Chapter 6 Gideon
Gideon
I follow Torres in a daze. We’re both quiet.
I wish I knew what she was thinking. Fuck, I wish I knew what I was thinking.
This is literally the shit I used to daydream about, but the reality of fucking Torres against her front door far exceeded anything my adolescent brain could’ve imagined, and I’m having a hard time catching up.
Her bathroom is typical of an old New York City apartment—tiny, with gray subway tiles and a black and white mosaic floor.
She turns on the shower, and I help her unwind the lights from her torso.
Then I finally remove my tie and unbutton my shirt while she strips off the red dress.
I don’t get a clear look at her body before she steps into the tub, just a flash of pale curves.
I have the brief urge to leave now and avoid the coming conversation, but I don’t.
Second chance, right? I finish undressing and fold my clothes, then climb in after her.
She’s washing her face, so I soap up quickly.
The space is cramped, and we bump into each other as we bathe.
Between the steam, the scent of lime bodywash, and the white noise of the spray, it’s like being trapped in an intimate yet awkward cocoon.
I’ve showered with sexual partners before, but this is Valencia Torres . Everything is different.
I sneak a glance as she runs the soapy loofah over her body. I want to follow the path it takes with my tongue, but the tub is already too small for the two of us, and I’m worried that if I try anything, we’ll hurt ourselves. She passes me her face wash, then steps out.
A moment later, I hear her voice. “There’s a towel hanging on the door for you. And I can give you something more comfortable to wear if you don’t want to put your work clothes back on.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I wait in the tub, since there isn’t room for both of us on the bath mat.
After she leaves, I turn off the shower and step out to dry off.
With the towel around my waist, I pick up my clothes and cross the hall to her bedroom.
It’s just big enough for a queen-size bed, a tall, narrow dresser, and a small nightstand stacked with books.
Torres is covered from armpit to knee in a towel as she stands on tiptoe to reach the top shelf of her tiny closet. When she hands me a yellow soccer jersey and a pair of men’s running shorts, an uncomfortable thought crosses my mind.
“These aren’t . . .”
When I trail off, she pauses with her hand on a jar of face lotion.
“Aren’t what? They should fit you.”
“They aren’t ...” I force myself to say the name. “Mulholland’s?”
Because if they are, I’d sooner wear the lacy red thong I pulled off Torres earlier.
Her gaze flicks away from me. “No. They belonged to someone else.”
I nod. I’m not jealous, per se. And it’s not like I have an aversion to touching something of Mulholland’s. It’s more that I don’t want to wear anything that will remind her of him.
When I unwrap the towel from my waist, I notice she’s stealing glances from the corner of her eye.
I bite back a grin. “You can look.”
She doesn’t even try to deny what she was doing. It was difficult to get a good look in the shower, but the bedroom lamp casts a warm, bright glow, and there’s nowhere to hide.
I leave off my boxers and take my time sliding the shorts up my legs and over my hips. Her lips part as she tracks the movement. I make sure to stretch and flex as I wriggle into the shirt. By the time I’m dressed, her cheeks are pink, and my dick is twitching in the borrowed shorts.
I shoot her a challenging smirk. “Your turn.”
Eyebrows raised, her hands release the cloth tucked between her breasts, and the wet towel falls to the floor.
She’s naked and gorgeous, and I nearly swallow my tongue as I look my fill.
Her dark locks are pinned up, and the delicate hairs around her face have started to curl from the shower steam.
I take in her rosy nipples, the trimmed hair between her legs, her petite frame and dangerous curves. I’m hungry for her all over again.
But then she opens a drawer and covers herself with an oversize gray T-shirt and loose pajama shorts.
The shirt features a quote from Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor that reads, “With fear for our democracy, I dissent.” Somehow, this outfit is even more appealing than the tight red dress.
She looks like the Valencia Torres I used to know—mission driven, focused, and real .
She collects the wet towels and shuffles out of the room in fuzzy purple slippers. “Come on. I’ll make tea.”
The kitchen is larger and newer than I’d expect for an apartment this small.
There’s even a dishwasher and washing machine.
I tour the living room while the electric kettle heats water.
Rows of crammed bookshelves line an entire wall, which is just so Torres.
She was always reading when we were in school.
But despite that, she never fit the stereotype of the shy, quiet bookworm.
She’d been outspoken and friendly, full of ideas and ambition.
Except with me.
I drag a hand down my face as all the things I need to say to her crowd my thoughts. I wish I could call Ralph to help me get it all in order. To make sure I don’t skip something or say it wrong.
Because part of me is already very attached to this conversation going right.
“Tea’s ready.” She hands me a mug, and I bring it to my nose to inhale.
“Chamomile?”
“It’s a bit late for caffeine, but if you want something else, coffee or—”
“No, this is perfect.”
She leads the way to a comfortable-looking yellow sofa. A Persian rug covers the hardwood floor, and between that and the exposed brick walls, the apartment feels cozy instead of cramped.
We sit side by side, blowing on our tea to cool it down. A massive gray cat with flattened ears appears out of nowhere and jumps onto the couch between us. When it settles against my hip, I slide my fingers through its fur and am rewarded with a purr like a rusty motor.
Valencia stifles a laugh with her hand.
I send her a puzzled look. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She says it quickly, then seems to change her mind about answering. “It’s just ... Archie isn’t a fan of most people. Are you, boy?”
“Archie?”
“Short for Archimedes.”
I scratch under the cat’s chin and Archie’s big yellow eyes roll back in bliss. “He seems to like me well enough.”
She makes a noncommittal hum and sips her tea.
The silence that falls is taut with anticipation. We know what’s coming but not how to get there.
Torres, as always, is braver than I am.
“You know,” she begins, her tone thoughtful, “if someone had time-traveled from the future and told teenage me that I’d one day be sitting on my sofa with Gideon Noble, drinking herbal tea after he fucked my brains out, I probably would’ve slapped them in the face.”
I want to focus on the “fucked my brains out” part, but force myself to stay on track. “You wouldn’t have believed it?”
“Not in a million years.” She narrows her eyes at me over her mug. “Don’t tell me the thought of having sex with me ever crossed your mind.”
“On the contrary. It crossed my mind many times. Sometimes multiple times a day.”
She shoots me a look that says I’m full of shit. “You’re lying.”
“Have you seen yourself?”
Her mouth drops open. “What is this revisionist history? You are the same person who said my eyebrows looked like turds. You told everyone I didn’t wash my hair. And you called me Smellencia for two years .”
Remorse is like a knife in my chest. It kills me that this is what she remembers about me. I hold her gaze and say, as sincerely as possible, “I know. And I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”
“Exactly.” Her voice is high with indignation. “So don’t you dare try to claim you secretly thought I was pretty or some bullshit.”
I sit up straight, a tough feat on this sofa. “Do you remember the Christmas dance in eighth grade?”
She rolls her eyes. “How could I forget? That was the night I finally learned to use a flat iron and asked my mom to tweeze my eyebrows. And suddenly, thanks to my Princess Diaries makeover, all the boys who’d teased me since sixth grade fell over themselves to ask me to dance.
” She raises those brows at me now, as if to emphasize their elegantly angled arches.
I pitch my voice low to contrast her flippant tone.
“You wore an emerald green dress. Velvet. I know, because I bumped into you by the snack table and touched your sleeve. Your hair was pulled back in a bun, but you had these pieces falling down, here”—I graze a fingertip from her temple to her chin—“and here.” I repeat the touch on the other side of her face.
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me with her dark, piercing gaze. “ You didn’t ask me to dance.”
“I know.”
I wish to God that I had. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently between us.
“Why—” She breaks off and shakes her head.
“Go ahead. You can ask.” Answering her questions is the least I can do.
A line forms between her brows, and old hurt lingers in her eyes. “Why didn’t you ask me? And why did you tease me so much before that? And then ... why did you stop? In high school, you acted like I didn’t exist. Was it because of the dance?”
I lean back and wrap my hands around the warm mug. “It’s ... a lot more complicated than that.”
“So tell me.” There’s the faintest note of pleading in her voice, so I take a deep breath and bring forward those old, shameful feelings.
“From the beginning, you were so smart, and so focused, it kind of drove me nuts. I was consumed with a mix of admiration and jealousy. There were times I thought you had to be cheating, because how could anyone be so fucking brilliant? But I was attracted to you, too, and I didn’t know how to deal with any of it except to try to distract you. ”