“Who’s the band?”
“It’s a local band in New York. I went to their concert a few months ago.”
The guy pushes my shirt up to the edge of my bra as he cleans the scrapes along my abs. His hands aren’t even touching me, but it feels really good. The way he’s slowly moving the cloth over my stomach. The amount of pressure he’s using. It’s making me feel things I shouldn’t. I have a boyfriend. I should only be feeling this way with him, not some guy I just met.
“You into music?” he asks.
“I like it, but I’m not obsessed with it like my boyfriend is. He knows all these obscure bands and knows the lyrics to like a million songs. Well, not a million, but you know what I mean.”
The guy runs the washcloth along my lower abs, along the seam of my shorts. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the dirty thoughts I’m having.
I must really miss Axl. I never get this turned on.
“That should be good for now,” the guy says, taking his hand away. “I’ll get some bandages.”
Opening my eyes, I see him opening the cabinet next to the sink. I sit up and look at my exposed torso. It looks like someone with long fingernails ran them across my skin, making long, thin lines dotted with blood.
“Does your boyfriend live around here?” the guy asks, still searching for stuff in the cabinet.
“Not even close. He lives in Brooklyn.”
The guy walks over to me, holding a tube of something and some bandages. “New York?”
I nod. “It’s where I’m from. I’m here for year then I’m moving back.”
“Why here?” he asks, spreading whatever’s in that tube on my knee.
“It’s a long story.” I hold my hand out. “Give me some of that and I’ll do my stomach.”
I can’t risk having him put his hands there again. I’m still feeling what he did to me. The heat. The arousal. The throbbing need to be with someone like that again.
He bandages up my knee, then takes a step back. “You want some different clothes to put on?”
“I don’t think yours would fit me,” I say, getting off the counter.
“I didn’t mean mine. I have some I think would fit you.”
“Your mom’s?”
“They belong to a friend. She keeps stuff here for when she stays over.”
Stays over?Is he talking about that girl I saw him kissing? If so, she seems like more than a friend.
“You’re shivering in those clothes,” he says. “And there isn’t much left to that shirt.”
He’s right. When I tried to pull it down, I noticed another tear.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll take a different shirt if you have one.”
He goes out the door and returns with a white t-shirt and yellow terry cloth shorts.
“She wears these when she’s sitting around the pool,” he says, giving me the clothes. “She won’t care if you take them.”
“You have a pool?”
“We passed right by it on the way in.”
“Guess I didn’t notice.”
