19. Kendra
Kendra
I hear the rumble of a vehicle outside as I shuffle down the hall to the bathroom.
Shit.
Hurrying, I step into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
What is it with old men and showing up early?
I go through the motions of freshening up for the day as quickly as I can. After slapping on some tinted face sunscreen, scented body lotion, and deodorant, I pull my hair up into a short, bouncy ponytail.
As I’m brushing my teeth, I take in my reflection.
Neck up, I look good enough. Neck down, I’m in the same skimpy pajamas I wore the night I slept with Luther, which consists of a strappy tank—that does nothing to support the tits—and matching shorts.
When I turn my electric toothbrush off, I swear I can hear voices.
Double shit.
I need to get back down to my bedroom before anyone sees me.
If I were thinking, I would’ve brought a change of clothes with me. But I wasn’t thinking.
Because it’s Saturday morning. And I should still be in bed.
Taking a deep inhale, I open the door.