Chapter 3
I spit the mouthwash into the sink and turn on the tap, watching the water rinse away the purple liquid. Oh, blessed, minty relief. I nod my thanks to the bottle of Listerine, as well as the dusty Spider-Man Dixie cup dispenser beside it. Mouthwash had been an excellent choice.
One of very few excellent choices I’ve made in the past few hours, because I am drunk.
I rest my hands on the bathroom counter and examine my reflection in the mirror.
At least I still look presentable. Or…I think I do?
It’s hard to tell. The mirror is stippled with water spots and toothpaste, and—I lean back to take in the smudges running the width of the glass, gripping the counter as I teeter on my heels—based on the smudges, someone’s used their finger to sketch a gigantic dick and balls on the glass after a steamy shower. A collegiate cave drawing.
Squinting through the artwork, I fluff my hair, arranging the front of the dark pixie cut into a state of classy dishevelment.
Then, I check the wings of my eyeliner; the left, and as much as I can make out of the right.
Not smudged. More an indication of quality product than a measure of my current state, but I’ll take it.
Next item of business: Do I need to throw up?
My lips screw to the corner in thought. Nah.
Though it wouldn’t be the worst idea. I’d shotgunned beer two because Grant didn’t think I could do it a second time.
The pizza offset some of its effects, and I probably would have been okay if I hadn’t taken up the bartender on his offer of a round of shots.
Twice. And then had another beer. Or two?
I smile. One had even been a Bud Light. Take that, Cole.
Thinking about him makes my chest hurt, and I scowl. Ugh. Cole. Proposing a “break” because of my stupid, screwy body.
My heart stutters, and the vision in my good eye blurs with tears. The booze has softened my defenses. I imagine the outlines of the more aggressive worries pressing against the walls I put up, their sharp edges tearing through and bringing reality crashing in with them—
“No!” I roll out my shoulders, standing tall—with a steadying hand on the counter—and blink back the tears, forcing myself to breathe.
This is not the time for that. Right now is fun-times memories with Ellie.
Like… the last few hours with Grant and his roommates!
They are delightful. Sweet puppies, all.
Even if Alistair speaks exclusively in declaratives and they’ve adorned their bathroom mirror with a penis.
Anyway! There was pizza! And the bar we hit after pizza was having a trivia night, and I crushed it!
I waggle my eyebrows. I swept the classic SNL category, even if I’m not sure the nineties should be considered “classic”—I was born in the nineties and I am not “classic,” thank you very much.
And then we were kicked out because I was “disrupting the game” by “shouting out answers” while “not actually on a team,” therefore “ruining the experience for paying participants.” But I got everything right, and the guys were amazed, and that’s what matters.
But mostly what matters is that I dominated.
And now, I am at the house, enjoying a party filled with dudes. Dudelings! And it is time for me to go back to the dining room and soundly crush said dudelings in flip cup. Again!
My smile is huge. Oh, my jerk of a body is going to make me pay for tonight, but that is a problem for Tomorrow Ellie. Ellie of Now is Queen of the Collegiate Cave-Pups, and it rules.
But this mirror… this is unacceptable.
The corner of my bad eye picks up a familiar shade of blue, and I cock my head to confirm that it is, in fact, a bottle of Windex. Serendipity! My preferred all-purpose cleaner! I pick it up, then snag the stiff hand towel from where it hangs beside the light switch.
I look back at the mirror. A good queen leads by example, and my subjects must learn to recognize a civilized level of cleanliness.
It is decided: I shall tidy.
The tribute to masculine pride is erased in a series of sprays and wipes, though the more stubborn toothpaste flecks require that I pry at them with my thumbnail—my nail tech is always getting on me for using my claws like a multitool—before I work my way down to polishing the faucet, which sounds like a euphemism, but it is not.
As I wipe, the lightbulbs above the mirror catch my attention.
There’s a gray cast to them, as though coated in a layer of dust. This will not do.
I hike up my dress and clamber onto the counter, then pause.
Bare feet would be inadvisable on the bathroom floor, but high heels on the counter sounds like danger times.
I wiggle my toes until my shoes slip off my feet, thudding onto the floor.
I wiggle them even more. Oh, those are not going back on tonight. Or ever, maybe.
Back to work! A queen never shirks her duties.
I’m considering my approach to the bulbs—spray and risk creating a mystery paste, or dry-wipe and risk inhalation—when there’s a knock at the door. I reply with an “It’s unlocked,” that, if I’m being honest, sounds pretty fucking regal.
The door opens, and behind me, a deep voice asks, “The hell are you doing up there?”
“I’m tidying,” I say primly, and turn to the—good Lord—truly massive man now filling the doorway. “Whoa. You are a lot of dude.”
His responding shrug is apologetic, which is adorable. “I get that a lot. What do you mean you’re tidying?” His “What do you mean” sludges out in one long “Whaddumean?,” which suggests he’s as sauced as I am. How festive!
“I mean that the bathroom is gross, so I’m cleaning it. Look at this.” I use the nails of my thumb and forefinger to pick at the grime on the nearest bulb, and release it to fall in one solid sheet.
The man follows the drifting ick, frowning as the gray mass settles on the counter. “Ew.”
“Quite.”
He hikes his thumb toward the door. “Mind if I shut that? I need to pee.”
“You’re in the right place,” I say, supportively, and resume decrudding the bulbs.
For the sake of decorum, I position myself so I can’t see the man’s reflection, though even with his distance from the mirror, one broad shoulder is visible around my own reflection.
I focus on my task and try to ignore the unmistakable sound of someone who stands to pee.
Another panel of gray detritus comes loose. Isn’t dust mostly dead skin cells? I grimace. So gross.
The toilet flushes, and a fly is zipped. I hear, “If we’re cleaning, I’ll do the toilet. That’s not fit for a lady’s eyes.”
To say nothing of a queen, I think.
Or not, as the big guy says, “Queen?” I pretend that I haven’t accidentally spoken my thoughts aloud and thank him for his offer. The toilet is, indeed, foul.
A cabinet opens and closes, and he scrubs the toilet as I wipe down the remaining bulbs. He extends a polite “Excuse me” to wash his hands, and I step aside, focusing on eliminating the smudge my shoulder made on the mirror when I stood.
Satisfied, I decide it is time to get down off the counter. But as I turn, my heel hits a wet patch. I gasp, going into free fall. I’m coming down hard—
Until I’m not. Strong hands grip my waist, and I let out a grunt unbecoming of a lady of my status. My hands close on beefy shoulders, and I find myself staring down into a pair of remarkable gray eyes.
The hands at my waist give me a little squeeze, guiding me to a kneeling position on the counter, making us eye level. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—” What am I? Other than super drunk, sharing a space with a large, unfamiliar man, and probably overdue for a threat assessment.
“Assess away.”
I frown. I’m thinking out loud. That’s no good.
But I accept his invitation, leaning back as far as I can without releasing my hold on his shoulders, because they feel really nice.
He’s dressed in a light, fitted sweater in a pale blue, with a white crew neck tee underneath.
The sleeves of the tee are obvious under the sweater, creating rings around his bulging upper arms.
“It’s hard to find things that fit me,” he says quietly.
“It looks very nice,” I say. “But tight? I hope it’s not uncomfortable.”
He shrugs, as though resigned to his ringed fate. “Sleeves are never big enough around.”
“That must be difficult.” I look him up and down. And side to side. He’s truly a landmass of a human; I can’t fathom how much height he’d have on me if I were on the ground. His shoulders are so wide, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine him having to turn to the side to get through doorways.
“It’s happened,” he mumbles, so self-conscious that I let out an “Aww!” of sympathy.
One of my hands shifts from his shoulder to pat his cheek.
He closes his eyes, pressing the side of his face into my palm with a faint, satisfied smile.
His face is smooth, like he’s only just shaved, and is so, so warm.
Even without those exceptional eyes, this fellow is a treat to look at. He has a firm jawline and defined cheekbones, not so high as to be pretty, but striking. Thick brows, too, and dark lashes. All terribly manly. Very appealing.
I have completed my assessment and identified him as a sexy man.
His eyes flutter open. “You’re pretty,” he says, as though extending an olive branch.
“I like your hair. I like short hair on women. I like the shape of your head,” he adds, which is an embarrassment of likes, but the unsolicited flattery makes my chest feel mushy.
Which I hope I hope I hope isn’t a sign of impending vomit.
“You seem very…” He frowns. “Fancy.”
I cast aside any fears of vomiting. “Fancy?”
“Cause of how you talk? Or the dress.”
I beam. “Thank you! I’d been saving it.”
“And your nails,” he adds. I lift my hand from his face, and he cranes his neck to inspect my nails. “They’re very long. How do you use your phone?”
This is a good question. “Carefully?”
He nods, seeming to take this in, then cocks his head. “Do you always clean bathrooms at house parties?”
“Only when there’s a dick on the mirror,” I say, but I’m totally absorbed in this man’s face.
His eyes really are amazing. He half smiles, letting me know that I probably just said that “amazing” bit aloud, but I can’t be bothered to be embarrassed because that smidge of a smile makes his eyes sparkle!
I lean forward on my knees to look closer, pressing my hands against his very firm and—ooh!
—very warm chest—for balance. His eyes are dark gray.
Slate. The color of a Weimaraner’s coat.
A lesser woman might compare them to storm clouds, but I show tremendous restraint as I study them.
Gray, with flecks of gold. Amazing! How does someone even get gray eyes?
“Genetics?”
I blink. That came from the eyes’ mouth. The eyes’ owner’s mouth. Which—I allow my attention the multi-inch trek required to consider his lips—is very nice.
And very close. We are very close.
I wonder what his lips feel like. Intrepid explorer queen that I am, I lift a hand from his chest and use my index finger to trace along the line of his jaw, grazing his lower lip. “Soft.”
The lips part slightly, tongue darting to taste where I’d just touched. Ooh, tongue!
I gasp. I’ve just had the best idea! “I’m going to kiss you, if that’s okay,” I tell the lips, already preparing for launch. But as I initiate, the hands at my waist hold me in place, stopping me from making contact.
“Are you drunk?”
I shake my head. Silly question, lips. “I’m not drunk. I’m Ellie.” And I’m the queen. And I’m coy. And kinda sexy. But sad. And maybe a little scared—
Lips frown, the lower one jutting out in the most delectable way. “You’re Ellie and a queen and you’re coy and sexy, but sad and scared?”
To my horror, my eyes sting with sudden tears. I freeze, my mission to lips forgotten. Because of all of those things, I am mostly the last one.
I am scared.
I force my next breath in slowly, painfully aware of the way it shudders through my chest, like hiccupping sobs in reverse.
The stunning eyes I’m staring into soften, the tenderness among the storm clouds threatening to undo every careful bit of scaffolding I’ve erected to keep myself upright this week. The fears press against my defenses.
I push back harder. “And I’d like to kiss you, Tall Man. Please? Are you drunk?” I ask, because it seems like a good question. I’m smiling again. We are so good at questions!
Lips smile back, angling closer. “I’m not drunk, I’m—”
Tumbling forward, I finally make it to his lips.
They part upon contact, the tip of his tongue eager and teasing.
The hands at my waist slide up my bare back, pulling me closer.
The whole front of me is warm and melty and soft, the chest and abdomen of Man Mountain a solid slab of heat.
It’s like a hot stone massage at every point of contact, a soothing firmness.
For a second, I’m sure my eye is going to fog up, but I don’t let myself think about that because I am still the queen.
And coy and sexy, but no longer
even a little bit
scared.