Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A man emerges from the corner stall, looking sheepish, hands raised in the air like he’s surrendering a battle. “I wasn’t pooping!” he announces, as if this would be my biggest worry. “I was hiding from my trainer, Abel, for a few minutes, watching TikTok, and the next thing I know, Days of Our Lives is happening outside the stall, so I just hung out, you know? I swear I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just figured, I’d let you say your peace and move on your way. I was planning on running for the door if the two of you started getting it on, but I would have averted my gaze respectfully, of course.”
I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation in a men’s locker room with a total stranger. This is maybe one of my top five worst days ever , and I grew up in foster care—and saw the theatrical release of Cats on opening night (not my idea).
He gives me a quick and obvious once-over before meeting my gaze and nodding in approval. “For the record, that guy was lōlō. You are...wow. Total bombshell.”
Still glaring, I take my turn to appraise him. If Grady is not my type, this guy is almost a completely different species from what I usually go for. He’s tall, I’ll give him that—like, really tall, at least half a foot taller than me, and I’m five foot ten. He is Polynesian, with a bronze skin tone, dark, long wavy hair that’s been sun-bleached at the ends, and a strong jaw covered by a beard—and he’s big . It’s obvious he’s strong and fit, but he isn’t the chiseled, hairless GQ model–type I usually go for. He’s barrel-chested with a solid belly—not fat, but not lean and muscular either. He seems totally comfortable in his skin, though, which is pretty remarkable, considering he’s wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt with actual holes in it, not just fashionable cutouts designed to show off his muscles. Oh, and he’s barefoot. In a locker room that doubles as a public bathroom.
Awesome.
Still, he’s not un attractive. And I did just get shot down, pretty obviously, and apparently with an audience. My ego needs the fluffing.
Bathroom Guy waits patiently for my appraisal to end, grinning at me when we finally make eye contact. I frown at him on principle, because who just goes around smiling like that? He must be an idiot. Likely got dropped on his head one too many times doing keg stands back during his frat days. Which I’m guessing were at least a decade and a half ago, putting him somewhere around his late thirties, if the smile lines around his eyes are any indication. He’s older, but not too much older—I’d say no more than a decade over my twenty-eight (soon to be twenty-nine) years. Definitely too old to be wearing flip-flops at the gym, though.
At my frown, he grins even harder, almost like he knows what I’m thinking and finds it hilarious that I have so much disdain for him. “For the record, I wouldn’t have to think about it, if you made me that offer.”
Oh. So it’s like that, is it? I preen despite myself, grateful for the validation, especially after just getting rejected by Grady.
This is probably a bad idea. Then again, despite his terrible outfit, I’m surprised to find I’m not totally opposed to the idea. He looks so strong. I bet he could pick me up, hold all my weight while I ride out all my frustration. The thought sends an unexpected ping of interest down through my lower belly. Hmm. Interesting.
I’ve slept with tall, short, skinny, and muscular bods. Maybe it’s time for my first dad bod.
I fold my arms, looking him over again. “Do you own shoes?” I challenge.
He just laughs.
* * *
A few minutes later—after I’ve taken a picture of his ID and sent it to Helen and Nina, and made it known to the guy at the front desk that we’re leaving together, in case he decides to murder me—we’re out the door and walking the few blocks to my place. Now that I’m standing right next to him, he’s even bigger than he appeared standing across the room from me. Okay, I know that’s just the basic law of perspective, but he really is big . I’m not the only one who notices, either—a few people walking down the street do double takes as they see him passing by. I guess I won’t have to worry about anyone trying to mug us on the way home. If someone came at this guy with a crowbar, it would probably just crumple in half.
I try to subtly eye him, taking stock. On the one hand, I’m not worried about his ability to throw me around a little bit. On the other, for the first time in my sexual history, I’m worried about how everything is going to fit.
Bathroom Guy catches me looking him over and grins. “I’m Kimo, by the way. Kimo Kapono.”
Is it only my imagination, or does he sort of tense up when he tells me his name, like he’s waiting for my reaction? I realize what the issue is right away. He’s likely worried I’m going to mispronounce his name because it isn’t some American, white-bread name. “Matilda Markov,” I tell him, letting a little of my mostly dormant Russian accent come through to show he’s in good company. By now I’ve spent the majority of my life in America, but they say those formative early years are really the ones that shape your speech patterns. I’ve gotten pretty good at tamping my accent down most of the time, though, except for when I’m angry, or tired, or hangry. Or all of the above.
Kimo’s eyes light up a bit. “No way! We both have superhero names.”
“Come again?”
“The double letters thing. Lois Lane. Scott Summers. Sue Storm. Pepper Potts.” He gestures between us. “Kimo Kapono. Matilda Markov.”
I blink at him. “I literally don’t know who any of those other people are.”
“Not a comic book girl? That’s okay. I’ll only judge you a little, ha.” He elbows me jokingly in the side. I’m probably supposed to giggle, but instead I scowl at him. Why is he elbowing me? What am I, his frat buddy? “So what are you into, Matilda Markov?”
I frown at him. “Into? Like a fetish?”
He laughs. “We can discuss that when we’re not on the street. Geesh.” Another jokey elbow to the side. I push his arm away, and not playfully, but he laughs anyway. “No, I meant, what do you like to read or watch or whatever for fun? Anime? Horror? MMA? What’s your thing?”
For some reason, this question makes me profoundly uncomfortable. “I don’t really have a thing .” That isn’t precisely true, but this guy’s a total stranger—like I’m going to tell him what I watch when I’m feeling sad or lonely or just need a little pick-me-up. That information is way more intimate than seeing me naked.
Luckily, he’s distracted from my lack of answer when a bright flash goes off in front of us, like someone’s just taken a picture. Of us? Why would someone take a picture of us on the street? It’s so dark that the flash is unnaturally bright, and I blink, temporarily disoriented.
Kimo shoulders his big body in front of me, like he’s blocking me from view. “Hey, come on. Not now, okay?”
By the time my vision clears, I see a man still holding up his cell phone, looking sheepish. “Sorry. That was supposed to be subtle.”
Kimo softens a little, once again all affability. “No worries, brah. Just keep it to yourself, okay?”
Keep it to himself? Brah? I don’t know which of those two things is more deserving of my attention. I already figured Kimo was some kind of aged-out frat guy, so I guess I can’t hold the “brah” thing against him. But I can, and do, wonder why a stranger on the street would want to take a picture of Kimo and keep it to himself. I look at Kimo’s profile again, searching for any sign of familiarity as we continue walking on, now with his arm around my shoulder, as if he's protecting me from any future flash photography.
“Are you famous on TikTok or something like that?” I try finally. I’m not the most pop-culture savvy person in the world, but I think I’d recognize him if he were a movie star or headlining musician. I’m busy at work, but I’m not living under a rock.
“Something like that,” Kimo returns vaguely.
There are no more picture-taking incidents in the two more blocks it takes to get to my place. I lead Kimo up the stairs, letting my hips sway an extra bit to make sure he’s good and ready to go by the time we make it inside. I don’t have time to build up the sexy spark from scratch; I need this to be a quick, clean thirty minutes max, in and out the door. I still have some notes to review before my meeting in the morning, after all.
When I glance over my shoulder, I see my plan is working. Kimo’s eyes are fixed on my ass, and he’s all but licking his lips. When he catches me looking at him, he gives me a completely unabashed wink. I turn away before he can see my grin of triumph. So easy. Take that , ex-priest. This could have been you if you hadn’t been such a dud.
Sleeping with Kimo won’t solve my problem with the friend group, though. The thought makes me temporarily fumble as I reach the door, but I collect myself quickly. I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Some good sex and a few hours of sleep and then I can brainstorm something else.
Once Kimo and I are inside, I instruct him to leave his shoes by the door while I go to hang up my gym bag. (He does have shoes, for the record, though they’re flip-flops, and I have no idea why he wasn’t wearing them in the locker room. Or why he wore them to the gym to begin with. Whatever. Not my problem.)
“Nice place,” he says, picking up a picture off the mantle. It’s of me in my gi, standing with my sensei. “Oh, wow, are you a black belt?”
“Yes,” I say curtly, taking the picture and setting it back just where it was. He waits for me to elaborate, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t want there to be any confusion about what this is between us. “You need a glass of water or something, or should we just get started?”
Kimo falters. “Um. Water would be good. Can I take a piss first?”
I don’t bother to hide my judgmental nose scrunch at his phrasing. “Sure. First door in the hallway. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
My place is small, so it’s not like he needs a tour to figure it out, but I don’t miss Kimo’s blink of surprise as I walk past him into the kitchen. I’m starting to worry he’s going to be a problem—someone who’s going to want to talk and connect before we get down to business. I’m hoping if I keep things moving, he’ll get the picture soon enough.
When I emerge from the kitchen with two glasses of water, Kimo seems to have found his way to the bathroom, so I go into the bedroom. I debate what to do about clothing. I don’t want to stay in my workout clothes since they’re not the easiest, sexiest items of clothing to remove with a partner present—ugh, spandex —but I find lingerie to be pretty pointless with one-night stands, and being totally naked when he walks in the room feels a little aggressive, even for me.
I settle on a T-shirt and no pants. Kimo still isn’t out of the bathroom yet, so I give myself a quick cowboy wash (i.e., rub down my armpits and other smelly bits with a wet wipe) and spritz myself with perfume to counterbalance any lingering BO from the gym. When Kimo still doesn’t come out after all that, I run a quick brush through my hair, then set out a couple condoms next to the bed. When there’s still no sign of him, I lay myself provocatively on the bed, trying out a few different positions for maximized sexiness. And when he still isn’t out after that, I go to the bathroom and knock on the door.
“Are you shooting up in there or something?” I demand, only half-joking. Okay, not at all joking, really.
The door opens immediately and Kimo waves me in. To my surprise, he’s piled all his hair on top of his head in a messy bun. “Sorry, I got distracted by the leaky shower. How long has it been doing this?”
I stare at him in dumb surprise as he kneels down next to the shower knob, examining it. “You’re too worried about my leaky shower to come have sex?”
He shoots me a cheeky grin, like he finds me hilarious. “It’ll just take a minute. I think I can fix it.” He shuts the lid of the toilet and pats it, motioning me over. “Come on. Take a seat. Keep me company.”
This is...not how I thought this night would be going. I check my watch. He only has twenty minutes left if I want to stay on schedule. “I can call someone to do that later.”
He pauses whatever he’s doing to the faucet and raises an eyebrow at me. “I know you can , but will you?”
Okay...I guess I just got called out by this random stranger I met in a men’s bathroom. “Probably not, no. It’s not a big deal, though, it’s just a leak.”
“These leaks are no joke. They can make your water bill skyrocket. Not to mention your gas bill, if the water’s being heated while it’s dripping. You’ll thank me when it’s winter.”
His focus is entirely on the faucet again, so I roll my eyes at the back of his head. “What are you, some kind of handyman?”
“Not full time, or anything. But I’ve fixed things here and there.”
Great, so he’s an unemployed handyman. I check my watch again. “You know, we can just?—”
At the same time, he asks, “You mind?” And before I can reply, he takes hold of the valve with one hand, twists it, and pulls it off the wall.
My jaw drops open. Kimo looks around in the gaping hole he’s just created in my shower, grunting a little to himself. “Ah, there’s your problem.” He rises abruptly to his feet. “Are there any twenty-four-hour hardware stores around here?”
I just stare at him. Why would I possibly know that? “I...have no idea.”
He pulls out his phone from his back pocket. “Here we go. Just a few blocks from here. I’ll get the piece you need, be back in a jiffy, and fix it all up. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Um...” It’s not often a man pulls a move on me that throws me so completely off my game. If he’d whipped out a sex toy or asked me to pee on him, I would have been less shocked. But what am I supposed to do with a guy who rips a hole in my shower? I can’t just kick him out and have it stay that way. “Let me put on some pants,” I concede reluctantly.
He looks me over, eyes lingering on my bare legs appreciatively. “No, no. Please. You stay exactly how you are. Wow. Just beautiful... Relax for a minute. I’ll be back in a few...”