12. Floor Mattress Deviant #2
Checking over my shoulder, I poke my head into his bedroom. “I knew it!”
“You knew what?” Rhys finally joins me in the hallway, startling me a little. He’s stealthy and spry. That could be a problem.
I need to escape…
I tip my head to his pathetic sleeping arrangement: a twin mattress on the floor. “You’re a floor mattress deviant.” All his clothes (all ten black, grey, or navy blue items) hang from an IKEA rack. “You have something against closets?”
“Those are just the items I wear most often.”
“What about the rest of your wardrobe?”
He shrugs, apathetic.
“May I?”
“Whatever.” He chews on his thumbnail, watching me as I cross the threshold into his room.
I open his closet. It’s small, practically empty. “Oh my god, what is this?” Wrinkling my nose, I hold up the grey sleeve to that damnable hoodie he always wears. “What is this? A uniform? Don’t tell me you own two of these?”
“Three,” Rhys lowers his head sheepishly, “the other one’s in the wash.”
At least he does the laundry.
“What are you?” I shut the closet door. “Some kind of extreme minimalist?” At least he has a couch and an Ikea Lack table, so he’s not averse to furniture.
“I don’t like clutter.” Rhys hesitates for a moment, his brows puckering. “Why’d you call me a ‘floor mattress deviant’?”
“Did I call you that?”
“Yes.”
I gesture to the floor mattress in question. If the shoe fits. “I guess it just slipped out. My roommate dated a few guys who thought it was acceptable to do without a bed frame or box spring.”
“What’s so deviant about that?” Rhys asks, leaning against the wall.
“That’s her story to tell. And it’s a doozy.”
“I’m not a deviant,” he says, rather defensively.
“Hm.” I narrow my eyes at his disheveled plaid comforter. The jury’s still out on that one. “Well,” I shake my head, “I’ve seen all I’ve needed to see. So you were going to show me what this ASSET is all about—”
“Wait...” Rhys steps in front of me, holding his hands up to form a shield. “Since we’re here,” he takes a nervous breath and blurts out, “I’ve decided how you can repay me.”
A jolt of panic pings through me. Smiling tightly, I clutch my tote bag tighter to my side. “Um… lay it on me.”
His gaze darts to his bed. “I’m not a ‘floor mattress deviant,’” he repeats, avoiding eye contact.
“Okay...”
“But I’d like to be,” he says, speaking to the floor.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to be.” And then he lifts his head and our eyes lock.
There it is again: naked yearning. Pure, unmitigated longing.
The ‘fae fuck face’ I was warned about by Sarah J.
Maas. Except this time, I’m not mistaken.
The yearning is not directed at a distant point over my shoulder.
There’s nothing over my shoulder except a plain white wall.
If a face could have a hard-on, his face is having one for a third time, and it’s pointed straight at me. Disgusting.
Rhys takes a step forward. I take two steps back, my feet tangling on his comforter. I would’ve fallen on his nasty mattress if it were not for his hand on my elbow, steadying me.
“Carina?”
“Oh God…” I mutter, shaking off his hand. “What?”
“I’ve told you what I want,” he says, reddening from cheek to cheek.
“Yes, yes. But I don’t know what that means.”
He shakes his head, embarrassed. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
“So you—you want to be a ‘floor mattress deviant.’ That’s a weird goal, but… you do you. What do… what do… you want me for?”
“I want you to help me with that, of course.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “Of course… But I erm… Oh shit.” I’m struggling with my tote bag, groping frantically for my pepper spray, amongst the million other things I have in there. Maybe if I were more of an extreme minimalist like Rhys, I’d find it by now.
“What are you searching for?” Rhys asks.
“My phone. So I can take notes.”
“Notes?” He frowns. “You’ve never taken notes in all the time I’ve known you.”
I lick my top lip and his eyes trace my tongue. “Well, this is a new one for me.”
“Me too,” he agrees. “Do you think we can start today?”
“What? Right now?”
“I want to be efficient about it,” Rhys says. “And I’ve done 1.5 months’ worth of work for you, so I want to milk all I can out of you before lunch. Then, I think I’ll teach you some of the ASSET and we can go at it again.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The audacity of it all. How can he say this to me? As if it’s already a done deal and I’m just supposed to get on my knees and submit?
I glance over my shoulder at his unsavory bedding. Oh my god. The incel wants me to christen his floor mattress. Not in this life!
Sucking in my breath, I whip out my pepper spray. “Okay, back off! Deal’s over.
“Whoa!” Rhys jumps back. “What the—”
“I’m getting the fuck out of here and if you try anything,” I circle him on my way out, “I’m going to empty this in your eye.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Rhys asks. “What did I do?”
“I suspected you were going to ask, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. You have some nerve asking this of me!”
“Asking what of you?” Rhys seems genuinely baffled.
“Don’t play dumb! ‘I’m not a floor mattress deviant, but I want to be.’”
“That’s right.” He’s playing dumb. “It’s a fair exchange, in my opinion. For all the favors I’ve done for you, you owe me one. Why are you suddenly so offended? Our relationship has always been transactional.”
My eyes widen in indignation. That cold, logical tone works me into a fury. Yes, our relationship has been transactional, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.
“Listen up, you sick, sick, sicko,” I poke him in the chest with every word, “if you think I’m going to sleep with you in exchange for helping me with the ASSET—”
“Sleep with you?!” Rhys’ eyes widen and the blood drains from his face. Oh, he’s good. For a moment, I could almost believe his bewilderment. He takes a step back, holding up his hands in self-defense. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”
Okay. Maybe I am wrong. “Then what’s all this ‘floor mattress deviant’ talk about...” I sweep my hand over his bed.
“You brought up the term.”
“So you do want sex?”
“Yes.”
I raise my pepper spray.
“No. I mean... I mean, ‘No.’”
“Well, which is it?”
“You’ve misunderstood me. That happens a lot.” Sighing, Rhys’ shoulders slump in defeat. “As you can probably guess, I’m bad at communicating what I... erm, want.”
“Okay...” The tension leaves my body, replaced by a tiny bubble of relief. “You have no people skills. That much is obvious.”
“It wasn’t obvious to me,” Rhys says, his words coming out in an unpremeditated rush as he explains to his shoes, “until I started observing you. The thing is... I want to have sex eventually. Lots of it. But I’m not at the moment.
I’m not exactly popular with women. They tend to toss their drinks in my face the moment I open my mouth.
Just like,” his embarrassed gaze finds my face, “you were about to do when you thought I called you ‘ugly,’ which I didn’t.
You just read into it and made a big deal out of nothing, as women usually do. ”
I pinch my brow. “Wh—what’s your point?”
“There it is!” He points at my expression. “Why did you grow cold all of a sudden?”
A sigh of exasperation escapes me. “Are you really that oblivious?”
Rhys ponders this for a beat. “I don’t know anymore. What did I say wrong?”
I shake my head. “Okay. Here’s what happened. I was starting to feel sympathetic for a moment, but then you spiraled into a chauvinistic rant, and that’s it. I’m soured. You’re an asshole again.”
“I didn’t realize I was acting like an asshole.” He frowns, slowly absorbing my advice.
I wait for him to go on the defensive. But he doesn’t.
He agrees.
Holy shit.
He agrees.
No longer in danger of being attacked, I relax my arm.
“I suppose I am kind of an asshole,” he says. “I don’t mean to be.”
“Except you are…”
“I don’t want to be. It’s killing my dating life.” He drags his hands through his hair. “Carina... I don’t want to sleep with you, but I want you to teach me how...”
“What do you mean ‘how’? Do I look like I have a lot of experience? Wait… don’t answer that.”
Sad to say, as far as sexual expertise went, I’m pretty boring. I didn’t even experiment in college. I had one short-term boyfriend and our sex life was nothing to write home about. How does he think I’m qualified to teach him how to fuck?
“You look like you know what you’re doing.”
“Like I’m some sort of hoe?”
“No, I mean... you know what I mean.” His face, already red, grows redder as he struggles to tell me what he wants.
“I’m beginning to,” I say, watching him struggle. “You want me to coach you in ... dating?”
“Yes!”
“And teach you how to be less of an asshole in exchange for helping me with my work?”
Rhys nods vigorously. “Yes.”
“So that you can eventually bang a lot of women?”
“Well, not a lot of women,” he amends sheepishly. “At least three until I find the one.”
Three? Only an asshole would come up with such a specific number.
But I suppose, in his own shitty way, by desiring to find ‘the one,’ Rhys wants an actual relationship.
He just has years’ worth of pent-up wild oats to sow.
I eye his disgusting floor mattress again and the Costco-size bottle of body lotion nestled beside it. Ew.
“Your goals are still chauvinistic, but I guess that makes sense, given your circumstances.” I take a deep breath as I take in the enormity of what he’s asking me. Truth be told, I’m liking this deal more and more. “So, basically, you want me to give you a makeover?”
“I suppose.” Rhys chews on his inner cheek, then nods. “Yes. I want a makeover. Whatever you think is necessary if it means I can get laid.”
* * *
Clear my schedule. I have some serious work to do.
Over takeout pizza, I draw up a battle plan on old hotel stationery I found at the bottom of my tote bag. With a Sharpie, I scribble:
1. Haircut, shop, shower (?)