“Um, yeah?”
“Got your razor. You want to grab it, or…?”
“Oh. Thank you.” I pull the curtain back just enough to pass my hand through, hesitate, and then tense up when something touches me.
What I initially think is a man’s hand is, in fact, just the safety blade, being held out. When I cup my hand, he drops it in and I pull back.
I don’t move.
He doesn’t either. “You okay in there?”
“Yes. Yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
I open my mouth to disagree, then shut it.
“You looking for your clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Right here. Second hook.”
Shaking a little, I snap the blade into its base and set it on the ledge. I feel foolish, like the ultimate in uncool.
“Want me to hand ’em in?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” I swoosh the curtain open in time to see my savior’s wide back as he walks back towards the sink. I recognize the man from the Dungeon last night. Not Zed, the other one. The one I spent way too much time thinking about in my tent today.
The Overlord. He’s in jeans again and work boots, looking nothing like the boss. My eyes slide down his wide shape, taking in paint stains and burn marks on fabric and skin. I get stuck staring at a hefty, scarred forearm that’s lined with muscle and veins. The hair is dark and looks soft, though everything else about him seems coarse.
He comes to a stop in front of the sink he’s clearly working on. My gaze shifts to the half-fogged mirror and runs smack into his.
Oh, crap!
Feeling as though I’ve been zapped, I swipe the curtain closed, only to be swamped right away by embarrassment.What now, genius?
I need my clothes to get dressed, but they’re too far to reach without opening the damn curtain again.
I shut my eyes and lean against the side of the stall. Could I not be a little more like Max, for once in my life? Maybe.
When I open my eyes again, I see movement through the sliver left between the curtain and the wall. I watch the man dip to the floor, tighten something, then stand up again to turn on the faucet. He doesn’t care about me, right? I’m by far one of the place’s lesser attractions. I mean, look at me, hiding in the bathroom like a scared animal or something.
While the faucet’s still running, I tighten the towel around my chest, open the curtain all the way, and step out. See? He’s not watching me anymore.
I grab my clothes, breath still shaky, turn around and close the curtain, not daring to look his way until the very last second. But when I do, all my breath leaves me in a rush because heiswatching and his eyes…
Holy shit. My palm slams to my open mouth, keeping in the sounds my frantic lungs are trying to make.
His eyes. Those eyes.
They’re seared into my memory, even with the curtain closed, they’re as clear as sun spots: blue, bright and intense, their focus so sharp I can’t believe they haven’t sliced through the bright yellow plastic hanging between us.
It takes a while to catch my breath and get dressed—half because I’m shaking and half because I can’t stop listening for him. I hear tools clang while I snap my bra on over painfully sensitive nipples, something scuffs while I drag my shirt on, footsteps while I pull my pants up. Then, in the harsh silence between my quick, overloud heartbeats—nothing.
When I finally emerge, I’m relieved to see that he’s gone.
Weird, though, how relief feels almost exactly like disappointment.
