First
‘Sounds good.’ I hop up on a stool and drag the bowl closer. ‘Want me to mix?’
‘Thanks.’
I make us a double batch; Dally’s always hungry the morning after his late night runs. Once I’m done whisking the mix together, he takes the bowl and turns his focus to the stove. I sit back and continue to admire the view of him in his boxer briefs. He tucks a hand into the waistband, focusing wholly on flipping the pancakes at the right moment. His legs are strong, his hips narrow. Soooo distracting …
Too soon the plates are full. He takes up a seat across from me and we dig in. I’m busy licking syrup off my fork when Dally asks casually, ‘What are you doing today?’
‘Hopefully finding a fuck buddy.’ I laugh when he chokes on his bite. ‘What, did I say something surprising?’
He chugs some milk before he speaks. His voice is still raspy though when he says, ‘I had hoped your sanity would return last night.’
‘Nope.’ He does not look pleased by my cheery response. ‘My sanity was sort of stretched to the limit last night because I dreamed you and I—’
He’s up off the stool, dumping his plate in the sink and talking rapidly—and loudly—over me. ‘I’ve got a short shift today. Hopefully I’ll be back this afternoon.’
‘Well, call if you want me to bring you lunch. I don’t have anything to do,’ I say as he hurries past me.
He’s in the doorway, escape almost complete, when he looks at me. ‘Sounds good. I’m going to shower. I’ll be out in a minute, okay?’
I wave him away, already lost in my thoughts and pulling out my phone for research. Today’s my planning day. I’ve been looking up tons of information on virginity. Medical details of what the physical act will do to my body, as well as firsthand accounts random people decided to overshare on the Net. One thing has been made clear from my research though: I have no freaking clue what I’m doing.
With each website explored, I seesaw between a fear of pain that is supposed to ruin sex for the rest of my life or the comfort of hearing I ‘won’t even notice it.’ Horror stories of STIs passed along have convinced me I want my partner to have been tested. The problem is he could easily lie about it. Even before the fear of STIs, I knew condoms are a must. But what kind? And how many? And what the hell is with chocolate flavoured latex? Is it overkill to buy a box at Costco to save money in the long run?
Major details may still be getting worked out, but the stupid details come together without problem. Unwilling to bond to a song for the remainder of my life, I have chosen to not have any music playing. As for when I want it to happen, nighttime sounds best, especially because there could be candles. All my stuffed animals and posters were packed up years ago, so there won’t be any creepy plastic eye guilt. I’ll wash my sheets and make sure my room is clean.
I bite my lip. I’m sure there’s something I’m missing …
Singing drifts down the hallway.
Oh, that’s right. I still need a man.
Dally only sings when he’s in a good mood. I perk up at that thought. If he’s in a good mood this morning, maybe he’ll reconsider his refusal. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m outside the bathroom.
I crack the door open as quietly as I can and sneak inside. The air is hot and thick with steam. Dally’s rough baritone rises from behind the curtain, another one of his punk songs stripped down to simple melody and oozing sexuality. I edge my way toward the curtain.
From the garbled singing, his face is buried in the stream of water. I seize my chance and sneak his towel down from the curtain rod. It’s difficult to climb up on the counter in absolute silence, but I manage it.
His singing’s back to normal and the curtain moves when he reaches for the towel. And finds nothing.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he mutters. ‘I swear to God I put it up—’
The curtain rips to the side. I hold up his towel and ask, ‘Looking for this?’
***
I’m pretty sure I have a heart attack. Maybe two heart attacks. One from the fact that Cat almost saw me naked. The other when I realise I’m contemplating letting he
r.
I fumble to cover myself with the shower curtain. Cat’s perched on the bathroom counter in those tempting cut-off denim shorts and a loose top, holding the towel while her eyes are glued to my waist. Thank God I didn’t pull the curtain all the way open like I normally do.
‘What the fucking hell?’ I bellow, reaching desperately for my towel.
At least her eyes move away from my dick. She holds the towel just out of my grasp. I growl and try to stretch further, but between holding the shower curtain and trying not to slip, I’m doing a horrible job of it. It doesn’t help when her lips curl up into a devious smile and she places one of those delicate little feet against my abs, stretching out a long leg to hold me at a distance.
‘Dammit, Cat, we have rules about the bathroom,’ I snap.
She’s waving the towel around now and giggling a little as I try to catch one of its fluttering ends out of the air. ‘And if you want the rules reinstated, we’re going to have to renegotiate the terms.’