Текст книги "Addicted for Now"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

{ 9 }
LILY CALLOWAY

Two days pass and I still haven’t had sex. And on top of that, I welched on telling Lo about the old tests. But I plan to. I just need to…phrase it correctly so he joins my immoral side of things. And Connor has yet to find any evidence about the so-called blackmailer (or whatever he is—considering he still hasn’t asked for anything in return).

“What about Patrick Bomer?” I sit with my legs crossed on the bed, an old navy-blue Dalton Academy yearbook on my lap. Big black circles outline certain faces and on others I’ve drawn X’s…and mustaches.

I raise my head and catch Lo’s frown through the circular mirror mounted above our dresser. He spent a solid twenty minutes dressing this morning and another ten minutes on his hair. It’s his first job at Calloway Couture. Hell, it’s his first job ever, and he’s freaking out about it.

“Why would Patrick hate me?” he asks, disheveling the thicker pieces of his hair on purpose.

“You won first place in our art class’s end-of-the-year projects.” Lo took a five minute video of a plastic bag blowing in the wind, which was beyond boring and beyond unoriginal, seeing as how American Beauty did it first.

He turns to look at me. “What? That’s not my fault. My project was damn good.”

“The entire class fell asleep,” I remind him. And Patrick made a bronze sculpture of Apollo, but it was hardly appreciated by Mr. Adams.

“So he should be pissed at the teacher, not me.”

I don’t refute because he’s right. Teachers gave Lo special treatment, even so much as awarding his crappy video the highest prize because he’s a Hale. Because his father is a multi-billionaire with connections so intricate that a spider would be jealous of the web Jonathan Hale weaves.

I glance at my computer screen on the bed. “Maybe he’s not angry anymore,” I add. “He’s at Carnegie Mellon for art now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Facebook.”

Lo groans. “Please tell me you didn’t sign up.” We’ve had an anti-social media rule since high school. We like privacy too much to waste it away on cyberspace.

“I didn’t. I signed you up.”

His eyes darken.

“The way I see it,” I say quickly, “is that if someone hates you, they’ll probably start slandering you on here.” I point to the screen. “It’s like a fly trap for suspects.”

Surprisingly, he risks his wrinkle-free, steam-pressed khakis to sit down on the bed beside me. Our canopy net tangles in his leg, and he curses under his breath, swatting the fabric away. “I swear I’m going to cut this stupid thing down.”

“I like it.” Even if I got caught in the net like a praying mantis last night. I roll sometimes when I sleep. It happens.

“We’re not in a jungle trying to ward away bugs.”

“Rose designed the room,” I remind him. She decorated it while Lo was away at rehab. “She’ll be hurt if I change it because of you.”

“Even better,” he says. I doubt he believes that.

“I’m going to forget what you just said,” I mutter and swivel the computer screen to him.

Lo gapes. “You had to use that photo as my profile picture?”

I break into a wide smile, and I can’t stop staring at the photo. He’s shirtless except for a pair of Spider-Man pajama pants. He looks sexy and cool.

The website consumes his attention, and he scrolls through the profiles of old students. “Married, married, pregnant, dead, engaged, pregnant, married,” he lists. “Did anyone stay in their twenties after high school or did everyone just pass GO to collect a 401k and diapers?”

“Maybe they’re in love,” I defend.

“We’re in love. You don’t see us getting married or having babies.”

I frown, not sure why this hurts me a little. Marriage isn’t really a plan of mine, at least not until I’m older and move past this awkward, confusing stage of life. But the way Lo said those words—well, they make marriage seem nonexistent. Like instead of a maybe, he’s saying never.

“You don’t want to get married?” I ask softly. I can barely meet his gaze. I’m twenty, just stepping out of my teens. I shouldn’t worry about marriage and babies, especially not when we’re struggling being healthy ourselves.

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I’m not closing that door. I just can’t think about it.” He pauses. “Do you…think about it?” He frowns deeply, worried that we’re not on the same track. We usually are, and it’s kind of terrifying to see him veer off without me.

“Not a lot,” I say. “Before I was with you, I never thought I’d be married.” I slept with random guys. I thought monogamy wasn’t a lifestyle I could ever conform to.  Now that I’m starting to find a good groove, I’m beginning to fantasize about normality.

“But now you do?” he asks.

I shrug. “I guess but definitely not anytime soon. I want to get through the terrible twenties first.” I wave my hand. “Let’s not talk about marriage or having babies. It’s stupid anyway. We have more important things to deal with.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but his face contorts more, even graver than before. “You want kids?”

Oh…I can tell just by the way he says it that he doesn’t want them. A lump rises to my throat, and I feel like this is going to be a trick question. I look over my shoulder for the right answer but it’s not concealed there. “Umm…” I mumble. “I don’t know.”

He blinks, watching me as I watch him. The answers seem to spill out of our silence.

“Maybe,” I blurt out, not able to hold back any longer. “When I’m older but not too old, I guess. My eggs are on a clock.” I nod and then grimace. “I mean, you know…” I am two seconds from burrowing underneath the comforter and never coming out. Hide, Lily, hide! My face flames. I really wish my feelings weren’t so visible.

“Lil,” Lo breathes, his eyes softening considerably. I am one of those sea vessels wobbling in the ocean before they’re hit by a wave. “You…and me…” Here it is. “We probably shouldn’t have children.”

I stare blankly at the black and white comforter, gathering my thoughts. I never allowed myself to dream that far ahead, to construct a reality where Lo and I start a family together. Maybe because deep in my heart, I knew it doesn’t exist.

His words paint the blackness of my future into a clearer picture. And it’s an image I want to return to the store. A life where we don’t have kids. Where our family consists of me and him. And that’s it.

I understand where he’s coming from. We’re both addicts, and even if we could raise a kid, alcoholism is still hereditary. Lo wouldn’t wish his troubles on anyone, especially his own child.

“I know,” I say with a sadder nod. “I just don’t want to think about it.”

He distracts my sullen mood by pointing at a picture in the yearbook. “You gave Jacqueline Kinney a mustache. That’s just mean.”

My lips slowly rise, and I glance at his head. His hair sticks up in different directions. And I’m sure he thinks that’s what supermodel hair looks like, but Rose will not be pleased.

I scoot over, pushing the laptop away, and I run my fingers through his locks, combing his thick brown hair on top. He jerks back almost instantly.

“I spent valuable time on this.” He clutches my wrist.

“I think all that time was spent ogling yourself,” I refute. “Let me fix it.” But my gaze drifts from his hair, landing on his pink lips that hover so very close to mine. I imagine how they’ll feel on my soft ones. And I ache to press up against them.

His lips begin to move, but I don’t hear the words from them. I’m transfixed, and when they go still, a magnetic hold propels me to his mouth.

I touch his lips with mine, and he kisses back at first, soft and sweet. A raspy moan tickles my throat, and I crawl on his waist, straddling him, ready for something more. I just need him… I knead my fingers through his hair, and I squeeze my thighs.

He pulls back.

No. I breathe heavily like I’m currently running a half-marathon. I’m just starting to race up that steep incline, and he stopped me midway.

“Lily…”

My hands dip below his shirt, and I trace the ridges in his abs, gliding each finger along his bare chest. I unconsciously dig my pelvis, rocking a little, needing him more and more.

A groan escapes his lips this time, and he has to grab my wrists.

I don’t want to stop. It feels like I haven’t touched him in so long. It feels so unbearable. I remember the exhilaration and burst of coming. I want that sensation to ripple through me. I want my body to vibrate until I can’t see straight. I miss that so very much.

But when I meet his hard eyes, I see the answer. No. No. No. But I want to hear yes just once. I want to sigh in relief with the word.

“I haven’t had sex in days,” I say like it’s an accomplishment. “I thought I get rewarded for good behavior.”

His mouth curves into a genuine smile. I’ve won, I think. This is it. I tighten my legs around his waist again, his hardness driving me to new levels of eagerness.

“Whoa,” he protests, lifting me up underneath my arms. He sets me on his knees. No fun. “How about I make a deal with you?”

“I like deals,” I say, my gaze drifting to his cock.

“Eyes on me, Lil.”

I try. I’m trying. I am. “But aren’t deals against the rules?”

“Not this one.”

Now I’m curious. He rubs my leg, semi-splayed on his lap. I guess this is better than being chucked off him entirely. The movement grabs my attention, and I desperately wish his fingers would rise higher, to the spot that throbs so desperately for his touch.

“You can choose one thing to do right now. I can kiss you until you’re breathless.” He leans forward and places a small, fleeting kiss on my lips before his breath tickles my ear. “Or I can put my fingers inside of you and make you feel full.” Yes. “Or…” There’s another option? Oh jeez. I scoot forward, even against his wishes, and I grip his T-shirt between my fingers. I can practically feel him pulsing beneath me. Or maybe that’s just my need growing out of control. “…I can run my hand over your pants and make you come.” Double yes. “But…”

My shoulders drop at the realization that there’s a stipulation. I guess that’s why it’s called a deal and not a free-for-all…or a free-for-Lily. “I don’t like buts…” I trail off because I realize I do like butts, only the round kind.

“You’re turning red,” Lo notes. “Are you thinking about my ass?”

I drink in his rich amber eyes. “More like my ass and your—”

He covers my mouth with his hand and whispers in my ear again, “My cock isn’t going anywhere near your ass, Lily Calloway, but I’m glad to put it somewhere else.” He whispers a couple places, and I realize that I’ve latched onto his lap like a monkey, clinging so hard that I’m already wet and ready.

“But?” I say, reminding him that there was a big fat roadblock that he constructed.

“You can only pick one option. Or you can forgo all of them and choose to wait until tonight, and we’ll have sex. It’s up to you.” All I hear is we’ll have sex. But I have to wait for it. And right now, waiting eight minutes is torture that I don’t want to endure. How can I wait eight hours?

“I don’t like this deal.”

“Neither do I, but we have to practice self-control. Both of us.” Oh.

I mull the options and realize that if I choose something right now, he won’t be receiving any sort of pleasure. “I choose head. To give you head, I mean,” I say one of the most unladylike phrases I’ve ever used, but the last thing I care about right now is sophistication. And for a brief moment, I wonder how Connor and Rose are in bed—do they spout off anatomical parts or speak in beautiful prose? I’d ask Rose, but she’s private about that stuff. And I’m pretty sure her sex life is nonexistent since she has intimacy issues. And I hope she would tell me if she lost her virginity.

“Leave my dick out of this,” Lo says, equally classy.

“Why?” I frown and then my eyes widen. “Are blow jobs on the blacklist?” We still haven’t attended therapy together, but I imagine I’ll be begging my therapist for the details of that list next time I see her.

He covers my mouth again. “Stop…talking,” he says sternly. He shifts a little underneath me, and I’m about to glance down, but he lifts my chin before I catch a glimpse of his hardness.

Obviously I’m not the only one with raging hormones. I could smile, but I also feel guilty that he has to suffer because of my addiction.

My eyes flicker to his lips, and there’s a part of me that wants to give in and choose kissing. But kissing always leads to more with me, and being denied that will be harder than not having Lo at all.

I grab his wrist and pull his hand from my mouth. He gives me a warning look to not bring up his body parts. But that’s precisely the reason why I’m choosing tonight, the only option that offers him any sort of pleasure too.

“We can wait,” I say softly and slowly. Begrudgingly, I slide off his lap and the bed. I flip my laptop closed and go to straighten out my shirt in front of the mirror. The worst part—I won’t be able to release my pent-up frustration right now. The pulsing between my legs will have to stay. Because I’ve committed to no self-love. Once I start down that road, there’s no stopping. I’ll turn back into a compulsive beast, and I don’t want Lo to see me like that.

“Are you sure?” Lo calls from the bed.

He’s as surprised as me. Normally I’d take one of the immediate gratifications, even if it was fleeting. I’ll regret my decision in a couple of hours, but at least I’m making the smarter choice now.

I meet his eyes, and I swear they lighten, like he’s proud of me.

“Positive.”

* * *

In retrospect, I should have gone for the fondling over the clothes bit. I would have come and all would be well. Even after a shower, I sit behind my desk at the Calloway Couture offices with tension so crazy that I reflexively rub my lower half against my chair. My face flames when I catch myself, and I look up, wondering if Trish and Katie notice.

But both blondes type away behind their white desks, the workplace more like a loft, no cubicles. Racks of clothes shield the walls. Rose has a glass office that overlooks the rest of us, and right now, I miss her constant peeks across the room, her reprimanding gaze darting from her computer screen to my desk.

Her chair is empty, and I keep eyeing her office, wanting her to remind me why I shouldn’t sneak into the bathroom and do something naughty and just plain wrong.

But it will feel so good.

I’m two seconds from smacking my forehead on the desk. But I focus on my computer and the Excel spreadsheet. I try not to picture a naked Lo, which has already popped in my head three times. I fantasize about him too much, but I am thankful that no other guys infiltrate my thoughts. Missing him for three months has temporarily cured me. It was like my brain could only process one image: Loren Hale. All day, every day.

But by being alone—surrounded by clothes and two busy assistants, their eyes glued to computers—I can’t stop the sinful images from seeping right on in.

They begin with Lo walking towards me, still in the office. He shoves everything off my white desk and lifts me up roughly, none of his movements soft and slow. And in this particular fantasy, I’m wearing a dress.

And all he needs to do is shift my panties a little, and then he yanks my legs so they wrap tight around him, my back cool against the desk. And everything thrums so much. He tears down the top of my dress, his lips finding my breast, sucking, and then he thrusts…

Okay, I need to stop.

I squirm in my seat, the spot between my legs now pulsing, for real. There’s no doubt about it.

Maybe I can just log onto a porn site and once I stare at the pictures, all will be good. I’ll scroll through Tumblr’s naughty photos, and no one will know. I’ll hit that high I crave, and it will be okay again.

It’s an itch, a subconscious pulse. This time, I do slam my forehead down onto the keyboard, pounding my frustration until my computer lets out a screech. Shit.

I roll back a little, exhale deeply. And then a doorbell buzzes. Trish stands, her suede gray booties making the short trek to the door.

Rose is probably here. My anxiety starts to lessen. Her presence will surely keep me in line. I zone in on the Excel spreadsheet that details the collection’s current inventory. We have to ship a few more pieces to H&M because I messed up the order. I accidentally put a maxi-dress in the spring collection, and Rose has been trimming most of her clothes because they’re more flattering on the everyday girl.

My phone pings just as Trish opens the door. I check the text.

Whore – Unknown.

My heart explodes.

He has my number. He’s no longer going through Lo. What if it’s not the same person who texted him? I never thought it was possible that there could be multiple people involved in the text-threats.

I quickly log into the search engine and type my name, wondering if my secret has already been spilled. My fingers tremble as I scroll through a list of Lily Calloways. Most articles about me discuss my involvement with Fizzle. Some even call me a “soda heiress” which is a cooler title than I think I deserve. No trashy headlines pop up. Nothing about sex addiction.

I let out a short breath of relief, even if the word “whore” is still on my cell phone. Replying back may just fuel him to do something drastic—like call the tabloids—so I abandon the pursuit.

“Come on in,” Trish says. “Just stand along the back wall by the window. It’s tinted, so you don’t need to worry. I’m going to bring out the men’s clothes from our backroom. Help yourself to coffee and water on the table.”

What? I thought the male models were coming later today. Like in two hours. I check my clock on my phone. Oh…time really does fly when you’re stuck inside your head.

The guys file in. One by one. Each of them as striking as the next. It’s hard not to stare since that’s what they’re here for. I try to remember Daisy. I wouldn’t want anyone to gawk at my sister like I’m doing to these guys, but yet, I can’t stop.

I count off the models in my head. One, two, three… and when I reach nine, the door closes. Wait. Where’s Lo? And Rose? Rose and Lo. I need both of them here. And Lo should be the tenth model. Rose was going to drive him to the office since she had to run a few errands and would be here during the fitting. But yet, she’s not here.

Trish departs to the backroom, and Katie stands, ushering the guys towards my desk where they’ll linger. I sit by the window with a view of the city, and to the right of me is a table with freshly baked muffins, coffee and bottles of Evian.

I freak out.

I don’t know what else to call it. Just as Katie begins to look in my direction, I act as though I dropped a pen, and I squat to pick it up. Then I scuttle underneath my desk, hiding, and I quickly dial Lo’s number. Thankfully no one can see me, but I am sure they’re all wondering where the loony assistant disappeared to.

Maybe they’ll think I just teleported. I try to convince myself of the ridiculous and the impossible notion. But at least I can’t see them. Their deep voices and low laughter make me more paranoid than aroused. I just don’t want to stare at them for too long and begin to fantasize. Because sometimes I’ll try to turn those fantasies into realities. And I will not cheat on Loren Hale.

Not for anything.

I press my phone to my ear, the ringing incessant. “Pick up, pick up,” I mutter under my breath. I hug my knees to my chest, practically in a scared, little ball.

“Hey, it’s Lo.”

“Lo—”

“Leave a message, and I may get around to calling you back. But really, you should just call me again. And if it’s not important, then don’t bother calling at all.” BEEP.

“I hate that you haven’t changed your stupid answering machine,” I whisper angrily. “It tricks me every single time. And it’s not nice.”

A pair of jeans land near my desk. I jump, my eyes wide. They’re undressed. One of them is without pants. Oh. My. God…

I shut off the phone and redial. Answering machine. I swallow hard and say under my breath, “Um, Lo, where are you? Bye.” I hang up quickly, and I dial my sensible sister. The line rings twice before she answers.

“Are you okay?” Rose asks.

“Why is Lo not answering?” I wonder, biting my nails.

“He left his phone at the house.” Her voice muffles as she pulls the receiver from her lips. “Okay, okay, Lo, I understand. Calm down.” She huffs and then says louder, “Are the models already there?”

“Yep,” I say, catching a glimpse of a pair of bare ankles and legs—which means that he can see me curled up here. But I don’t dare move. “All nine Captain Americas have reported for duty. Where are you?” It’s not like Rose to be late.

“Stuck in traffic,” Rose tells me. “I told Connor I would pick up his dry cleaning, and there was a long line.”

“You could have told Harold to do it,” I say softly. The bare ankles are moving closer! I shut my eyes. Go away. Go away.

“I’d rather not use our mother’s butler, thank you.” Yes, I suppose that comes with some sort of stipulation. Like spending an extra couple of dinners in Villanova, and Rose already commits to Sunday get-togethers.

“Mmm-hmm.” The legs pause, too close now.

“Lily…” Rose trails. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can go wait in my office, okay? You don’t have to be around those models.”

I think it’s too late for that.

The male model squats, and I am met with beautiful brown eyes, tan skin, and full dark hair, swept in a perfect way. He has that Italian charm in his blinding smile. He tilts his head. “What are you doing under there?”

“I work down here,” I blurt out. I am roasting from head to toe.

He laughs a husky laugh.

“Lily.” I flinch at the sound of Lo’s voice, and I look over my shoulder, met with the back of the white desk. Right, I have the phone pressed to my ear.

“I’m Julian,” the model says, extending his hand.

My palm is too sweaty. He’ll think I’m weird if he shakes a slippery hand, so I point to my phone and give him a nervous smile. “Work stuff,” I say.

“What’s going on?” Lo asks through the receiver. “You okay, Lil?” His worried tone drives knots in my stomach. I don’t want him to be concerned that I’ll cheat. I know it’s a valid fear, but I wish he could trust me one-hundred percent. But he can only do that when I begin to trust myself.

Julian says, “When you’re finished, you should come out from under there. Your office has a great view.”

I know he’s just trying to be nice since I’m the anti-social monster hiding beneath her desk. He’s not hitting on me, but I can’t stop looking at his pretty eyelashes.

He stands, and I try to focus my thoughts on the phone call. “Lo?” I question whether he’s hung up.

“Lil,” he says slowly, “you’re freaking me the fuck out.”

“Sorry, I’m fine.”

“Where are you?”

“At my desk.” That’s not a lie, right? Technically I am right here. “I just…thought you were going to be in the room too.” I don’t want to cheat on him. I don’t want to even give my mind the ability to contemplate the thought—to wander and fantasize. That will kill me. Keeping them out of sight is best, even though it’s not healthy to avoid the opposite sex when Lo’s not around.

Once I have a handle on controlling the things that tempt me, it’ll be better. Today’s just not a good day. I am overly aroused.

“You don’t have to talk to them,” he reminds me.

Too late.

“I thought you said you were at your desk.”

“I am.”

“Then how come I don’t see you?”

He’s here? I can’t even crawl out from underneath my desk anymore, not even to greet Lo and Rose. Because everyone by the muffins will laugh and look at me funny for being down here. I just want to stay hidden until they all leave.

“Maybe,” I say, “because your superpower is to turn me invisible.”

He pauses. “That’s a horrible power. Take it back.”

“Okay fine. I may be here. But I’m not here on my chair,” I whisper.

And then I see a pair of ratted Vans. He bends in front of me the same way Julian did, but his face isn’t full of kind amusement. His eyes darken, and his brows harden in concern.

“Go model or try on clothes or, you know, do what you do,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m working on something down here.”

“Like what?”

Uhhh… “A report…thing.”

“Okay,” he says, and I relax, glad that he’s letting me off the hook. “Can I have a hug before I go?”

I crawl forward a little, still blocked by the desk sides, and I wrap my arms around him. He smells good. Like mint soap and a hint of citrusy cologne. Just before I let go, Lo’s arms tighten around my waist, and he begins tugging me out of my sanctuary.

“Lo,” I whisper fiercely. I shove his chest, trying to escape and crawl back to my den.

But he brings me into the light, and I bury my face in the crook of his arm, unwilling to meet the mocking gazes of the other models. I don’t want people to look at me like I’m a weird, abnormal girl.

Lo strokes the back of my head, and his lips brush my ear. “Hey, you’re okay. Lil, no one cares.”

“I care,” I mumble.

And then he clasps my face and before I can go spastic, his lips touch mine. He kisses deeply, his tongue slipping into my mouth. My thoughts, my insecurities—they whoosh out of my head and all my built-up tension starts to tighten again.

The distraction works too well. Because when he draws back, a few of the models clap and whistle in jest. Lo shakes his head at me as my elbows blush.

“Don’t listen to them.” He rolls out my chair and guides me until I’m sitting behind my desk once more. And he hangs onto the back, his head dipping low as he meets my ear. “Just think of finishing that kiss tonight.”

I turn my head a fraction to see his sharp features, all ice. “And what if I can’t wait?”

“You can,” he assures me, but his muscles flex, worried by my sudden claim.

“You’re right,” I say. “I can.” I nod, knowing I have to. I have to wait in this chair, with my back to ten male models, and I have to finish double checking my spreadsheet. I nod again, trying to build confidence.

He kisses my temple one last time, leaving me completely aching. And every so often, my arousal turns to embarrassment and shame. I wonder if any of those models can read my sinful thoughts—or if they just think I’m a bizarre girl. I shouldn’t care about the latter, but being reminded that I’m not normal makes me feel…wrong and dirty.

After Rose assigns the models outfits, she stops by my desk. “You look flushed.”

I shrug sheepishly. What else is there to say to that?

“You don’t have to be here, Lily,” she says. “You can go home early.”

“I need to finish this.” I tap my screen. “And I want to ride home with Lo.”

“You’re uncomfortable,” she says.

I am, but I’m desperately trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to be better. “It’s okay.”

She pats my shoulder. “If you change your mind, let me know. I won’t be upset by it.” She returns to the models, and she flocks Katie and Trish, making sure they’re doing their jobs well.

After ten minutes, I regret drinking two mochas this morning. I have the worst urge to pee, and that means spending time alone in the bathroom. And hello, I’m aroused too, and the allure of self-love is overpowering like a drug.

I cannot squirm any longer in my seat. I don’t want to attract more unnecessary attention to myself. So I stand and walk tentatively to the bathroom past both Trish and Katie’s work stations. I look over my shoulder just once, and I spot all the models pulling on sport’s coats, button-downs, collared shirts and golf shorts, all of the clothes tailored and chic.

Lo meets my gaze. He’s full of questioning. I mouth, bathroom. He nods, but he must see the need creeping over me like a cancer because his worry never disappears. But I can wait to have sex. I’ll be fine, I try to convince myself.

I shut the door behind me, and after I finish on the toilet, I touch my panties, about to raise them around my thighs. But I hesitate for one strong second. Because the place between my legs throbs so badly, and I remember the blissful feeling if I just touch once. I’ll be floating. I want that.

I shut my eyes and spend a great deal of time in a mental battle. I end up pulling on my panties, but my jeans stay around my ankles. I close the toilet lid and sit on the maroon suede covering. The bathroom smells like pine and cranberries, a glass vase of potpourri emitting the aroma.

It makes leaving ten times harder.

And then the door opens. I forgot to lock it! I internally shriek. I struggle with my jeans. “Someone’s in here!” I shout, but the body slips inside anyway.

With his back to me, Lo locks the door and then turns around, catching me frozen—with my jeans midway up my legs, with the toilet seat closed.

“I didn’t…” I start. Does he believe me?

I wouldn’t. I’ve been caught with my pants down.

It looks like I didn’t even try to wait. It looks like I gave up.