No Interest in Love (12 page)

“How do you suggest I do that?”

She wiggles, trying not to press against it while also staying out of sight, but she's failing.

“That's not helping,” I croak.

“How is it even…?” She extends her forefinger so it's pointing straight to the ceiling, and it cracks me up.

“Well…you're close. And warm. And he's not picky.”

She snorts. “I've been in the same clothes since Sunday night. Haven't showered. No makeup. I'll probably have to chop this pen out of my hair.”

“You do stink,” I joke. Like I'd notice her smelling after three days.

“You're worse. I've had to breathe through my mouth.”

I shift, making her face fall right into my armpit. She gags, then sucker punches me in the gut.

“That is the most god-awful smell…”

“I'm wearing deodorant, big fat liar,” I tease, and my fingers find her ribs. I tickle her enough to get a giggle out.

“You have deodorant?”

“Uh, yeah. I have my bag.”

“Why the hell haven't you been sharing?”

I shrug, and she hits me again. There are a couple voices down the hall, and we both snap our mouths shut to keep quiet. She's right. We both stink. But Downtown Jace doesn't have a sense of smell, so he continues to press into her hip. If only I could reach down and strap him under the waistband.

I shift again and Shay wobbles backward, and instead of adjusting myself I snatch her waist and pull her back to me. Her face rams smack into my chest.

This
really
isn't helping. Her warmth makes my neck feel hot, and I think I'm breaking out in a sweat. A sweat I haven't felt in a long time. The one that makes my heart pound like I've been running for miles. And I don't break out in a sweat around women anymore. I just don't. I thought nervous, pheromone-induced sweat was something that was long gone, and I was damn grateful for it.

My hands slip to the small of her back. She's shaking. Her breath comes out in offbeat patterns against the fabric of my shirt, making her glasses pinch one of my nipples.

“Are you laughing?” I whisper, smile curling my lips. Shay shakes her head vigorously against my chest, and my other nipple gets pinched by the old-lady frames.

She's full of shit. She's having an all-out giggle fit right up against me, and I don't know why she's laughing, or if I've ever seen her this way before, but it's the most adorable thing I've ever witnessed.

And that word keeps creeping into my thoughts and pushing me into a panic.

I'm ready to nudge her off me because I suddenly need air, but I hear a voice checking in on passengers across the hall, and Shay's still laughing, occasionally squeaking as she tries to contain herself.

“Stop,” she whispers.

“You're the one laughing.”

“I'm not talking to you.”

I chuckle and push her face further into my chest to muffle the sounds she's making. She's gotta calm down or that attendant is gonna catch us within seconds. Wonder if we'll just get escorted off or if this is some sort of felony. I'm too pretty for prison.

Then I get that feeling. The feeling that someone is right there at the door, just out of sight, and my heart starts pounding in my throat. Shay's stopped laughing, but she hasn't moved a muscle, still pressed up against me from toe to neck. I'm guessing the attendant is feeling that same “someone's there” paranoia, because it feels like she's there for a lifetime. My lungs tighten from not being used, and I may just pass out from lack of oxygen.

They can't cart me away to prison if I need medical attention, can they?

After forever, the car door slides closed, and the conductor comes over the intercom, running through travel procedures. Shay and I both exhale in unison.

“I think I'm going to throw up,” she says. I push up against the wall as if it'll move to give us some space, but when she looks up at me with a half grin, I relax.

“Well, there is a toilet right there.” I tilt my head to the side, not releasing her eyes. I don't think I want to. My forehead's sweaty and I feel like I just climbed out of a garbage can ever since she pointed out how long we've been without showers, but I can't stop this urge to keep eye contact and try to…make a move.

I want to make a move
on Shay
.

She fixes her glasses, and her eyes drop to my lips. I swear to the man upstairs, they drop to my lips and I lean down not all that much because we're already so close.

Then the floor moves. The initial lurch of the train pushing itself down the tracks knocks us both from our feet planted in our hiding spot. I reach out and catch myself using the wall. But Shay…

She falls face-first into the private toilet.

“Oh shit,” I say, rushing to help her up. But she jabs her finger at the door windows, and I pull the privacy curtains shut.

When I turn back around, Shay sits upright, covering the bottom half of her face, revealing only her pinched-shut eyes and bright red forehead.

“Are you okay?” I ask, trying like all hell not to crack up. She drops her hand from her nose. Blood streaks over those lips that not two seconds ago I was thinking of making a move on.

“Damn…” I say, pushing back my amusement.

“Please don't laugh,” she says, eyes watering but not quite letting any tears loose. Her glasses have flown from her face. I search the tiny car for those and for toilet paper. I locate the latter first and tear off a chunk.

“Tilt your head back.” I press the toilet paper against her nostrils and hold the back of her neck. Her hair's a little wet. I'm guessing she didn't want to shower via blue toilet water.

“I've heard that's bad.”

“What?”

“Tilting your head. It'll get blood in your stomach or something.” She pushes her head down. I nudge it back.

“Where the hell'd you hear that?”

“From every doctor ever.” She leans forward again. I press against her forehead to stop her.

“Every movie I've seen with a nosebleed, they tilt back.”

“That's a great resource,” she snuffles, blowing the bits of toilet paper by her mouth. “Next time I lose a limb, I'll watch
Monty Python
and tell everyone it's just a flesh wound.”

I shake my head and let go of her neck. She leans down. I let her because we're not gonna argue over dumb shit.

“Do it your way, but I'm looking it up when we get to an Internet source.”

“You do that.”

My gaze drops to the blood on her shirt. Or technically
my
shirt. I sigh and fumble for the handle on my carry-on.

“You ruined another one.”

“Hope you weren't attached to it.”

I unzip my luggage and dig around for a replacement for her. My elbow keeps hitting the seat behind me, my legs cramped up against the wall. The only shirt I haven't dumped a day's worth of sweat in is a black wifebeater I wear to bed. I pull it out, and she huffs out a sigh, pulling the toilet paper from her face.

“Think you can keep this one clean?” I ask, and she takes it from my outstretched hand.

“We have two and a half days. So no.”

I smirk and toss her my tube of deodorant. Her nose is still draining, so I nudge her wrist so she keeps that sucker plugged.

“You know,” she says, “I keep flashing back to my bag being sucked down that drain. If only I had saved just one pair of pants.”

“Is that a hint?” I gesture to the pair of Marvel pajama bottoms I have resting on top of all my clothing. “Because those are sacred.”

She shakes with silent laughter. “Don't worry. I won't risk your precious pants.”

“You wouldn't have to worry if you'd packed more than one purse.”

“It's a
tote
. It's bigger than a purse.”

“And it's gone.”

She narrows her watery eyes at me. “You shouldn't make fun of someone who may be broken.” She gestures to her nose, and I see the faded lines from her glasses on her skin. Oh yeah. Gotta find those.

“Well, if it's broken, you won't be able to smell the funk coming off me.”

“Silver linings.”

I smirk and push at her hip a little to check under the seat behind her. My fingers tumble over the frames and I have to press the side of my head into her shoulder to get a good grip on them. They're still intact, just a little fuzzy. I wipe them off with the clean shirt I handed to her.

“Toss me a fresh roll, would you?” Shay points to the toilet paper. I tear off a piece and fold it before handing it over. Thankfully there's a trash bin right by my butt, so we can dispose of the bloody mess.

Shay's nose has stopped draining, but her upper lip is stained. She swipes at it, but the dry paper isn't gonna do shit.

I reach over her and pull down the fold-out sink. She wrinkles her nose at my armpit in her face. A small laugh rolls through my stomach as I wet a thick piece of toilet paper.

“Let me see,” I say, tapping on her chin. She flattens her top lip over her teeth so I can wipe the blood off better. Her eyes flick to the ceiling, and I take my time, being gentle with the strokes in case she really did break something.

“I'm such a mess,” she whispers, the air snapping around us.

“I'm getting it,” I promise her. She drops her eyes, meeting my gaze, and her fingers come up to wrap around my wrist. Softly, slowly, she drags my hand away from her mouth.

“No, I mean, I'm a mess. Can't even get us going without injuring myself.”

I chuck the toilet paper in the trash with a smirk. “Hey, we're on the train, aren't we?”

She rolls her eyes, and I give her the red-framed glasses. After settling them in place, she slowly puts her hands on the seats behind her and pushes herself up. I follow because she looks wobbly on her feet, but that could be the movement of the train, which isn't exactly pleasant.

“I'm fine,” she says before plopping into one of the seats. She grabs the fresh T-shirt. “Turn around, please?”

“Not gonna let me watch?” I tease as I turn my back to her. Crouching down, I find myself trying to locate a reflective surface. But I screw my head back on before I search too hard.

Shay tosses the bloody shirt at me and I stuff it into the laundry bag in my suitcase. She makes a huffy noise, and I don't mean to, but I glance over my shoulder.

The shirt's on, but the sleeveless holes hang lower on her tiny frame, showing off her red bra.

And my brain…jumps ship.

“I don't think this one's going to work,” she says with a laugh. I think I laugh too. But it probably comes out like Elmer Fudd.

“That's a red bra,” I blurt. Something glugs in my stomach, and at first I think it's Shay and the sensations I'm experiencing with her suddenly jumping up to a whole new level. But the train lurches, and I realize that it's that cheese wiener I ate earlier, and it's barking pretty loudly.

She pulls at the sleeve holes and blows out a breath at her exposed skin. I blink and push back whatever part of my stomach is rushing up my throat.

“Can I ruin it?”

“Huh?”

“The shirt.”

I can't think, but I manage a half smile at her. “It's inevitable, right?”

She gives me one short nod and grabs at the fabric dangling off her arm. “Turn around again?”

I wonder if she can tell I'm not doing so well. I hold on to the wall, close my eyes, and try to ignore the way the floor jostles everything in my gut.

A loud
riiiip
sounds through the cabin, and I let out a tiny laugh that stops as soon as it starts, since I don't want to spew everywhere.

“You owe me a couple of shirts now,” I mutter.

“When I get you that contract, I'll buy you a closet full of ugly T-shirts.”

“I pull them off.”

“I'm surprised you didn't show up in one at the premiere.”

I nod and blow a breath at the floor. “Landon got away with it.”

“Yes, but he's got an image now. He's the director with the baseball cap, graphic tees, and on fancy occasions a sports jacket. That works for him.”

“Hate to break it to you, but he's taken.” I hear another tear as she rips more of my shirt. “What are you doing exactly?”

“Tying the sides so they fit.”

I almost tell her that she could probably tear it in half and it would still be too big, but the train keeps on chugging, and I end up asking, “You almost done? I gotta sit down.”

“Give me one more sec…”

Ten thousand years later, during which my stomach acid tsunamis into my throat and is forced down every few seconds, Shay tells me she's good, and I plop into the seat opposite her, pinching my nose and tilting my head back.

“You okay?” she asks. I can feel her shifting around, but I don't dare open my eyes just yet.

“Motion sickness. It'll go away when I get used to it.”
Hopefully
. I get nauseous on planes, but they even out and stop wiggling unless there's wicked turbulence. The tracks feel like mile-high speed bumps at this point. And I gotta suck it up because we have a long way to go.

Shay's knees bump into mine slightly, and she lets out a strangled breath.

“Can you help me with this?” she asks. I manage to open my eyes enough to see that she's ripped the side seams and tied them together in close knots, covering the skin along her ribs. I still see her red bra strap on one shoulder because the neck is loose. She wiggles in her seat, moving her stray and tangled hair out of the way and bundling the fabric in the back.

“Tie a knot for me? Make sure it's tight so my boobs don't fall out.”

“We could probably get free food if they did.” I reach out and pull the fabric. The small of her back makes an appearance, and I get sick for a whole different reason.

“You're completely green in the face and you still manage to make stupid jokes.”