit isnotmessy.
He’s not an extrovert either. One of the many other ways we are opposites. Where he collects books, I collect friends. Where he collects knowledge, I collect…well, not quite sure. Useless, random facts, maybe?
“No, thank you,” he says and then turns back to his book.
“It’s trivia night, my man. You may like it.”
“Doubtful,” he replies, not even looking up at me.
Well, hell.