Longhorns Ch. 01

Author's note: This is a slower-moving, more character driven piece. There's some sex at the end, but it's mostly building towards the next two chapters. I'm writing each chapter from a separate point of view. This chapter is Robert's; we'll see the story from other characters' perspectives in subsequent chapters. Enjoy, vote, comment!

*****

It's good to feel worn out. It's good to be sweaty, too. If you're too tired to think, you're too tired to think about Beth...

"Don't tell her where I moved, dude. Bitch is crazy."

Clay's words echoed in Robert's mind, as he lay, exhausted and overheated, on his old four poster bed. Had Clay been joking when he said that? Robert couldn't decide, but he erred on the side of believing he had meant it. Clay was rarely serious, but he'd stressed repeatedly before hanging up that Robert was under no circumstances to tell the girl in B107 how to get in touch with him.

Robert laid stretched out on the firm, queen-sized mattress, which suddenly felt uncomfortably large and unfamiliar. There was a Beth-sized empty space on it. Robert was happy enough to have something strange and even a little dramatic just to take his mind off of her. Between the work-out he'd gotten moving his stuff back into the apartment and the new mystery girl, he could successfully go for almost twenty seconds without thinking of his ex. In the corner of the room, strategically placed behind the open closet door, was all that remained of her in the apartment, a box of things she'd evidently deemed unworthy of shipping.

Four year relationship? Now a box of junk.

When he'd first entered the apartment after a year away, he'd looked around. Clay had called him when Beth's bitchy friend Samantha came by to pick up her clothes, jewelry, and other valuables. Samantha, no doubt with an absurdly detailed list from Beth, had been very thorough, leaving nothing behind of Beth's except for gifts he had given her.

Once he'd brought his own boxes and suitcases back into the apartment they had once shared, he set about collecting those gifts, the traces of their relationship, in a big cardboard box that once held bottles of Johnny Walker Red. He hadn't been able to throw the contents away just yet, but he knew he would. For now he couldn't see the box, and that was enough.

He thought—how could he not?—about Beth, but, thankfully, he also thought about the girl from B107. It had taken him easily forty-five minutes to unload the Pathfinder and the little U-Haul pull trailer, and during that whole time, she'd stared him down from across the courtyard as if he had murdered her family. Forty-five minutes of moving, yet she stood outside the whole time, on the other side of the wrought iron railing that lined the pool area, staring him down. She looked like she was about to let him have it. At first, he searched his memories for her—had he done something really, really bad a long time ago to one of his neighbors? Hell, he'd barely even talked to his neighbors, and he hadn't set foot in his own apartment for over a year.

Fucking Clay. This was his doing.

Wendell Clay was Robert's college friend who had subleased the place for the past year. Robert figured him for the culprit almost immediately. Knowing Clay, that meant one thing: he'd fucked her, then probably dumped her or cheated on her. That's how he was back then, and that's how he probably still was. It was one of the reasons Robert hadn't much bothered to keep in touch with him over the years. Facebook, that great repository of dead friendships, had brought them back in touch for the purely mercenary purpose of circumventing the awful rental market in a town like Austin. Clay was loaded, like any self-respecting smug prick, and could afford to pay the luxury rent for the exclusive, campus-adjacent apartment all on his own.

Robert had always been the junior partner in his relationship with Beth, financially speaking; with her gone, even making the rent on the place seemed an uncertain prospect now. After a year in D.C. doing research for his dissertation and following Beth around to obnoxious networking events, he was glad to be home. Hell, they'd both known the relationship was on its last legs, and deep down, part of Robert was happy Beth had finally put a bullet in it, telling him a month before they were due to return to Texas that she wasn't leaving the capital, that she'd "made connections."

He'd made his own connections after that—connecting a little U-Haul pull trailer to his Pathfinder. Luckily, Clay had been eager to vacate the apartment and didn't mind Robert cutting short his stay there. Now, after getting the evil eye from some neighbor girl he'd never met, he could see why.

"I didn't fuck her, honest to god. She's just, like, obsessed with me. She's certifiable, so look out for her—like, don't get suckered by the tits, man," Clay had said, chuckling.

That laughter made it hard to tell just how serious he was. Robert had called him as soon as the unloading was complete. Mostly, he wanted to know why she'd be pissed at him for something Clay did. People move in and out of apartments all the time. You don't hold a grudge against the next guy that moves in if you had a bad neighbor.

Depending upon how much he wanted to believe Clay, his initial suspicions turned out to be at least partially true. Clay knew the girl, said he invited her over a couple of times "just to be a good neighbor." Then she started following him around like a lovestruck schoolgirl, and he had to cut it off. She was young—"like nineteen or something," and Clay wasn't about to have some college girl trying to become Mrs. Clay or anything. So he shot her down, and now she's pissed.

At least that was the story as Clay told it. Robert didn't buy it, though. The girl was hot: long, really shiny brown hair, average to tall, not skinny, but to Robert's eye well-toned and curvy in a way that made her look more like a woman and less like a girl. If a face can look adorable and completely pissed off at the same time, then she pulled it off. Clay was right about one other thing, too: he was suckered by the tits. He would have gotten a closer look had he not feared for his life.

Robert seriously doubted that Clay would've said "no" to a chance to fuck a girl like that, no matter how crazy she was. As he figured it, Clay must've laid it on thick to get the girl into bed and then dropped her. The "obsessive" stuff might have even been true, but taken out of context. In any event, Clay would have needed to do something pretty bad to the girl for her to take it out on the next guy moving into the apartment.

It was hot in the apartment; leaving the door open long enough in a Texas summer can strain the A/C to the breaking point, and it would be another hour or two before it got comfortably frosty, the way Robert liked it. Thinking about the girl, even under the circumstances, was stimulating, though, an excellent distraction. Because he didn't know any details, he could imagine, speculate, play detective. Anything but think about Beth or about his own uncertain future.

Maybe Clay got suckered by the tits. Wouldn't be hard...

The violent sun streamed through the broken blinds on his bedroom window (broken by Clay—he was sure of it) creating slanting bars of dark and white, like a piano, on his empty end table. You could see where Beth's jewelry box once sat by the hexagonal space that wasn't covered with a sheen of dust. They'd left most of their belongings behind before heading east, and besides breaking the blinds and more than a few of their drinking glasses, Clay'd been a pretty conscientious tenant.

Sometimes you just can't see what's broken until you take the time to really look around, though.

Even from the bedroom, on the opposite side of the apartment, he could hear the sounds of people laughing, splashing in the pool, talking to each other. He slowly rolled himself off the bed and walked to the living room window facing the pool. Peering through the blinds, he scanned the group of college kids hanging out in the water for the mystery "crazy" girl, but she wasn't to be found. Robert shook his head—the more expensive the complex got, the more it was filled not with young professionals or graduate students like himself, but instead with undergrads partying on mommy and daddy's tab. If it wasn't for his lease, he'd move—hell, he ought to sublet the place and leave the bad memories there behind.

Maybe soon...

***

One of life's little horrors is being interrupted in the middle of jerking off.

"Coming," Robert shouted, though, actually, he had been a minute or two from his climax.

There was work to do: shut down the window playing a clip of Tori Black taking a massive cock in her ass, quickly apply some hand sanitizer, then strategically place the waistband on his gym short to disguise his hard-on. Hopefully, it would be the apartment management people or the mailman, or something quick. Then it would be back to Tori or maybe somebody new.

The knocking persisted—crazy person knocking. Definitely not the mailman. Could it be?

"Hey, do you live here?"

When your erection is being restrained by an elastic waistband, the sight of a hot, young co-ed, albeit one who might in fact be a crazy stalker, is not necessarily the best way to avoid an embarrassing boner incident. Up close, "crazy bitch" was even hotter than he thought. Her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, so he could see her face better: light dusting of freckles across, long lashes around smoky, hazel eyes, and lips that didn't need any cosmetic enhancement to look inviting.

On the other hand, she's certainly playing to type as far as the mental instability rumors...

"What?"

"Are you Wendell's roommate or something?" she asked in a husky voice.

Robert didn't like feeling like he was on trial in his own place, though he did smile a little to hear Clay's real first name, which he knew Clay hated. It was especially nice in that sexy, smoky voice.

"Umm...this is my place. And you are?"

The girl seemed to recognize how she'd come off.

"Sorry...I'm Virginia," she said.

She started fidgeting a little, tapping her foot. She couldn't have known the nervous motion would cause her breasts to jiggle ever so slightly. For some reason, she didn't seem like the kind of girl who quite grasped her effect on men.

"Virginia, great. Nice to meet you," he said curtly. "I'm Robert, and this is my apartment. Clay's gone."

Robert was curious as to how she would respond. He was still trying to solve the mystery of "Did Clay and 'crazy bitch' have sex?" Her response was inconclusive: a knowing smirk.

"I knew it," she said. "Look, he's got something that belongs to me here. Can I come in?"

"He took his shit with him. If you left something—"

"Just let me look, new guy," she said with exasperation. "It'll take, like, ten seconds."

With a deep breath and some trepidation, Robert ushered her into his place. He even felt a little pathetic for not resisting; pretty girls could get away with murder with him. She made a beeline for the bedroom, as he followed her.

"Did you find a stuffed dolphin on that end table? No way would he just take it with him."

Robert was about to say "no" when he recalled putting a plush dolphin in the box of Beth's stuff to throw into the dumpster. He fished it out, handing it over.

"Found it there and figured it belonged to my ex," he said. "You're lucky you got it before I throw all this shit out."

Virginia grabbed it from him and made to leave, before turning on her heel to address him. Since he was following her out, her abrupt spin almost made him run into her. She'd been about to speak when she flinched due to the uncomfortable closeness, and, backpedaling, her whole voice changed.

"Was Clay your friend or something?"

Be honest? Why the hell not?

"I knew the guy, but, 'friends?' Not really. He just subletted the place from me last year while I was gone."

"So, you guys don't talk?"

"Not really," Robert said.

"But you probably hit him up after yesterday, right?"

"Maybe," he said warily.

"Well, he's a douche," she said. "So...sorry for throwing all that shade. I figured you knew."

"Knew what?"

"Just about Clay. What he's like. What he did," she said cryptically.

"Which was?"

"Be a douche," she replied, seemingly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. "So, sorry and all that."

"It's not a big deal," he said. "It was honestly just weird to have a stranger stare daggers at me for half an hour—even a cute girl."

Virginia laughed for the first time. It was nice, warm.

"It wasn't that long! You probably thought I was some crazy, yet still totally super hot murderer."

Robert decided to keep Clay's warning a secret.

"Well, let's just say I thought about throwing the deadbolt last night in case you wanted to strangle me in my sleep."

She dropped her smile and took on a blank expression.

"I only strangle people who really deserve it," she said with a deadpan affect.

Virginia let that line, delivered in an emotionless monotone, linger for a moment before breaking out once more into a grin.

"Well, I'll just have to stay on your good side," Robert said, taking a deep breath in the way you do when you're anticipating a conversation's end.

Virginia seemed to take the hint, and soon she was once again heading for the door. She ran her hand over the top of the sofa on the way out, almost wistfully. Robert noted the almost nostalgic way she surveyed the apartment as well. She knew this place—his place.

She had just cracked open the door when, abruptly as before, Virginia turned to him. Robert had once had a dog, a puppy really, who ran everywhere—just full blast running, no matter what the reason. Every movement was sudden, fast, jumpy, until one day he just darted into traffic. He chuckled and winced, all at the same time, thinking of how Virginia's jumpy, anxious movements looked like the way that dog moved. She was cute—crazy, but cute.

"Well, new guy, I'll see you around."

Then she was gone. It was strange; could've gone better. Good eye contact, though, so low erection awareness percentage...

***

At least this time I don't have my dick in my hand.

Robert went to the door. It had been a week since he'd talked to Virginia.

"Hey, new guy."

"Robert."

"Robbie, I don't want you to think I'm a bitch," she said. "Let me buy you a beer."

"It's Robert, and, no offense, are you even old enough to buy beer?"

She narrowed her eyes and looked coy.

"You are."

Robert felt uneasy; he had this weird flash, like he was in one of those dreams where you go back to high school and all the cheerleaders make of you and you fail gym because you can't climb a rope or something. Virginia was either good at being fake nice or bad at being sincerely nice.

"So I'm going to buy me a beer?"

"No, I mean, I'll give you the money, and you can go down to Mickelson's and get a six pack."

Robert smiled knowingly. At least he could see the scam finally.

"So you're buying me a whole six-pack, huh?"

She looked like she'd just gotten caught.

"Well, maybe we could split it—three a piece?"

"That's a shitty mark-up on your end—don't you have a fake ID?"

She cocked her head to the side. Robert thought the way her ponytail fell across her shoulder was particularly flattering, being the kind of guy who notices such things.

"Not anymore—hey, this is a real apology. I'm just trying to be nice here, Robbie."

"Robert."

"Robbie's better."

"Robert," he said insistently. "And you don't have to fake it. I'll buy you a six-pack, just this once, if you promise not to strangle me."

He fully expected Virginia to jump at the chance to get some beer, suspecting the whole apology thing was simply a pretense. She surprised him.

"Really, I'm not that bad. Promise. Here," she said, pulling out a ten dollar bill and handing it to him, "just get something not too dark. Then we can have a beer like actual neighbors."

"Do you want me to bring it over to your place?"

"No, I'm fine waiting for you here," she said, closing the door and stepping once more back into his apartment.

He probably would have protested had it been most people, but, to be honest, hot nineteen year olds normally only talked to him when they were bitching about why he gave them a C- on their papers. She seemed, he thought, like a girl used to getting her way, and, lo and behold, that's exactly what was happening again.

In the store, he pored over his choices, trying to imagine what she might like. Nothing too dark—maybe an IPA? He never spent this much time picking things for himself, and now he was trying to consider the tastes and desires of a girl he first met giving him dirty looks, who'd just barged her way into his apartment, possibly as part of some elaborate mockery.

Finally, he found the perfect choice, and after purchasing it started the short walk home.

In the bracing, hot Texas wind, he thought about the crime he was about to commit—giving alcohol to a minor isn't the worst thing you can do, but a thirty year old man getting a college co-ed drunk in his apartment seemed pretty sketchy and not the sort of thing he normally would do.

"But she's so mature..." thought every older guy perving on a teen ever. Shit, I should make sure she's actually eighteen. Stranger things have happened...

"Lagunitas? Good choice, Robbie."

"Robert."

"Exactly."

Virginia had made herself at home, sprawled out across the cushy navy blue sofa, nestling against a small mountain of throw pillows, whose mere existence made it obvious the place had been once decorated by a woman. She was watching a television show seemingly populated solely by women constructed out of naugahyde, orange spray paint, and cantaloupes. They probably all made more money in a day than he did all year, too.

He handed her a bottle, and she strained to twist off the top. He started to laugh, and she blushed.

"Did that on purpose," she said unconvincingly. "Pop top?"

"Yeah, one sec," he said. "I thought you might break the glass there for a second."

Robert used the bottle opener on his keys to uncap her beer as well as his own. He flicked the bottle caps across the room one at a time, and they rebounded off the back wall of the wastebasket.

"Two points," she said, looking up at him.

"It's three from here," he said. "Is this Real Housewives of Hell?"

"Downton Abbey," she said drily.

She had a sense of humor. She was young, and, of course, nuts. But a sense of humor. And way too hot to be having a beer with him.

"So, not to be a dick, but exactly how old are you?"

"Almost twenty," she said. "That means pretty soon I'll be able to legally do whatever you can do when you turn twenty."

"That's pretty much nothing," he said. "It's a shit birthday."

"But you're not a teenager anymore," she said between sips. "That's gotta count for something?"

Robert thought a lot of things he shouldn't think but fortunately had the self-control not to say them.

"Sure," he said. "It counts for something. I just didn't want to be pounding beers with a high school girl."

"Do I look that young?" she asked. "Is it the plaid skirt or the pigtails giving me away?"

Though she was nearing neither, Robert couldn't stop from imagining Virginia in an early Britney Spears get-up. It was the kind of thing he shouldn't do if he was trying to avoid having his boner make an unscheduled appearance around her for the second time.

"Do girls your age want to look older or younger? There's some point where that changes over."

She smirked.