Chapter 13 – Amanda
Thirteen
Amanda
A dmonishing him doesn't work. Ethan clearly intends to watch me shower. He leans up against a wall of the small bathroom and stares at me before I take my clothes off. No instructions necessary. My confusion and disgust with him heightens. It's in my best interests to stay neutral with Ethan and keep a clear head, but so far, this appears to be downright impossible.
I shouldn't be shy about taking my clothes off and getting in the shower. But I sense removing my clothes in front of Ethan will change our dynamic in a way I'm unprepared for. I was foolish to believe that he possessed ZERO attraction to me. He clearly experiences... something.
I can't tell if it's attraction or curiosity.
"I can help you shower if you forgot how," Ethan says, giving me a smug little smile when I glare at him. Not only will stripping change the dynamic between us, I suspect showing him my body will only add to his power here.
My efforts to regain some semblance of control by promising him help with the one thing he needs have barely worked to give me any additional real power.
Screaming for help would just call Deborah over for... nothing. And risk pissing Ethan off more.
My clothes are absolutely filthy.
"I don't have anything to change into," I warn him before lifting the edges of my shirt.
"You'll wear my clothes. Obviously."
"I'm half your size."
"No one here will judge your style choices, Amanda. Trust me."
Amanda. Not Dr. Yancey. The familiarity adds to my nervousness, though I suspect he meant for it to calm me down.
I can't drag out my pain any longer. I take my shirt off and ignore the almost-wolf-whistle Ethan suppresses. I don't even have to look at him to know that his eyes are glued to my boobs. Any woman who developed early with the double-edged sword of huge boobs has this instinctive sense for men staring at their chest.
He doesn't care if I catch him.
Worse.
"You have nice tits for a therapist."
"Are therapists supposed to be flat-chested?"
I shouldn't dignify him with a response, but I have to take my leggings off next, adding to my apprehension.
"With a rack like that, you shouldn't have to work a day in your life."
"Some women enjoy working and don't want to use their breasts as an excuse to have no control over their lives."
He chuckles. "Funny."
"What's funny about it?"
"You sound like some sort of feminist."
Hoping it will turn him off, I respond quickly, "So what if I am some sort of feminist?"
Men call any woman who carves a path outside of their bullshit a "feminist". After years of failed dating experiences, I'm well accustomed to men lobbing the word at me like it's a slur to give a crap about what happens to yourself and others who share your gender.
"It doesn't matter if you are," Ethan responds calmly. "It won't change how good my dick will feel inside you."
When I glare at him and see him smiling like a maniac, I realize that I fell for the whole point of his teasing. I turn away from him and slide my leggings off. Giving him a full view of my ass might not be the best coping mechanism, but if I have to look at the country boy's face, I might just spit on him.
He's bringing out Amanda from Chicago instead of Dr. Yancey, although I won't pretend like we weren't some of the fancier black folks in my neighborhood. I still had to throw hands a couple times. Having a little money never stopped people from making fun of my skin color (too dark), my hair (too nappy), or my interests (too academic and nerdy).
I experience instant regret once my leggings hit the floor.
"Hot fucking damn," Ethan says, groaning as his head touches the tiled walls with a thud.
"Close your eyes and think of baseball," I respond sarcastically as I brace myself for his reaction to shedding my underwear next.
"No," he says. "This is like Christmas coming early. Perfect tits and a nice big ass."
"You know I can hear you, right?"
"Yes," Ethan says, punctuating his response with a boyish and irritating chuckle. "It'll help you to know what type of effect your ass has on me."
I can't take it anymore, I turn to throw my balled up leggings at him, but he catches them deftly and presses the crotch straight up to his nose, taking a big, purposeful whiff of the fabric that spent so many hours lodged between my sweaty crevices.
Men are disgusting.
"It smells like pussy," Ethan says, taking a second big whiff, like he's proving a point. I don't dignify that comment with a response either, but when I turn the shower water on, he can't accept the fact that I'm ignoring him.
"Take those panties off next," Ethan says. "I need something to sniff on while you get clean."
He wants to make me glare at him. I turn to face him, glaring the way he wants, but punishing him by crossing my arms over my chest so he can't use the opportunity to leer at my boobs.
"Advice as a therapist," I snap at him, sounding very much like a pissed off woman instead of a calm, collected therapist. "Talking to women like this is a great way to end up single and dying alone."
"I'm thirty-seven and haven't had a girlfriend since my twenties. That ship sailed, sweet cheeks."
Ew. Why does he have to call me sweet cheeks? Ethan presses my leggings to his nose again. I roll my eyes and turn around, unhooking my bra instead of the panties he just begged me to sniff.
He can still look at my ass like this, but what little power I can take back denying him a full view of everything means the world to me. I have one more article of clothing to go before I unpin my hair and step beneath the water. My curls desperately need a finger-detangle and some moisture so they stop laying flat and making crazy poofy shapes on the side of my head.
My fingers hesitate as they hook around the waistband of my underwear. I won't make the mistake of tossing these at Ethan. If he wants to sniff my panties, he'll have to get them himself.
I allow my underwear to drop to the floor and Ethan doesn't react - at first. I fidget with the shower door and the second I gain a false sense of security and convince myself he was only joking about the panties, he makes his demands.
"Hand those panties right over, sweet cheeks."
Again with the 'sweet cheeks'. Ugh. Most terms of endearment are beyond corny, but knowing that Ethan is most definitely talking about my ass cheeks just makes it worse.
"Don't call me that," I grumble, giving a boundary in a situation where boundaries seem futile. I pick my underwear off the floor and throw it at him.
"Enjoy the shit stains."
I obviously don't shit in my underwear or let it streak around, but I have limited options to turn this man off me entirely. Ethan ignores me except for the loud, dramatic sniffing noises he makes once his fingers clutch my panties.
That white boy is nasty as fuck.
I take one step into the shower and shut the door, pretending it isn't see-through and that I have some semblance of privacy. Water splashes against my skin and heat spreads through me as I allow the water to soak in.
I don't even care about Ethan being gross with my panties on the other side of the door. I needed this shower to wash the road off, to wash off what happened in Boston and to exercise the slightest amount of self-care in the strangest situation I've ever been in.
I wonder if I called the wrong person when I called Mallory. She's fine and if I think about it, she has the tools necessary to handle herself. I should have called Keyshawn.
Months ago when she reached out to me, she mentioned involvement with some bikers that I brushed off as my crazy cousin's tendency to get sucked into the wildest situations.
Would she know what to do? I know she made it to safety, but she never told me what happened with her and that biker. Shit, I didn't think those conversations would foreshadow a biker experience of my own.
I let the water soak my curls, untangling the abstract shapes into a thick, flowing head of managed messiness. It took me forever to get this much length in my hair and as I get soaked, I feel the smells of the highway disappearing down the drain along with the dust and grime.
I need this shower to last, so I lather myself slowly and pretend Ethan isn't watching. I don't know what he'll do to me once I'm done, but considering how deep he buried his nose in my panties, I'll have to remind him to keep his word.
Two weeks no gambling. If he wants to press that nose anywhere else, he'll have to stay clean.
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