Perfection - Mathewson R. L. (книги бесплатно без .TXT) 📗
A loud squeal escaped her as the water pressure suddenly dropped and the water went from comfortably hot to excruciatingly hot in seconds. Startled, she jumped back, slipped, landed on her butt, and cringed as shampoo seeped into her eyes.
"Ow, ow, owie!" she mumbled frantically as her eyes began to burn and her butt throbbed. She wasn't entirely sure which one bothered her more at the moment, but she knew which one she could fix.
Taking a deep breath, she shoved her head under the hot water, silently cursing the low water pressure that was actually pushing more soap into her closed eyes. At least the water began to cool, she thought on a sigh before she squealed again seconds later when the water went ice cold and she was forced to stand up, hoping that would help the still low water pressure rinse her hair out faster.
It didn't.
Gasping, she ran her fingers through her long thick hair and tried to hurry the process. Minutes later she was jumping out of the shower and cursing the bastard next door for not only flushing the toilet, but for taking a shower at the same time as her. The least the jerk could have done when he realized that she was also taking a shower was wait for her to finish.
Still grumbling five minutes later and thankfully dressed in warm clothes, Zoe grabbed her basket of dirty laundry, a roll of quarters and her damn near empty bottle of laundry detergent and headed downstairs. Unfortunately she didn't have a private entrance to the basement so she was forced to balance her basket of laundry while she did her best not to step in one of the dozen or so mud splotches that decorated the hallway floor.
She walked to the door at the end of the small hallway and flicked on the light switch for the stairs all while hoping that the jerk hadn't tracked mud down the stairs, because she really didn't need to fall on her ass again tonight. Zoe sighed in relief when she spotted the clean pine stairs and headed down them to the small laundry room.
It wasn't until she placed her basket on the washing machine that she realized that she'd forgotten her suit. She half-debated leaving it for another day, but she didn't want to take the chance of landing an interview tomorrow and having nothing to wear but jeans.
With a tired sigh, she left her basket and headed upstairs. At least she had Black Jack's pizza to comfort her later, she reminded herself.
Chapter 2
How in the hell had he run out of food? Trevor wondered as he looked in the freezer again, hoping there was something hiding behind the ice cube trays to eat.
There wasn't.
Well, there was a box of baking soda that his Aunt Megan had shoved in there a few months ago when he bought the place, but he wasn't willing to risk having his stomach pumped, again. With a frustrated groan he closed the freezer door and looked out the kitchen window.
He really didn't feel like going out in this shit, but he was starving and he didn't have any choice. Of course he could order food, except for the fact that he was still on the banned list for most of the delivery places.
Bastards.
As tired as he was he knew he had to move his ass if he was going to make it to the grocery store before it closed. He headed upstairs, stripping off his sweat soaked tee shirt, work boots, and jeans as he went, noting that it looked like every piece of clothing he owned was scattered around his apartment.
Time to do the laundry, he mused as he walked into the bathroom. After he relieved himself and flushed the toilet he could have sworn he heard a squeal. Shrugging it off, he turned the shower on and cursed up a storm at the low water pressure. He'd have to fix that, but right now he was just glad that the water was nice and hot, helping to relieve the ache in his sore muscles.
Another loud squeak had his eyebrows arching. It wasn't like his normally quiet tenant to blast the television, but as long it didn't interrupt his sleep he'd let it go. After a quick shower he pulled on a semi clean pair of jeans and grabbed his mesh laundry bag and started collecting clothes off doors, counters, the back of the toilet and headed downstairs.
"What the fuck?" he mumbled when he saw the mud all over his newly tiled hallway floor. Had he done that? His eyes darted to the ugly ass welcome mat his tenant had placed near the front door and felt his lips pull up into a shit eating grin. A few more weeks and he'd have the damn thing completely covered.
He made his way towards the basement door, wondering why the hell she'd bought the damn thing. The inbred looking dogs with buggy eyes gave him the fucking creeps. A few weeks ago he threw the damn thing in the trash and replaced it with a Yankees floor mat only to have his aunt toss his floor mat away and return that hideous fucking thing. It didn't matter that he owned the house. His aunt thought the mat was "cute" and it was staying or she would never cook for him again.
He was really starting to get sick of women trying to control him through food. Not that he was going to bitch and risk losing out on his aunt's chicken pot pie, he wasn't a fucking moron after all, but it would be nice if women would stop using his weakness against him. The Bradford appetite was a disability, damn it and should be treated as such.
It seemed that every girlfriend he'd ever had from Jenny in the fifth grade to whatever the hell her name was last year all tried to control him with food once they discovered that it was his weakness. Although, he could forgive Jenny for bribing him with candy bars to beat the shit out of her brothers, they were assholes after all, but the rest of them truly pissed him off.
Not that he could fault them for wanting to marry him, he couldn't. He was a Bradford after all, but he didn't appreciate their fucking games. How many times had a woman hinted at marriage while she held a casserole under his nose or woke him up with breakfast in bed, musing how nice it would be to do that for him every day? Then when he didn't drop down on one knee and propose they'd withhold all those tasty treats they'd promised him. When a woman started the marriage bullshit he sat them down and explained that they didn't quite live up to his standards, which for some reason always earned him a slap and a denial for more delicious tasty treats.
When he got married, and he would one day, it would be to his perfect woman, the woman who met each and every one of his requirements. So far no woman had come close.
His perfect woman would be the best cook. She'd be able to whip him up a cake at a moment's notice and would never deny him any of her delicious treats no matter how badly he pissed her off, and he probably would, every day. She'd also be tall, hot, and have a body that left him panting for more.
She'd also have to be financially well off. Not that he minded supporting his wife, he wouldn't. He just didn't want a woman too dependent or needy. He wasn't interested in being anyone's sugar daddy. He wanted a wife that could function completely without him and wouldn't give a damn when he made last minute plans to go to New Hampshire for some fishing or decided to stay out late with the guys. She'd have to come from a big family so she wouldn't rely on him too much and so she'd have someone to bitch to at the end of the day and leave him the hell alone.
His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he needed to move his ass. He made his way to the laundry room and dropped his bag by the machine and ran his fingers through his damp hair to push it out of his eyes. That reminded him that he needed a haircut. If he didn't get held over tomorrow night, which wasn't looking very likely since they were trying to bust their asses to complete the Madison project, he'd swing by Henry's and get his customary cut.
After dropping his quarters in the machine he removed the basket left on top of the washer, not really giving it much thought, and went to pick up his bag of clothes only to realize that he was out of laundry soap and would have to pick some up tonight. He really didn't feel like staying up half the night doing laundry since he had to be up by six in the morning and have his ass at work by seven.
