He pulls my leggings down. I'm not wearing underwear because I haven't done laundry in three weeks and I ran out and?—
Jesus Christ, Scarletta. You're standing in front of three strange men and you're not wearing underwear.
The leggings pool at my ankles. Someone lifts my left foot. Then my right. The fabric disappears.
I'm naked except for my bra. Sports bra. Gray. The elastic is shot. One of the straps is held together with a safety pin.
The tall one reaches around my back. Finds the clasp.
"I really don't think?—"
Shush.
The bra falls away.
I'm completely naked.
I should cover myself. Cross my arms over my breasts. Put my hands between my legs. But I'm frozen. Paralyzed. Three men are looking at me and I can't move and I can't breathe and?—
Hands touch my elbow. Guiding me. Not forcing. Just—moving me.
There's a tub. I didn't see it before. How did I not see it before?
It's massive. Freestanding. Oval. Carved from a single piece of white marble that looks like it was stolen from a Roman bathhouse. Steam rises from the surface.
They guide me to the edge. I step up onto a small platform. The tall one takes my hand. Steadying me.
I lower one foot into the water.
It's perfect.
Not too hot. Exactly right. The kind of temperature that makes your muscles unclench before you realize they were clenched.
I sink lower. The water rises around my calves, my thighs, my hips. Someone's hand stays on my elbow until I'm sitting, submerged to my shoulders.
The heat hits me everywhere at once. My skin flushes. My heartbeat slows.
When was the last time you took a bath? When was the last time you?—
Hands touch my hair. Gentle fingers working through the tangled mess. I haven't brushed it in?—
Don't think about that. Don't think about how disgusting you are.
Water pours over my head. Warm. Someone's using a pitcher or a cup, rinsing my hair, smoothing it back from my face.
Something floral-scented. Shampoo. Expensive shampoo that doesn't smell like synthetic fruit. Hands massage my scalp. Working the lather through. Fingers finding every knot, every tangle, patiently working them loose.
I close my eyes.
This is insane. You're insane. Three strange men are washing your hair and you're just—sitting here. Letting them.
More water. Rinsing. The shampoo swirls away.
Then conditioner. Thicker. Silkier. They work it through the ends of my hair, patient with every snarl.
A hand appears in front of my face holding a white washcloth. Soft. Probably Egyptian cotton or some shit I can't afford.
The blonde one kneels beside the tub. He dips the cloth in the water, adds something from a bottle—body wash that smells like jasmine and something darker, richer—and begins washing my arm.
