7. Easton
Chapter Seven
EASTON
Long after the last red and orange smears had washed away, I stood in the shower. Hot water poured down my body, and steam filled my lungs with every inhale.
My palms pressed against the tiled wall, and the water splashed against my head, trickling down my shoulders, chest, stomach, and back.
Although the pain wasn’t that bad, part of me wished they’d finished what they’d started. Even waking up this morning, I had discovered that the dominant feeling in me was disappointment.
I turned the water off and stepped out of the shower.
The cuts on my face could have been worse.
I’d worked up an image of a swollen eye, a bruised cheek, and a split lip and eyebrow, but the truth wasn’t so bad.
Sure, my lip was cut and angry red, but Jace had cleaned the rest of my wounds well.
They looked more like scratches already.
My left eye was fine now that no blood crusted the eyelids shut.
The bruises on my body were nasty, but they were only marginally worse than some I’d gotten playing hockey. Most importantly, my ankle didn’t hurt.
My vanity would survive now that I knew my career wasn’t erased from my future. And not just my career but my college tuition and my life away from Mom and Dad.
I put my clothes on, wincing slightly as I pushed my arms through the short sleeves of my T-shirt and pulled it over my head.
I would be better by tomorrow. I would do the drills even if it ripped me in half.
Maybe they had taken every shred of safety from me last night, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of showing it.
I collected my stained and sweaty clothes from the floor and the bloodied towel. When I stepped out of the bathroom, the apartment was quiet and empty. I looked from the living room to the open doors of my bedroom and the spare one. He wasn’t here.
My heart clenched with tension, anxiety rising like a tingling, crawling colony of ants moving up my legs, torso, and neck.
He would be back. Now that he was inside, I doubted I would just get rid of him on Sunday.
I wouldn’t want to throw him out, except that every steel-like gaze he shot me filled me with unease.
I didn’t think I could live with it for long.
My bedroom was a mess. Bending over and clenching my teeth, I stripped the linens off the bed.
Dirt, blood, iodine. I shoved them into a basket and carried them out.
I picked up my key from the small shoe dresser by the front door and noticed the other set of keys was missing.
He had made himself at home here. It was a matter of moments before he occupied the spare bedroom and began the barrage of leverage against me.
Oh, he had that power. I wasn’t fooling myself.
He could leave it hanging over my head until I buckled under the pressure.
I carried my dirty laundry down the street to the laundromat, looking over my shoulder in broad daylight every time I thought I heard footsteps.
The streets were busy with traffic, although few pedestrians occupied the sidewalks.
On my short journey to the laundromat, I spotted a middle-aged woman walking a small dog, an elderly man leading two little children toward the park, and countless cars stuck in a jam.
Some drivers and passengers glanced at me as I passed them, but none called for me to stop. It was, after all, morning.
I hurried a little, although I doubted I knew what I was hurrying away from.
When I slipped into the small store full of washers and dryers, I stuffed my laundry into the nearest empty one.
Inside, a middle-aged man was unloading a dryer, and chills ran down my spine.
He was well-built, his bare arms muscled and large.
He didn’t acknowledge me as I filled the washer with coins and hurried out.
My day took on an air of terror. Throughout it, I seemed to be capable of scaring myself with little more than fantasies. Enemies lurked from every corner, waiting to finish sending the message in case it hadn’t been delivered loud and clear last night.
I bought groceries in the small supermarket near my building.
I looked out the kitchen window while cooking.
I paced the living room, occasionally looking through the spyhole, only to see Mrs. Johnson leaving her apartment or returning from her shopping with bags of groceries.
I didn’t eat much, losing my appetite as soon as my plate was in front of me.
Later, I went to move my laundry from the washer into the dryer, fighting the urge to run back to the apartment.
I strolled around the block, my fists clenched to prevent trembling.
All of this for one attempted kiss. All of this because I couldn’t see the clear line between flirtation and simply existing.
I returned to my apartment, closed the door, leaned against it, and squeezed my eyes shut.
Kyle’s face appeared before me exactly as it had been two months ago.
He had black eyebrows sitting low above his eyes, giving him that bad-boy look that reminded me of Jace.
The swagger, too, was familiar. And when he walked around the apartment in those tiny shorts like he had something to prove, my heart would climb into my throat.
Time after time, he’d done it. He would stand by the window, lean against the windowsill, put a hand on his chiseled abs, and feel himself casually while talking to me about something entirely different.
He must have seen how red I turned in moments like that.
So, when we had a few beers at the end of our sophomore year, TV playing something long forgotten in the background, both of us sinking into the couch and spreading casually, it was like a bed of dead, dry leaves waiting for the match to fall.
I supplied the spark that would burn my life, my heart, my soul.
After Kyle brushed his knee against mine, bare skin touching bare skin, it was an invitation to my attention. I looked at him, his teeth closing around his lower lip. He lifted his eyebrows playfully and looked at me. “What?” he asked, his voice rising a little higher.
He had a hand on his crotch, a thing he seemingly did without thinking. The outline of his cock was more than a little visible. He was one of those guys who walked around with a semi-hard-on without even noticing it, always touching himself, adjusting, running his hand over it.
I knew the impulse. There wasn’t a guy who didn’t know what it felt like. But I had always resisted it. It was crude, immature, and totally inappropriate, but it turned me on when guys did it. I hated how easily I fell for it and how quickly I thought it could have something to do with me.
My gaze dropped to his cock, the bulge growing.
Kyle snorted. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?” My mouth was dry as fuck. My heartbeat filled my ears. My cock stirred as possibilities opened up before me.
“What’s with the horny eyes?” Kyle asked, cocking a corner of his mouth into a smirk. And when I snapped my mouth shut, he moved an inch closer to me. “Did you ever jerk off with a guy?”
Panic flooded me. “No.”
But Kyle pressed his hand harder against his bulge.
“It’s fun.” He looked at the TV. He was as cool and casual as ever while I flipped through the channels.
The one that lit up the screen was not the sort of channel I thought they had anymore, but when I looked at it, the confusion only grew more terrible.
Was this part of some kind of fantasy? Were we supposed to pretend like this turned us on?
A hairy, beefy guy was doing unspeakable things to a very bouncy woman on the screen.
Kyle’s voice was crackling when he said, “Perfect.”
He started moving his hand along his bulge without any hesitation. His gaze was on the screen, eyes glassy and unfocused, his jaw clenched hard. He touched himself before my eyes, almost like I wasn’t even there.
But I was, and he knew. “What are you waiting for?”
I took the remote and turned off the TV. I had been longing for a moment like this since we’d moved in together. I didn’t want to ruin it with some crazy fantasy. We could role-play later if he wanted. Now, I wanted it to be true.
“Why did you do that?” Kyle asked, stopping his hand’s increasingly quick motions. The shadows cast by a distant lamp were deep and feathered.
“That’s not how I want it,” I said.
Kyle looked at me with a frown. He swallowed, lips parting.
I worked up my courage, bringing it from zero to a hundred in one breath of air that filled my lungs. My hand fell on his thigh, and I leaned in. This is how I want it, I thought, my nose coming close to his.
I didn’t know what it was that I felt. It appeared like an incredible wave of relief. Perhaps a wave of longing. It slammed into me. I needed a moment to realize that it wasn’t an internal sensation at all. Kyle’s hands pushed me away. “What the fuck, dude?”
My ears rang. Wasn’t this how it should have gone? Wasn’t my suave gesture of turning off the TV and turning my attention to him the right thing to do? I wanted him. Didn’t he see that? I didn’t want some girl’s tits filling the screen so we could pretend we weren’t into each other.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he demanded, the push turning to shove, my back slamming against the couch. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you a perve or something? Jesus, fuck.” He got up. “I’m not a homo, you sick fuck.”
“No, Kyle, wait,” I said, my mind catching up with the situation. Yet, I was out of options. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t meant anything by leaning in to kiss him.
“Get away from me,” Kyle said with disgust as he rounded the coffee table and steered clear of me.
“Hold on, it’s not…” What? I wondered. It’s not what you think? As if. We both knew what this had been. Embarrassment brimmed within me, filling me so far that it felt like I would shatter.