Chapter 29 Birdie
Birdie
“Do you want to shower? You’ve got to be freezing your ass off in those clothes.” I say, trying to break the tension, and feeling weird that he is being all weird.
“Yeah, probably a good idea.” He says, starting to feel around his pockets, emptying the contents onto the dresser.
His cell phone, wallet, pocket knife, and a couple sticks of very soggy, misshapen gum sticks.
“If you want to throw your clothes out here, I can run them down to the laundry room and dry them for you. I noticed it’s only a couple doors down.” I say, hiking my thumbs over my shoulders in the direction of the door.
“Yeah, that’d be great actually.”
We stand there, facing off in an awkward silence for a few beats.
I’m assuming both of us just unsure of how to act.
This is my brother’s thoughtful best friend.
Whom I’ve loved ever since knowing of his existence.
And here I am, in a motel room with him standing in front of me in soggy clothes, with a shower just feet away that he will soon be in.
Naked. And I will have his clothes. And I’m his best friend’s little sister.
Who has roped him into a day long favor that turned into a slumber party. What a turn of events.
“Alright, well I’ll just go shower. You feel okay heading down the hall alone?” Dawsen asks, with almost a pang of worry in his voice.
“Yeah, I’ll just go start the dryer and come back. And I’ll bring your shank with me.” I tease, leaning forward and grabbing his pocket knife off the dresser.
“Atta girl.” He says, winking and disappearing into the bathroom. My heart sinks at the damn wink, and before my thoughts can spiral at the “atta girl” comment, the door clicks open just enough for him to reach his arm out, wet clothes clutched in hand, waiting for me to grab them.
“Thanks.” I say awkwardly as I grab the clothes and head straight for the laundry.
* * *
I put Dawsen’s clothes in the dryer and took a lap around the property.
We got the last available room, and it’s evident that this place is booked up.
There’s a faint buzz of 90s country music playing on the speakers that line the property, and the covered common areas are humming with a few families, chatting and laughing.
The rain hasn’t let up, and the sound of it against the metal awnings is almost peaceful sounding.
There’s a small restaurant attached to the motel—it’s neon signage is reflecting on the rain soaked pavement.
‘Hal’s Hideaway’ is written in a western font lit up in bright neon.
I decide to head back to the room before Dawsen gets worried and has to come chase me down in his birthday suit. The more thought I give that though, that’s a situation I wouldn’t mind so much.
* * *
I slide the key card into the door and wait for the light to turn green before pulling the handle down and letting myself in. Click, here I come.
I walk in and see the bathroom door swung wide open, steam pouring out like this is some porno. How hot was his shower anyways? I’ve never seen a bathroom steam like that in real life.
Dawsen is standing at the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, abs fully visible, shoulders, strong and very much in my line of vision. My mouth suddenly feels drier than the Sahara desert. Like I just swallowed cotton.
“I’m back!” I say, my voice shakes a bit, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Are you hungry? It looks like there’s a bar on the property. Maybe we should grab some food?” I ask. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. He can probably hear my stomach growling from here.
“Starving. And I could use a beer.” He says, still messing with his hair in the mirror.
I haven’t moved—just standing here ogling and admiring silently the muscles in his sides.
Like what are those even called? I’ve never even thought much about side muscles.
But apparently I’m a big fan of them and that’s also when I notice what looks very much like a tattoo across his side, towards the bottom of his rib cage.
I’m just far enough away to not be able to make out what it is exactly, but I’m curious.
How long has he had a tattoo? And why do I suddenly have a twist of pain in my gut at the realization of just how much I don’t know about him.
I’m jealous almost—of every person who has been around and who has had a more personal view of his life the last few years than I’ve had.
I push down the thought as best as I can, yet I crave to trace those lines with the tips of my fingers.
“Uhh, I’ll go check on your clothes. Be right back.” I say awkwardly, practically running away. My mind was a runaway train there and I didn’t trust that bitch.
I fast walk to the laundry room and see that the dryer cycle is almost finished. Thank God for these industrial dryers. I need food so that I can think with my brain and not other parts of me, and that’s just not gonna happen if Dawsen is naked.
I wait a couple minutes before the machine sounds off and the drum stops whirring.
I pull open the door, grab the clothes and toss them onto the folding table that’s in the center of the room.
I start folding his jeans, boxer briefs, t-shirt and utility jacket into a nice pile and do everything in my power not to bring them up to my nose and inhale them.
God. I really do belong in an institution don’t I?
I thought I was cured of this madness. But you can’t give me Dawsen’s boxers and not expect me to get a little sweaty.
I rap my knuckles against the door a couple times, a warning before I enter. Which seems ironic because I already know he’s naked in there. I’m holding his clothes after all.
I push the door open and Dawsen is leaning up against the bathroom door, typing into his phone. He doesn’t look up, so I pad across the room and set the clothes on the dresser.
“The rain is finally letting up a little bit. I’ll just wait out here so you can get dressed and we can head over to the bar?” I ask, making sure we’re on the same page.
He clicks off his phone and looks over at me. I basically ran back to the door after I set his clothes down. The space is good.
“Sounds great. Hey—are you warm enough? Why don’t you take my jacket.
” He reaches for it sitting on the dresser.
He grabs it and strides right over to me.
Towel hanging low on his hips. That indentation that is basically an arrow pointing to everything that towel is covering is staring me dead in the eyes.
I take a couple un-calculated steps backward, bumping my back against the door in the most ungraceful manner. I can’t help but laugh, which makes him cock a smug eyebrow at me.
“You ok?” He asks, handing me the jacket that’s fresh from the dryer.
“Oh, yes… yeah, I—I’m dandy.” I say, feeling my face contort into a weird dorky grin.
I grab the coat, and quickly turn to face the door, bolting out and inhaling the crisp wet air.
The door clicks shut behind me, and my head is hot from adrenaline and I realize that I’m going to have a long night ahead of me if I can’t act like a respectable woman.
So, I’ll do just that. I do a calming motion with my hand in front of my face like I’m making an effort to compose myself. I slide on Dawsen’s jacket and love the way it feels wrapped around me. Oversized, warm, and cozy.
There’s something intimate about wearing someone else’s coat. Ya know? Like, I’m a part of the places he’s been, who he is, the things he’s done, the conversations he’s had while wearing this jacket. And I love the idea that he and I are the only ones who knows what it feels like to wear it.
I’m lost in those thoughts as Dawsen steps out of the room, looking effortlessly gorgeous—damp hair and wearing the same thing as earlier, but somehow even sexier now.
It’s probably because the sun has set, and the string lights are reflecting off the wet ground, and I’m still picturing the obscene towel wearing situation from earlier.
I swallow and straighten, as if to snap myself out of whatever my brain is doing.
“Are you ready to go? Are you going to be too cold, I can give you your jacket back, really, I’ll be fine.”
Without a word, Dawsen presses his hand at the small of my back and nods at the sidewalk ahead of us that leads to the bar.
We start walking in companionable silence and I guess he’s not going to take me up on the jacket offer. Which, I’m grateful for. It’s cold as shit out here. We’re walking close enough that my arm is grazing his. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and his stride is tall and confident.
That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about him—the way he is. The way he carries himself. He’s always seemed so tall, so confident, so sure of himself even when he was just a teenager when he was supposed to be awkward and lanky. He just has always seemed to know what to do with his hands.
Tucked into pockets while he walks.
Pressing on the small of my back.
Reaching across the back of seat when he’s driving.
The way he holds a pen.
The way he’s reaching over me right now to open the door for me, before I can do it myself.
The sex deprived version of me also can’t help think about what else his hands could do. Virgin Birdie should not be working so closely with Dawsen Jones, That’s one thing I know for sure, but look where I’ve found myself on a Monday night.
Stranded in a strange town with Dawsen Jones in a motel room with one bed. If I were reading a romance novel, I’d be giddy and squealing right now. God help me