Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Bailey?” I don’t answer right away because I’m much too busy doing a full-on Alvin Ailey modern dance routine in my head.
My eyes fall on the tattoo on the outside of his calf. They slow-climb up his tanned legs, get past the long gray basketball shorts, skim over the black t-shirt, and reach his messy brown hair.
“Bailey,” he repeats more forcefully and this time my gaze snaps back to his face. His brow quirks and his mouth lifts into a weak smile.
“I was justlookingforthebathroom,” comes out a hot freaking mess.
This night is quickly descending into black comedy territory. I sound like a breathless twelve-year-old speaking to her first crush and he’s looking at me like I just grew a dildo in the middle of my forehead––familiar but at the same time out of context and confusing.
Reagan points to a door within his room. “You can use mine.”
Only now do I note where I am. And his bedroom is swank. Dark contemporary designer furniture instead of Ikea and hand-me-downs. Silky gray linens. Trophies lined up on top of a built-in bookcase…a bookcase. Wow. I don’t know anyone who lives this well, let alone a college student. “You live here?”
“Seems I do,” he replies flatly, his expression missing the carefree teasing smirk he usually wears. I should leave, turn around and excuse myself. That’s the smart thing to do. “Are you going to stand there acting weird all night, or are you coming in?”
I hop inside and gently shut the door behind me because, you know, I like to torture myself for a good time. “I’m not acting weird,” I say, hiding behind an annoyed tone. This profoundly witty comeback is followed by a sixty-second stare-off, which I end by hopping as quickly as I can to the bathroom.
I’m acting weird.
The bathroom is about as big as my entire dorm room. Maybe even bigger. And tidier––I’m ashamed to admit. I do my business, and afterward, simply because I cannot help myself, I trample his privacy by conducting a thorough examination of his personal items.
The cologne he uses is French and expensive. I take the top off, sniff. It smells like cedarwood and musk. The perfect blend designed to transform the entire female population into a pack of panting sex zombies.
His toothpaste is the whitening kind. Hey! Same one I use, I think to myself and officially flirt with rock bottom on the pathetic scale.
The designer shampoo is a brand you can only get at a department store. And last but not least, a pack of magnum condoms––ribbed for her pleasure. I shake the box and determine it’s still full.
Thy name is shameless.
After running the faucet to cover my tracks, I step out of the bathroom and find him sitting up against the padded headboard.
“Did you look through my stuff?” His smile is lazy and one-sided
“Hate to be the one to let the air out of your ego bag, but you’re not that interesting, Reynolds.” What’s left of my conscience tells me I’m going to pay for this disgusting lie at a later date.
My attention follows Reagan’s back to the television screen and any lingering amusement I was feeling over my snooping dies a sudden death when I see what’s playing. A home movie with the sound muted. Two young and very tan boys shove each other playfully as they stand at the edge of a backyard pool. They dive in and race head-to-head in an American crawl.
“My brother…” he tells me in a low husky voice. He has eyes only for the television. “Brian was eleven and I was eight.” Raising the longneck beer bottle to his lips, he drinks. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Have a seat.”
I slow-hop to his enormous bed and sit on the foot of it, back erect. The crutch falls to the floor and a hiss of satisfaction leaves my lips as I rub my aching armpit, the left one still bruised.
I can feel him watching me. The back of my head burns as if I’ve developed supernatural sensors for him.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find his head tipped back against the navy blue padded headboard and his blank stare moves from my ass, which is directly in his line of sight, up to my face.
“You’re not in danger, Bailey. Take a load off that ankle.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“Only because you’re not driving.” He winces and I immediately regret my shitty joke.
I feel stupid declining. I’m the one that barged in and intruded in his sacred space, his bedroom. Playing the role of the virgin ingénue seems kind of dumb. So after a moment of indecisiveness, I scoot up and stretch out my legs, mirroring his position against the headboard. I’ll be twenty-one in a month. I’m a college junior. I can vote, for Pete’s sake. I can be cool about this.