Nine
U nder different circumstances, I’d already be snooping.
Krystal left me in her living room to grab alcohol wipes from the bathroom when she discovered the first aid kit she bought didn’t have any. My eyes roam over everything in sight—the hanging potted plant by the front door, the TV stand with shelves displaying a small collection of books and DVDs. But it’s the white stand in the corner that takes up the most space. A record player is placed on top of it, while a vinyl collection is housed on the two shelves beneath it. From the looks of it, there isn’t a single inch of free space.
I scoot over the arm of the sofa for a peek at the record still sitting in the player. Selena’s Dreaming of You . I nod to myself even as I wonder at the rest of her collection. Who are her favorite artists? What songs does she lose herself in when no one else is around?
“I’m back.” Krystal waves the bottle of rubbing alcohol in the air. “Let’s look at that knee first.”
“I was really hoping you wouldn’t be able to find any.” I let out a groan, already anticipating the stinging pain. I know it’ll be ten times worse than the stinging pain I’m already feeling. Now that I’m thinking clearly again, I’m completely mortified. I can’t believe I crash-landed in the street and she had to come to my rescue. She probably thinks I’m an idiot. I am an idiot. What was I thinking, riding a bike when the last one I rode still had training wheels on it? And to ruin the flannel she let me borrow too.
“Can’t you just throw a Band-Aid on me and send me home? I’m ashamed of myself enough as it is.”
“No way.” She kneels down on the carpet until she’s eye level with my scraped knee. “I’m nursing you back to health, and I’m doing this right. I’m the reason you crashed in the first place.”
“ Ouch. Ow ow ow!” Every muscle in my body tenses as she pours a bit from the bottle directly onto my bloodied skin. She didn’t even warn me first. After a heavy breath, I say, “Don’t blame yourself. I haven’t ridden a bike since I was nine. Even then, it was more of a tricycle.” I wince again, tensing so hard my shoulder starts aching again.
“My flannel didn’t do you any favors either.” She meets my eyes. “I’m sorry about that, Angel. You have no idea how sorry I am.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I tell her, because she hasn’t smiled once since that strained one as she helped me into her car. Even then, I’m convinced it was for my benefit. “You were trying to keep me warm.”
Once my knee is covered with a large, square bandage, she rises to her feet. “Turn for me.”
I lean forward on the couch, turning to give her a better view of my injured shoulder. Gently, her fingers curl beneath my sleeve to carefully extract the fabric from the wound. I wince all over again, this pain somehow worse than the rubbing alcohol.
“It’s too low.” Her breath warms my skin, the crook of my neck. I shiver from the proximity, at the way the feeling warms my entire body. I haven’t felt anything like this before. No, that’s a lie. I’m only used to it under the cover of night, as I run through an assortment of fantasies in my mind that I’ve collected and sorted from various places.
Being asexual doesn’t mean I’m repulsed or even averse to the idea of sex. Au contraire. Sex, at least in the abstract, has always been something that interests me, which is part of what made figuring out my identity even harder. It’s just that when I fantasize about sex, I never imagine myself in that way. The bodies I imagine are usually nameless and faceless. Once, after a weekend binge session of One Tree Hill , Sophia Bush made a cameo.
As far as micro labels go, aegosexual has been the best fit for me. For aces with a regular to high sex drive, we’re often aroused by sex acts in porn or smut or even just a particular sexual fantasy that looks good in our heads, with little to no desire to actually engage in sex ourselves. It was the first label to explain my relationship to sex, but I hesitate to call it a perfect fit ( Hello, Sophia Bush, what are you doing here? ). But if there’s anything I’ve learned about labels, it’s that there’s always room for fluidity and change when something no longer fits like it once did.
Only now, with Krystal’s warm breath on my skin igniting parts of me only porn, smutty romance books, and Sophia Bush have previously been able to, I’ve never felt more… fluid.
Even more when she says, “You’re gonna have to take this off.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, the sound so loud that it takes a second for the request to register that there’s nothing sexual in nature about it. Even still, that doesn’t stop a flare of heat from warming my cheeks. I want to fan myself, or at the very least wipe away the sweat beading my forehead, but I don’t want to call more attention to the irregular temperature my body has taken.
“Is that really necessary?”
“I’m not going to be able to clean it otherwise.” Her eyes skate over me carefully. “You could get an infection.”
Without thinking too hard about what I’m doing, I pull the hem of my shirt up in one fast motion, only stopping when the part stuck to my shoulder refuses to budge. My vision goes dark as white-hot pain overcomes me, and I let out a loud screech as the fabric begins to slowly and painstakingly unstick from my skin.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Her voice is soothing as her arms circle me, cool fingers carefully extracting the remaining fabric stuck to the wound. “This is gonna hurt. Take in a deep breath for me, Angel.”
I do as she says, breathing into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent the way I’ve wanted to all day and I can’t even enjoy it. She tugs the fabric up with a gentle but firm hand, doing everything in her power to lessen my pain. I grit my teeth until the shirt is peeled from my skin completely, and the only layer covering my torso is a black lace bralette.
I’ve always been self-conscious of my small breasts, but from the way Krystal’s cheeks glow and her eyes look down for a beat longer than necessary, I take it I have nothing to worry about in that department. My stomach does somersaults as her stare lingers. I still can’t get my breathing under control, and I can’t tell if it’s the toll my shallow injuries have taken on me, nerves, or something else entirely.
“Krystal Ramirez, you’re no better than my comment section on a good day.”
Her eyes snap to mine, face as red as mine is probably.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just—”
“Yeah, I know what you were just .” My smirk is devilish, and lord does it feel good to be the one throwing her off balance for a change. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me, not ogling me?”
“God, you’re right,” she says, tone miserable. “Taking you back here was a mistake. You’re still breathing hard. I should’ve taken you to the emergency room.”
“Krystal, I’m fine .” I grab her arm as she starts to stand. “I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I don’t need the emergency room, and I need the bill even less.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“I can’t let you do that.” I shake my head. “As long as I don’t need stitches, it’s completely unnecessary. At least check out my shoulder first.”
“I can do that. Turn around.” I do as she says, letting her get a better view of the back of my shoulder. “I have to, um…” Her throat bobs on a swallow. “I have to pull down your bra strap to get to the scrape.” I nod as two fingers hook beneath the strap. I bite down on a moan, but not because of any pain. Luckily, the material doesn’t seem to be sticking to the wound.
But a new sort of pain is taking its place, more confusing and arousing than it has a right to be under these circumstances. I feel it low in my belly as her hands clean the wound on the back of my shoulder. Something must be terribly wrong with my nervous system, because I hardly feel the sting from the alcohol this time. Instead, I’m focused on the way her hands are moving against my bare skin. The light pressure of her left hand just below the back of my neck, keeping me still. The gentle, yet efficient movements of her other hand as she cleans and bandages the wound.
“You scared me today.” There’s a tenuous quality to her voice. I try to look at her over my shoulder to gauge her expression, but all I can see is the tip of her nose through a curtain of dark hair over her face. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d gotten hurt worse than this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “I was struggling on that bike long before your flannel got stuck in the wheel. So stop blaming yourself, okay?”
She doesn’t respond as she finishes.
“Here, let me grab you another shirt,” she says, heading down the hallway after inspecting my bloodied shirt. When she returns, she hands me a worn gray T-shirt. “Sorry if it swamps you.”
I wave off her apology, not caring if the shirt hangs off me. It’s expected for two women with two very different body types. I’m prepubescent, teenage boy skinny. She’s mid-sized and curvy in all the best places. Silently, I vow not to ruin this particular article of clothing as she helps me into the T-shirt on my injured side. I try not to shiver at her touch. I don’t succeed.
“How’s the pain?” she asks once I’m sufficiently dressed. “I have some ibuprofen if you need it.”
“I’ll manage. You’ve done too much for me already.” I stand up from the couch, carefully stretching out my stiff muscles. “Thanks for taking care of me. This goes far beyond your duties as my favorite bartender, I’m sure.”
“Stop.” She smiles, flashing white teeth. She’s smiling again. “We’re a lot more than that now.” I forget how to breathe until she goes on, her smile falling as her expression shutters. “Angela… you fell off your bike in the middle of the street. I almost thought… Well…” She huffs a breath. Shakes her head and forces a brittle smile. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“It’s just a couple of scratches and bruises.” I try to shrug before remembering my injured shoulder. Instead, it comes off as an awkward wince.
“You were almost hit by a car,” she deadpans, her dark eyes catching my movement. “It could’ve been a lot worse. I’m glad it wasn’t.” She stares at me for a long moment, until I start squirming again.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the sorry one, remember? Just don’t do it again,” she says, almost in a grumble. “You’re not allowed to die on me yet. We just started getting to know each other.”
“What do you mean yet ,” I counter.
“We all die, Angela,” she informs me, like it’s news to me or something. “But you’re not allowed for another, oh, I don’t know, eight decades or something. No more stupid stunts. You don’t know how to ride a bike? You don’t ride one unless you’re covered head to toe in bubble wrap. Got it?”
Knowing she wants me around for at least another eighty years warms me from the inside out.
“I”— am smiling like an idiot —“will try not to die next time.”
She gives me a look.
“ Fine. ” I let out a long sigh. “No more stupid stunts.”
“Good.” She gives a satisfied nod. “I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you. I have a feeling you’re gonna be a handful.”
I scoff good-naturedly, and she bumps her shoulder to my good one. “Come on. Let me get you home in one piece. You little daredevil.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“No more Angel?” I pout, purposefully sticking out my lower lip.
A flash of surprise crosses her face, and then she lets out a light chuckle. Shakes her head. Places her hand on the small of my back as she opens her front door. Her lips hover over my ear, breath warm as she says, “Be good and we’ll see.”
There’s that heat crawling up my skin again, making my heart pound everywhere, including more inconvenient places. What the hell is this strange feeling overcoming me, making me want to rush home and sort myself out under the covers?
But more than that, why do I like it so much?