Nothing More (4 page)

Great . . . now she's in here, too. I reach for the ripped curtain and pull it over my naked body. Could this get any worse? I look at both girls and nod, trying to catch my breath. My cheeks are on fire and I would rather disappear into a pile of dog shit than be curled up in the bathtub, naked, with one leg hanging over the edge. I push my free arm down onto the wet floor of the tub and try to pull myself up.

Sophia pushes past Tessa and grabs hold of my arm to help me.
Someone kill me.
She quickly tucks her brown hair behind her ears and uses both hands to pull me up.
Please kill me.
I try to keep the curtain covering my inappropriate bits, but it falls just as I stand up. I reach down and grab it again, just as nonchalantly as I can manage.

Anyone listening out there? If you won't kill me, at least make me disappear. I'm begging you.

Sophia's brown eyes have a green tint to them that I hadn't noticed before. Or maybe they don't and I'm just dazed from the fall. I look away from her, but I can still feel her eyes on me. I try to focus on the toe of her shoes: they're brown and pointy and remind me of the shoes Hardin always wears.

“You steady now?” Sophia raises one dark brow.

Could I be any more embarrassed? I don't think so. It wouldn't be humanly possible. Thirty seconds ago, I was masturbating in my shower and now I'm naked and embarrassed. This entire ordeal would be hysterical if it were happening to someone else.

Sophia's still looking at me, and it dawns on me that I haven't answered her question.

“Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine.” I sound even smaller than I feel.

“Don't be embarrassed,” she says quietly.

I shake my head. “I'm not,” I lie, and turn my chin down and force a laugh. The worst way to make someone feel less embarrassed is to tell them not to be embarrassed.

Tessa looks at me with concern and is about to say something when a loud beeping noise pierces the air, making me flinch.

Could this get any worse?

“The chocolate is burning!” Tessa shrieks, and disappears from the bathroom, and the room feels even more compact than usual. The mirror is foggy and everything's dewy and Sophia's still in here. She smiles and her finger touches the center of my stomach, just above my belly button, with long, black nails.

I like the way they look, touching me. Dakota never has long nails because of dance. She complained about it often, but she loves dance more than nail art, so natural nails it is.

“You shouldn't be.” The compliment comes out as a purr and my body responds. Sophia's finger is still making a slow line down my stomach, and I'm confused, but I don't want her to stop. Her fingers draw along the bottom of my stomach, just above where the curtain is covering enough for my cock not to show. My mind is trying to figure out why she's touching me like this while I'm simultaneously trying to keep my cock soft.

I don't know her that well, but I do know that she's much bolder than the girls my age that I've met. She doesn't have a problem cussing out the television during
Master Chef
, and she clearly doesn't have a problem touching my soaking, naked body. The trail of hair from my belly button down to my groin seems to be entertaining her as she brushes the tip of her index finger over it.

Did she say something?
Ah, yes, she did. She said, “You shouldn't be.”

When did the smoke alarm stop beeping?

What does she mean by that? I shouldn't be embarrassed?
I nearly busted my ass in the bathroom while jerking off and was found naked on the shower floor.

Of course
I'm embarrassed. And just like that, the spell of whatever she's doing is weakened and self-consciousness creeps back in.

I look at her, at the reflection of her dark hair in the foggy mirror.

“Thanks,” I weakly reply. I clear my throat and continue: “I took quite a tumble.” I laugh, getting closer to finding the humor in the whole thing.

Her eyes are warm and her finger is still touching me, slowly tracing and teasing. It's not awkward, but I don't know what to say or do. Before I have to decide, she pulls away with a smile.

I turn from her with flushed cheeks and wipe my hand across the mirror. She stands still, her back against the towel rack. I stare at my reflection and wince when my finger touches a small but deep cut just above my eye. A trickle of blood is running down my forehead, I reach behind Sophia and grab a hand towel, dabbing at the torn skin while I make myself a promise to never try to get off in a tiny shower unless I'm wearing armor or something. I apply as much pressure as I can stand to get the bleeding to stop.

With Sophia still in the bathroom, should I be making conversation with her or something? I don't know what to think about her touching me. I don't know the etiquette when it comes to things like this. Is this the norm for young, single people?

I've only had one girlfriend ever up until now, so I can't pretend to know about this type of thing. I can't pretend to know what this girl is thinking, or what she wants. I hardly know anything about her.

I met her back in Washington briefly, when her family moved in near my mom and Ken. I know that she's a few years older than me, and that she likes her friends to call her by her middle name, Nora, which is something I constantly screw up only to have Tessa correct me with a scowl. I know that she always smells like sugar and candy. I know that she comes over a lot because she doesn't like her roommates. I know that she keeps Tessa company when I can't, and somehow they have become friends over the last few months. That's pretty much it. It sounds like a lot when I list it out, but all of those things are superficial, nothing more. Oh yeah, she just graduated from culinary school and works at the same restaurant as Tessa.

And now I can add that she likes to touch naked, wet stomachs.

I look away from the mirror and back at her.

“Are you staying to make sure I don't have a concussion?” I ask.

She nods, giving me a toothy smile. The corners of her eyes crinkle up and her lips look incredibly plump, especially when she licks over them with her tongue. Wet lips and those eyes . . . she's lethal.

She knows it.

I know it.

Obama knows it.

She's the kind of woman that will chew you up and spit you out, and you'll love every minute of it. Her index finger is tapping on her bottom lip and I'm still quiet. She can't be hitting on me? I'm confused. Not complaining, just confused.

“I appreciate your concern,” I say with a wink.
Did I really just do that?

I look away quickly, horrified that my stupid brain would have me do such a dumb thing. Winking? I'm not the winking type of guy, and I'm pretty sure that I just looked like the biggest creep. Ever.

Nora's eyes meet mine, and her lips part. She steps toward me, closing the admittedly small gap between us with one stride. My body reacts and I retreat, my lower back resting against the sink.

“You're so cute,” she says softly, and her eyes roam over my chest once again.

The word
cute
stings a little coming from someone who oozes sex appeal. From the curve of her lips to the curve of her hips, she's pure desire. I'm always the cute one, the nice one. No woman has ever fantasized about me or called me sexy.

Nora lifts her hand toward my face and I flinch slightly, wondering if she's going to slap me for imagining her naked more than once. But she doesn't slap me, probably because she can't actually read my mind despite how exposed I feel. She raises her finger to the tip of my nose, and taps it. I close my eyes in surprise, and when I open them, she's already turning away.

Without a word, she leaves the bathroom and walks into the hallway.

I rub my hand over my face, wanting to erase the last five minutes . . . although maybe keep the last two.

When I hear Tessa ask her if I'm okay, I roll my head back, take a breath, and close the door, clicking the lock into place. The shower curtain is destroyed and the tiny room looks like it's been hit by a tornado. The plastic rings from the curtain are scattered across the floor, the bottles of shampoo and Tessa's body soap are all over the place. As I clean them up, I can't help but start to laugh at this whole thing. Of course this would happen to me.

The clothes I brought into the bathroom with me are wet; the shirt has a huge water spot on the back, but the shorts aren't too bad. I pull them on and grab the wet clothes to take into my room. My dark hair is drying now; only the roots are still wet. I rake Tessa's purple hairbrush over my scalp and use a comb over the little bit of facial hair I've been growing lately. Her vanilla lotion is a little greasy, but it smells good and I always forget to buy my own. Luckily, there's a Band-Aid in the cabinet, and I stick it over my cut.

Of course it's not just a normal Band-Aid: Tessa bought
Frozen
-themed Band-Aids.

Yay. It just keeps getting better.

When I step into the hallway, Nora's laugh is as loud as Tessa is silent. She hasn't laughed since she moved here. It bothers me, but I've learned that she needs to deal with this breakup on her own terms, so I don't push her. She's not one to take other people's advice, especially when it comes to Hardin. And somehow, thinking of him reminds me I have a shift tomorrow morning. Crap. Which means I need to get up early tomorrow so I can run, so I toss my clothes into the laundry basket in the hall and walk to the kitchen to get some water and say good night to the girls. You know, try to reestablish some normalcy. A nothing-to-see-here moment to end the night on.

Tessa is sitting on the couch with her feet propped up on a pillow and Nora is lying on the rug with a pillow under her head and my yellow-and-maroon Gryffindor house blanket wrapping her up like a burrito. I glance at the TV:
Cupcake Wars
. The usual. These women watch nothing but the Food Network and the teen dramas on Freeform. Admittedly, I do like some of those shows. The one about the teenage demon-hunters is my favorite. That, and the foster-family one.

“You guys need anything from the kitchen?” I ask, stepping over Nora's fuzzy-sock-covered toes peeping out of the bottom of the blanket.

“Water, please.” Tessa leans up and pauses the show. A woman with curly black hair is frozen on the screen, mouth wide open and hands in the air. She's stressed over burned cakes or something.

“Do you have anything besides water?” Nora asks.

“This isn't a grocery store,” Tessa teases. Nora pulls the pillow from under her head and tosses it at her.

And Tess smiles, actually nearly laughing before catching herself. It's too bad. She has a great laugh.

Besides Gatorade, I don't know what we have in the fridge, but I hold up my finger and go to check it out. Inside the fridge, rows of bottles are lined up perfectly. Yes, Tessa even organizes our fridge, and it turns out that we have a lot to offer a thirsty soul other than water.

“Gatorade, sweetened iced tea, orange juice!” I call out.

I jump when Sophia's voice comes at me from up close. “Ew. I hate Gatorade, except the blue one,” she says as if she's personally offended by my favorite drink.

“Ew? How can you say that, Sophia?” I give her a disbelieving look and rest one arm on the open fridge door.

“Easily.” She smiles, leaning against the counter. “And stop calling me Sophia—if I have to tell you again, I'm going to call you George Strait every time I see you.”

“George Strait?” I can't hide my laughter. “Out of every name you could have said, that was one . . . well, that's just random.”

She's laughing, too, a soft laugh with sharp eyes. It suits her.

Nora-not-Sophia shrugs her shoulders. “George's my go-to.”

I remind myself to look up George Strait to see what he looks like. I'm sure I've seen him before, but I haven't listened to country since I was a kid.

Nora's hair is in a ponytail now; long curls cover one shoulder and she's wearing a cutoff shirt, exposing her stomach and skintight capri leggings. To be honest, before, I was too busy concentrating on
my
exposed skin to really notice hers.

Is she flirting with me? I can't tell. Dakota always teased me about being clueless when it came to the advances of women. I like to think of it as uncontaminated, not inexperienced. If I were hip to all the possible advances, I would probably turn into one of those guys who are obsessed with how women perceive them. I would question everything I said or did. I might even become one of the dudes who soak their hair with gel, spiking the ends like that guy from the
Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives
show Tessa and Nora watched last night. I don't want to hide my sci-fi books or pretend that I can't recite every Harry Potter movie line for line. I don't want to try to be cool. I'm pretty sure I'll never be cool. I've never been cool, and I'm okay with that. Besides, I would rather not compete with the millions of perfect men out there and would instead keep my books on my shelves and maybe get lucky enough to find a woman who likes them, too.

Not having any blue Gatorade, I try to tempt her with my favorite, the red one. “You're so quiet,” Nora says when I hand her the bottle. She examines it, raises a brow, and shakes her head.

I stay quiet.

“Better this than water, I suppose.” Her voice is soft, not demanding at all, despite the fact that she has a serious Gatorade-hating problem. My mind curiously wonders what other opinions she has. Are there any other sugar-saturated drinks that she holds unnecessary grudges against? I find myself wanting to know. While I'm preparing in advance my defense of all my favorite drinks that she might hate, she twists the top from the red bottle and takes a drink.

After a moment, she says, “Eh.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another swig as she turns to walk away.