5. Tink
TINK
I used to pride myself on having a pretty low-key beauty routine.
Or low.
I yawn in spite of myself, catching my reflection in the grungy mirror.
I’ve gotten this reputation as a night owl, but it’s less that I like to stay up late and more that it’s the only time I can reliably get to myself, and not for any kind of regular alone time.
This is my me time, the one part of every day where I’m literally and figuratively stripped down. When I don’t have to pretend.
So I try to make it enjoyable. Even if it’s…
I eye the grimy peach-colored tiles of the bathroom, the shower door that’s scaled over with probably years of hard water, the ramshackle mess of hair gels and shaving creams and crusty toothpaste tubes that crowd the top of the sink.
…less luxurious than I want.
I strip out of my clothes as quickly as I can.
The other guys—well, most of them, since Blue stayed behind at the Lagoon like he usually does—all tapped out somewhere around midnight, having tried and failed to lure some of the Mermaids over for an afterparty and subsequently settling for more beers and video games in the loft.
Kit and Fox made it back to their room on their own, Pan needed a few kicks in the ribs to not pass out on the couch.
Partially because he should sleep in a real bed, at least, and partially because I don’t want anyone wandering around when I come out for my shower. My me time.
With my jeans and T-shirt off, I shed my boxers—surprisingly comfortable, especially compared to anything lacy—and suck in an anticipatory breath as I finally unfasten my binder for the day.
God, that first deep breath is like drugs.
I only have two binders, one to wear and one to wash.
The most I can own without feeling gross or feeling like I’m risking getting caught.
The one that’s not on my body at any given time lives in the lockbox under my bed, along with the rest of my girly contraband: period stuff, skincare, my secret stash of sugary, fruity, delicious cocktails-in-a-can that Tink can’t be caught dead drinking, and a swimsuit.
Swimming. That’s what I need, I realize as the first jets of water hit my skin. I close my eyes and tip my head back, already relaxing. A beach day. Something to get out of here for a little, clear my head, be…not myself, exactly, but just not so on guard all the time.
The whole reason I wanted to come to London Valley in the first place is to live by the beach.
I had this vision of this sunkissed, salt-sprayed life: long days on the sand.
Maybe learning to surf, or at least having a hot surfer boyfriend.
A golden tan that somehow never turned into skin cancer or wrinkles.
My long hair bleached blonde and gold.
Nope. At that, I rip my eyes open. No time to waste on daydreams, not during shower time.
I grab my bottle of 3-in-1 from the caddy and squirt a teal, spicy-smelling blob into my palm to wash up.
Since I can’t buy what I really want—something luscious and girly scented, vanilla cashmere or almond blossom—I go as cheap as I possibly can on personal care, because, well, who cares?
I do allow myself some body lotion—Vaseline brand, unscented—out in my room, because guy or girl, I refuse to live with dry skin, and parked on my bedside table, accessorized with a roll of toilet paper I snagged from the bathroom…
well, it looks like it has a role to play, is all I’m saying.
And I have a razor, somewhere—a cheapie men’s two-blade Bic—but just for appearances.
Other than that, it’s combination shampoo-conditioner-body-wash that’s four bucks for 32 ounces and smells like whatever “Arctic Crash” is supposed to be.
As I’m lathering up, I hear footsteps in the hall. Then a slam. I freeze—instinct, even though I know I’ve locked the door and dragged the towel rack in front of it for good measure—and wait.
Nothing more. Probably just Blue, judging by the volume of the slam—his room’s right next to the bathroom, but soundproofed, thank God. I don’t need to hear…whatever he gets up to in there, least of all when I’m naked and just a few feet away.
Although I do wonder what he’s doing. Sometimes.
My cheeks go hot in a way that has nothing to do with the steamy shower, and I crank the water colder.
Another minute or two to rinse and I’m done.
I’ll say this about my life: what I lose in beach time, I more than get back in personal hygiene savings.
My hair takes like two seconds to wash, I have nothing to shave, and the bushier my eyebrows get, the better, so even an everything shower takes ten minutes, max.
Shaking my head, I slide the door back and step onto the bathmat, a sad flat little thing that I don’t think was originally gray, and grab around for a towel.
The pickings are slim: faded beach towels, most of which were probably freebies handed out in the Marina around spring break time, a few scratchy, stiff, and threadbare rectangles that look like they were swiped from a motel (and probably were), and a single, mysterious washcloth—vaguely damp.
I opt for the biggest, cleanest-looking beach towel I can find—white, with a faded Corona logo printed on one side—and tuck it under my armpits.
Obviously, I can’t just walk to my room post-shower, so I get dressed in here: night outfit means sports bra under binder under T-shirt, plus boxers.
Back in my room, I’ll shed the first two layers, spritz the binder with vodka to kill the germs, lay it on top of my under-bed locker to dry overnight, then replace the T-shirt.
In the morning, binder 1 goes in the locker, binder 2 replaces the sports bra, and Tink picks out his outfit for the day—some combination of T-shirt, jeans, and boots.
With all my pajama gear laid out on the toilet seat, I scrub a peep hole through the steam on the mirror and blink into my own eyes.
Good-looking guy like you shouldn’t be sleeping alone.
No. No, Tink. I almost bark the words in my mind, fists clenched and eyes slammed shut.
When I open them again, I peer into the mirror, the ugly fluorescent light catching all the shadows under my eyes, the almost blinding-white skin of my shoulders before my farmer’s tan kicks in just above the elbow—God, I could use some proper sun. I could use…
…a beach day, I remember. And then my whole body relaxes.
Of course. That’s exactly what I need, and the timing is perfect.
There’s nothing important tomorrow, now that the pickup from Krye’s taken care of—maybe Kit or Blue have some appointments in the shop, or Fox has some fucking around on bikes to do, but nothing Pan has to take care of.
Nothing I have to take care of. I could come up with some bullshit reason they wouldn’t bother questioning—especially if I do it early enough, when they’re awake but still hung over—stuff my bikini in the inner zip pocket of my jacket, and leave.
Ride.
Fly.
I close my eyes again, easily this time, and take a deep breath.
I can see it, feel it, taste it now—the roar and fizz of the waves, the building heat turning the sand from chill to scorching, the sun on not just my face and neck but my arms, legs, stomach.
I could smuggle out one of my girly little canned Mai-Tais.
I could even try to get the library app to work on my clunky prepaid phone and download something delicious and trashy to read as I sunbathe.
Yes, I decide. Perfect.
With that, I grab my boxers, scrub my towel up and down all my limbs, and let it drop to the floor.
But as soon as it does, my heart sinks.
Because right in the middle of the damp terrycloth is a bright red streak.
Shit. Shit. I look down at myself, my legs, and sure enough, a matching streak of red is trailing down my inner thigh…and not just there, but all across the bathroom floor in a tiny trail of spots.
Shit. My period.
For the longest time I just…didn’t get it.
Stress, or the weight loss, the injuries…
I don’t know, but my body decided now isn’t a good time to be fertile and just cut off the whole process.
Then, about three months after I joined the crew, it came back—barely, thank God, so no permanent stains anywhere, and one menstrual cup smuggled in from the Discount Drug and I was set, no risk of leaving a suspicious wrapper or applicator lying around.
But since then, it’s been inconsistent, to say the least. And since I don’t get crazy PMS symptoms, and I’m not about to install a cycle tracking app on my phone, I just kind of…deal with it when it comes.
Which, apparently, is now.
And I just had to pick the stupid Corona towel. The stupid white Corona towel.
God, I’m dumb. I’ve thought about getting the pill to regulate my cycle, maybe even the one that lets you skip your period entirely.
But the only place around here I could do that is at the free clinic—you know, the one where Blue and the Mermaids and everyone else in the Strip gets their STD panels done, AKA the last place on earth I’d want a nurse calling out my government name in the waiting room.
I know they’re queer-friendly—an operation like that, in the Strip, you’d have to be—and have some “preferred name” slot on the forms, but I’m not taking the risk.
I don’t trust nurses.
Focus, idiot. I have to work fast—my showers are borderline suspiciously long to begin with, and every second I waste here is adding to the count, even if Blue’s the only one awake to notice.
No, I think, especially because Blue’s the only one awake. I get on fine with the rest of the guys—get on well, even—but Blue…
Blue’s not the warm and fuzzy type. Whatever he’s doing to Sapphire next door, I doubt he’s going to cuddle afterward.
For that matter, they might be almost done—like I have any idea how long a sex show livestream goes on?
—and he could be moments away from walking her to the door. Or kicking her out of it.
I’ve gotta move.
I yank a few lengths of toilet paper from the roll and fold them in the crotch of my boxers—awkward, but enough to hold me over til I’m in my room.
Then tear off another length to wad up in my hand and clean up the trail I left from the shower…
which seems to have hit the tiles and the bathmat, I realize.
I wrap the crumpled toilet paper in another clean layer or two before burying it at the bottom of the trash can (just a can, no bag or liner or anything) and looking back at the rest of the damage.
The towel’s a mess. It’s less of a streak and more of a series of blotches, I guess where I rubbed it down my leg. Goddammit.
I could throw it away, but we barely have any towels to begin with, so the Corona towel’s absence would not go unnoticed, let alone the missing bath mat.
I chew my lip. I could try and scrub them out in the sink here, with…
I don’t know, hand soap? My Arctic Crash body wash?
But who knows if that’d even work, let alone work fast enough.
And trapping myself in the bathroom when there are four full-grown men who’ve just spent the night drinking like four full-grown men.
Not to mention if Blue needs to…clean up, or something.
No, I’ve got to move. Change, then laundry. No one’s going to be in the basement at this hour, I reason, and as soon as these are in the wash, I’m basically home free.
I move in fast-forward: my room for my locker and my Diva Cup, the first floor and the silent shop, the basement door, the dismal gross basement where we all have to go to get our clothes clean.
In ten seconds I’ve yanked on the light, dumped a whole load’s worth of detergent onto my bundle, and shoved everything into the ancient Speed Queen, cranking the dial to COLD before slamming it in to start.
For one terrifying moment, it’s just silence.
Then the machine clicks to life, the fwoosh sound of water filling the drum drowning out my thudding heart.
I exhale, gripping the cool sides of the metal and leaning over the machine, trying to let my pulse normalize despite the adrenaline and the press of my binder over my sports bra.
Close call, I think, as the machine noisily ratchets into its wash cycle. But not too—
There’s a loud, ugly, electric kind of snap.
Then the room goes black.
Shit, I think, stomach plunging. Fucking…
shit. I must have…overloaded the circuits, or something.
Wouldn’t be the first time. The building is old as hell, and whoever actually owns it—owned it?
—didn’t seem to do a ton of upkeep. We get blown breakers, weak ventilation, even a sink backup once or twice.
But Pan refuses to get anyone out to repair stuff because of the whole “not technically legal residents of the property” thing.
I’m just debating going over to see if I can fix the breaker when—
“Someone there?” barks a voice.
I jump. I don’t have to see to know who it is.
“Oh,” I say. “Shit. I—”
“Tink?” Blue’s voice is rough, hard. Not happy. I swallow and fold my arms, immediate, instinctive.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells.
My pulse skyrockets. I don’t look at him, don’t look anywhere if I can help it, my brain going too fast trying to calculate why I’m here, why I could be here, why Tink could be here.
It doesn’t help that Blue’s half-naked.
“I’m trying to work up there”—he waves at the stairs—”and you’re…you’re fucking doing laundry?”
Fuck. There’s no good excuse, is there?
“I know, I know,” I say. I sound hoarse, desperate. “I just—”
“It’s three in the fucking morning!” Blue roars. “Wash your fucking clothes tomorrow, asshole!”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right. He’s right, he’s right, fuck, he’s totally right.
“My bad,” I say. Weak. The only thing I can manage. I swallow. “Listen, if it’s the money—”
Blue scoffs. “Save it.” He stomps off, toward the basement wall, where he opens up a panel door and starts flicking at breaker switches.
“Blue, dude—”
“I said, save it.” I can barely see his face from this far, just the edge of his profile as he finds the loose one and pushes it back to place.
The bulbs overhead come back on. The machine rumbles back to life.
And Blue leaves without a second glance my way.