How do I get myself into these situations? Even with the purest of intentions, I have an unwanted boy's sweaty hand on my back.

I'm not wearing anything revealing. I'm talking collar bone to toe tips, three layers deep on top. And yet, thanks to diligence and pure odiousness, Ryder has burrowed through to some skin at my waist. His leg is against mine on the roomy, three-seat couch. Every time he looks at me, it's like he's waiting for me to look back. And he tries to hold my gaze, like he's setting the stage for a kiss.

Nothing is for "free," I now realize. Since I can't seem to pay attention to a word he says, it's the real lesson learned here.

You know that Psychology test I took last Friday? I didn't do as well as I hoped. It wasn't quite a failing grade, but it was close enough for me to lose all faith in myself. I'm in the D-range for a class that's not only required but critical for the degree I'm after.

This stuff should be easy for me. I should know it, cold.

While I was holding back tears, Ryder, the boy who sits in front of me—who got a 100%, by the way—offered to go over the test with me and help me prepare for the next research project.

At the time, he asked for nothing in return. Then, I find out the awkward way that my body is the currency of his choice. That's not something I would ever agree to, and I feel dirty that it was ever assumed.

We discussed the cafeteria and the library for a meeting place, but our schedules didn't allegedly align until I mentioned my apartment and the block of time before I leave for work.  

Meanwhile, Jael is brooding in his room with the door open for a change. What's the occasion? Probably Ryder. I doubt it has anything to do with me, really. It's probably some territorial thing or because I have a bad track record when it comes to male visitors. Still, the hostility emanating from him was a little extreme for the size of my classmate and my reason for inviting him over. 

Jael was five steps behind me when the doorbell rang. When I said it was for me, he lingered in the entryway, leaning his long, muscled forearms on the banister beside the stairwell.

When we came up, I introduced Ryder as my study partner, hoping to ease the tension.

It didn't.

The look Jael gave him, it was a knowing one, like he was very familiar with Ryder and every one of his intentions before I had the foggiest clue.   

Jael didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. After Ryder and I sat down, Jael prowled off, many long, painful minutes later, with enough red-hot fury in his gaze to incinerate cockroaches from ten yards away.

What's his deal? 

This is no exaggeration. He hasn't said more than five words to me since the Ivy incident, four days ago. He does little more than grunt when I attempt to clear the air. And yes, I did try to apologize and still feel really bad.

I didn't realize I fell asleep on him like that. When my eyes fluttered open the first time, he was sound asleep, and I didn't want to disturb him. He'd had a bad night. And maybe I was clinging to the tiniest hope that I improved things for him. Maybe he was still on the couch with me because he wanted to be, not because he was stuck or just oblivious. It's possible he didn't know he fell asleep either, and it first dawned on him when he sensed that someone was watching us with ill intent.

What did Ivy have a chance to see and hear? I break into a cold sweat just thinking about it. 

When Jael finally caught on, he jumped up from the couch so fast, like I was only a regret, and his heart belonged to her and always would. And he'd do anything to earn her forgiveness. 

I don't know if that's truly the case, or if they're even together anymore. I don't know if he knows—and that could explain his mood and this awful limbo it seems we're all in.

Because of the fear, hurt, and confusion, and the shame and self-loathing, I passed on the one opportunity to eavesdrop and haven't seen Ivy since.

I can't say I'm too torn up about that. Her parents may own this place, but she doesn't "technically" live here. She shouldn't have free rein to come and go as she pleases at all hours, especially when Jael's not home. It's my home too—for now—and I'd rather not be caught in the middle of whatever these two have going on. I have enough of my own problems.

Ryder hasn't said anything for a while now. The longer I let this go on...

His hand is still beneath my shirt. I think he's waiting for me to turn to him and react. To throw myself at him. When I don't, it seems to encourage him to continue, bit by uncomfortable bit.

He pushes his hot hand up my spine. I can feel every fingertip "caress" a path over bone and flesh. His palm pauses at my rib cage. It's probably supposed to entice me, but the pressure and friction—and the fact that I'm not even remotely attracted to him—makes me want to squirm away and get back to work. When his middle finger slips beneath my bra clasp, I do just that. 

I thought he would take the hint, but his hand drifts to my thigh, and it begins a slow climb there instead. "Do you want to show me your room?" He shifts so he can face me a little better and strokes a strand of hair behind my ear.

I'd rather scream...

Jael must be a mind-reader, or he heard Ryder's question, or he sniffed out the sordidness of this budding "transaction" from halfway across the apartment. He pops into the hallway and shoots us a glare. We get the good ol' disdainful headshake as he crosses into the kitchen and dips out of view.

Strangely enough, Ryder's hand moves in the wrong direction. Where does he get the nerve? I barely know him. I'm probably just a dumb cheerleader to him. And we're supposed to be studying. We haven't accomplished much, and I have to get ready for work soon.

In light of all this, and my roommate, who looks like he wants to tear him to bits, it's pretty ballsy that Ryder's touching me at all. He's not picking up on any of the stop signals or warning signs or he's too single-minded to care. 

Is it any wonder why I can't seem to concentrate today? Or, like, ever?

"Uh. . ." I snatch my binder from the coffee table. "How about we. . ." The folder portion of the binder empties out in my ungraceful attempt to redirect Ryder's . . . energy, let's say.

I can't bend over to pick anything up. I don't have enough faith in my waistband. And I certainly don't trust him to look away. 

It's hard to describe how relieved I am when the doorbell rings. I chuck my binder back to the table and make a break for it.

"I got it," I say to Jael, as we converge in the dining room. I beat him to the door leading out. I'm sure I can handle it, but he doesn't seem to think so and follows me down the stairs. "Expecting someone?"

"No." That brings us up to six words for the week.

Through the door's high windowpanes, I see one of those Irish caps pass by. It must be someone fairly tall.

"Isn't one boy enough?" Jael comments. The jab doesn't exactly ring with any humor.

And wow, that's seven, eight, nine, and ten, by the way. It's a big day for us. I'd almost call it progress. "You're one to talk!"

He grunts at that, and I whip open the door.

It's a she—a clothes-hanger thin redhead with ghastly perfect skin and a masculine but trendy sense of style. She has the cap, tilted off-center, a faded green denim jacket, high-waisted black jeans and shin-high combat boots. 

Like Ivy, she's as striking as she is terrifying.

She makes my hoodie, leggings, and glasses seem frumpy and juvenile.

"It's for you," I toss over my shoulder as scornfully as I can muster in the presence of a stranger.

Jael just grunts again. "Bryony!" He switches gears to one of cold, fake enthusiasm. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

My eyes dart to her oversized duffel bag.

Bryony ignores Jael and casts her gaze down at me. She has to, to see me. "You must be Sam." She reaches out her hand and flashes a perfect white smile. Her sharper-than-average canines give it a predatory glean. "I need a place to crash for a few weeks, so I'm your new roommate."

Jael exhales over my shoulder, like he's been holding his breath for an hour. "News to me," he says through a clenched jaw.

Bryony doesn't offer an explanation. She simply dumps her massive bag in Jael's unwilling hands, and says, "Thanks. You're a gentleman." She puts her hand on my shoulder, squeezes the two of us by a dumbstruck Jael in the doorway, and escorts me up the stairs. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Sam." She doesn't say this unkindly, but my name does come out with a bite.

Ryder meets us at the top of the stairs, and of course, in the shadow of a modelesque redhead, he barely acknowledges me. "Who's your friend?"

Bryony scoffs at him with an iciness I wish I could emulate.

"It's time to go, Ryder." There's enough frost in the air to give my voice an icy edge. "I appreciate your help." Which was really no help at all. Unfortunately, I'm still too "nice" to make a point that would burst his dense bubble.

He's pushed into the stair-landing corner by the two of us passing by, and then Jael's arm tattoo, which is at Ryder's eye level.

"Call me!" he blurts as the apartment door closes.

Bryony struts toward the third bedroom like she owns the place, and Jael just goes "mrrr" or "grrr." One of those. At Ryder, me, Bryony, or the whole party, and his unfortunate place in it.

I refer to the lanky bombshell before us with bulging eyes and a pointed hand. If there's anyone who should be growling, it's me. The guy has more attractive women strutting through here than he knows what to do with. And he has the balls to give me the snide comment. Ryder was a bad choice that lasted less than an hour. His creeping hand would seem like Sunday School in this godforsaken household! 

Jael definitely sees me, but he pretends not to. He's shutting me out. Again. I suppose this is the new normal. He doesn't want to explain himself or tell me anything. Or even speculate. Our living arrangements aren't open for discussion.

Whatever. I go to my room and close the door to sulk and second guess. Two can play at that game. He seems like he has more practice, but I play to win.