Chapter 3 #2
And if I’m being honest, I’ve always been comfortable with my body.
I believe that you should be comfortable with your body, regardless of how you look.
If you are not, you should work on your mind, or your body, or both.
Some people would probably be self-conscious with a little pouch for a belly and thick thighs.
But me? I like my curves, and my stomach is a little heavier than I would have wanted, but it’s still cute.
I am still at a normal body weight, just on the heavier side of it.
I like the fact that I have a round ass and that my weight usually gets distributed across my body.
If I gain weight, I gain it everywhere. If I lose it, it’s everywhere too.
I like that. Men usually like my body too.
At the end of the day, self-love is all that matters, though.
I am comfortable in my skin, and that’s all I need.
“I saw the messages,” Noah speaks over the sound of the water as I try to wash my hair.
“What messages?” I shout back, but I know exactly which messages, now that I’m more awake.
The little fucker turned on my phone while I was sleeping.
I knew giving him my password was a bad idea.
I gave him the damn PIN for emergencies.
The “I died, and he needs to clean my web history, messages, and photos”-type of emergency.
Like a good friend should. Because if your best friend dies, it’s your duty to clean their phone, dispose of it, burn it, or throw it off a cliff.
Do whatever you can for their image to remain intact for their family and not-so-close friends.
That and maybe disposing of their spicy toy collection.
Those should be the two tasks a best friend should have in case their friend dies.
Destroy their phone, dispose of their toys.
That’s why giving your best friend your phone password is important.
Noah somehow decided it’s also his job to monitor my fucking messages with the biker I kidnapped.
“The ones from someone saved in your contacts as ‘Biker Boy’.” What was I supposed to save him as? I didn’t know his name. It wasn’t like I had the time to ask. I was too busy trying to explain how he got here. Well, he did most of the explaining. I was mostly contemplating my life choices.
“What about those?” I play the dumb bitch role as I step out of the shower and put on my bathrobe.
I go to the mirror and realize I don’t have time for much, and right now I don’t look like someone you would trust with your nails.
I wouldn’t even trust myself to hold a pen without losing it, the way I look.
I grab the blow-dryer from under my sink and plug it into the wall.
Maybe the sound will drown out the conversation enough for me to figure out a good answer.
“How did he find your phone number, Rachel?” Noah yells over the sound, and I was wrong.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” He comes up behind me and snatches the blow-dryer from my hand.
He motions for me to turn my head upside down as he dries my hair.
The perks of having a best friend who is also your hairstylist. My curls have never looked better since Noah became a hairstylist. He has always been and will always be eager to do my hair, even when he’s mad at me.
He’s the type of friend who would drive to my house while sick just to do my hair before a date.
“I don’t know, Noah,” I admit. “I didn’t give him my number if that’s what you’re asking.” Who kidnaps a guy and then leaves him a number to make sure the guy has all the information to give to the cops?
“Fine, let’s say I believe you,” Noah spits back as if he has any other choice.
I do not, in fact, know his name. It’s not a lie.
“How did he find your phone number?” he repeats like a broken record.
This is a mystery even to me. I don’t know how this guy found my number, and even though part of me is kind of concerned about it, another part feels flattered.
He went through the whole process of finding my number and messaging me; this isn’t princess treatment; this is the bare minimum, yet it’s more than most guys will do.
It is a little creepy, yes, but it is also fucking amazing that he was interested enough for him to search for my number.
“I have no idea, Noah,” I repeat. This time Noah accepts the answer. It’s the truth, after all.
“That’s not good,” he murmurs, loud enough for me to hear over the sound of the blow-dryer.
I choose to ignore the statement and let Noah continue working on my hair.
The curl pattern is dull today. I didn’t have time to do my usual shower routine, with Noah yelling outside my bathroom and the fact that we were already late.
He turns the blow-dryer off, and I look in the mirror.
I look less crazy than before; this will have to do.
I gather my hair in a messy bun and unplug the blow-dryer before I drop it in the basket under my sink.
I open the top drawer and grab a clear lip gloss and some mascara.
I carefully coat my lashes with the dark color and pass the little brush that comes with the lip gloss over my lips.
I still look like hell, but now I would trust myself with at least a plant.
That’s the best result I’ll get today. Noah just looks at me from his previous spot at the door, arms folded as if he is inspecting his work.
He hates when I throw my hair in a bun after he has done all the work to fix it for me, but this time he stays silent.
He doesn’t argue. Probably because it is clear that this is the best that can be done today without causing me a mental breakdown.
Having long, curly hair can sometimes be a bitch, even with an in-house hairdresser on call.
I walk out of the bathroom, ignoring Noah, who’s once again following me, and head for my bedroom.
I go to my walk-in closet and head straight for the drawer where my uniform clothes are.
I pick up a black T-shirt with my name on it as a printed name tag and the Danielle’s Salon logo on the back.
I open the drawer under it and grab the first pair of panties and a bra that doesn’t match, but again, this is as close to a normal human being as I’m going to get today.
And that’s okay. You don’t always need to look perfect.
Sometimes you just need to settle for semi-human mode.
As long as I can do my job and I am there, no one should really care.
Then I move to where my pants are hanging.
I take the first black pair of jeans I see and move back to the main bedroom area.
Noah is sitting on my bed, the wheels in his head turning as he clearly tries to figure out how Biker Boy got my number.
“Maybe you knew him from somewhere, and you don’t remember.
You could have someone you know in common and he asked them for your number,” he shares his thoughts as I place the clothes on the bed and drop my bathrobe on the floor.
I put on the panties first and then the bra, securing the clasp on my back.
I continue dressing, putting on the T-shirt first before I finish with the pants.
“Maybe,” I say as I locate the shoes I wore yesterday on the floor next to my vanity.
I slide my feet into the boots and zip them up while Noah is considering my response.
This is not a possibility—I would know if I had seen this guy before—but right now I need him to focus on something else.
Anything else. Because my friend would worry if he knew the guy couldn’t have found my number from a mutual friend.
It’s less creepy than the reality. I don’t know how he got my number, but it can’t be a good thing that he was able to find it so quickly.
He will try to conjure up scenarios that have me dead in a ditch or worse.
Maybe that’s a possibility, and a sane person would be worried about their safety, but I welcome the change of pace from my boring life.
A little danger never hurt anyone, right?
I walk out of the room and shout out to Noah, who’s too busy worrying to notice. “Are you coming?”
By the time I go downstairs and find my phone, bag, and keys, he appears. He hurries down the stairs and toward the door, stopping next to me. We’re both looking at my door, as if it’s going to solve the problem on its own.
“I think you might need a repairman,” Noah comments, looking at the door.
“Noah, shut up,” I bark back as I reach to touch the door.
“Okay, help me move it,” I say, trying to open it, but it falls on me.
I press with both hands against the wooden surface, keeping it upright the best I can, while Noah helps me slide it to the side until it lies against the wall.
I’m surprised I was able to keep it closed with the bolt for the night.
“How did you even leave last night?” I turn to Noah, confused about how he managed to leave, come back, and keep the door half-closed when the slightest movement made it collapse on me.
“I used the back door in your kitchen. I didn’t want to risk this happening.” Smart man. Apparently, I’m not that smart.
“How are we supposed to leave with the door open like that?” Noah questions. Good question, buddy. I don’t know. “It’s like you’re inviting burglars to come take whatever they like.”