Weak-kneed, I lumber down two more doors. Guys like Reagan Reynolds don’t do girlfriends because they don’t need to, I remind myself. Not when he has so much being offered to him on a silver platter. Why would anyone choose to eat hamburgers and French fries every day, no matter how much they love hamburger and French fries, when they have a veritable smorgasbord of delights to choose from? They wouldn’t. And do I blame him? Hell no. I wish I could be him.
All the same, it’s time to stow this festering attraction someplace where it will never see the light of day again.
The urge to leave is a strong one. Mood bruised, I contemplate walking out the door and springing for an Uber with money I can’t spare. I can text the girls once I’m in the car. They’ll understand. First, I need to find a bathroom.
Grabbing the last knob on the right, I send up a prayer to the Lord to cut me a break and let this be it. Unlocked, the door swings open.
“Uhhh…sorry,” I mumble.
Lying on a bed with one hand tucked under his head and another clutching a beer bottle, Reagan tears his gaze away from whatever’s got his attention on the television and aims those go-green eyes at me.
No random girl is riding his dick, or his face. Blessed be the Lord.
“Bailey?” I don’t answer right away because I’m much too busy doing a full-on Alvin Ailey modern dance routine in my head.
My eyes fall on the tattoo on the outside of his calf. They slow-climb up his tanned legs, get past the long gray basketball shorts, skim over the black t-shirt, and reach his messy brown hair.
“Bailey,” he repeats more forcefully and this time my gaze snaps back to his face. His brow quirks and his mouth lifts into a weak smile.
“I was justlookingforthebathroom,” comes out a hot freaking mess.
This night is quickly descending into black comedy territory. I sound like a breathless twelve-year-old speaking to her first crush and he’s looking at me like I just grew a dildo in the middle of my forehead––familiar but at the same time out of context and confusing.
Reagan points to a door within his room. “You can use mine.”
Only now do I note where I am. And his bedroom is swank. Dark contemporary designer furniture instead of Ikea and hand-me-downs. Silky gray linens. Trophies lined up on top of a built-in bookcase…a bookcase. Wow. I don’t know anyone who lives this well, let alone a college student. “You live here?”
“Seems I do,” he replies flatly, his expression missing the carefree teasing smirk he usually wears. I should leave, turn around and excuse myself. That’s the smart thing to do. “Are you going to stand there acting weird all night, or are you coming in?”
I hop inside and gently shut the door behind me because, you know, I like to torture myself for a good time. “I’m not acting weird,” I say, hiding behind an annoyed tone. This profoundly witty comeback is followed by a sixty-second stare-off, which I end by hopping as quickly as I can to the bathroom.
I’m acting weird.
The bathroom is about as big as my entire dorm room. Maybe even bigger. And tidier––I’m ashamed to admit. I do my business, and afterward, simply because I cannot help myself, I trample his privacy by conducting a thorough examination of his personal items.
The cologne he uses is French and expensive. I take the top off, sniff. It smells like cedarwood and musk. The perfect blend designed to transform the entire female population into a pack of panting sex zombies.
His toothpaste is the whitening kind. Hey! Same one I use, I think to myself and officially flirt with rock bottom on the pathetic scale.
The designer shampoo is a brand you can only get at a department store. And last but not least, a pack of magnum condoms––ribbed for her pleasure. I shake the box and determine it’s still full.
Thy name is shameless.
After running the faucet to cover my tracks, I step out of the bathroom and find him sitting up against the padded headboard.
“Did you look through my stuff?” His smile is lazy and one-sided
“Hate to be the one to let the air out of your ego bag, but you’re not that interesting, Reynolds.” What’s left of my conscience tells me I’m going to pay for this disgusting lie at a later date.
My attention follows Reagan’s back to the television screen and any lingering amusement I was feeling over my snooping dies a sudden death when I see what’s playing. A home movie with the sound muted. Two young and very tan boys shove each other playfully as they stand at the edge of a backyard pool. They dive in and race head-to-head in an American crawl.
“My brother…” he tells me in a low husky voice. He has eyes only for the television. “Brian was eleven and I was eight.” Raising the longneck beer bottle to his lips, he drinks. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Have a seat.”
I slow-hop to his enormous bed and sit on the foot of it, back erect. The crutch falls to the floor and a hiss of satisfaction leaves my lips as I rub my aching armpit, the left one still bruised.
I can feel him watching me. The back of my head burns as if I’ve developed supernatural sensors for him.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find his head tipped back against the navy blue padded headboard and his blank stare moves from my ass, which is directly in his line of sight, up to my face.
“You’re not in danger, Bailey. Take a load off that ankle.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“Only because you’re not driving.” He winces and I immediately regret my shitty joke.
I feel stupid declining. I’m the one that barged in and intruded in his sacred space, his bedroom. Playing the role of the virgin ingénue seems kind of dumb. So after a moment of indecisiveness, I scoot up and stretch out my legs, mirroring his position against the headboard. I’ll be twenty-one in a month. I’m a college junior. I can vote, for Pete’s sake. I can be cool about this.
The white denim miniskirt I borrowed from Zoe rides up. It becomes practically nonexistent once I’m fully on the bed. Trying not to draw too much attention to it, I fight with the hem.
“Having trouble with your skirt?”
If I can leave with just a little piece of my dignity intact tonight, it’ll be a miracle. “It’s not mine,” says the part of me that has no problem throwing Zoe under the bus to preserve even a smidge of it. And I am this close to adding, “I don’t know how it got on me.”
He takes another sip of his beer as he studies me. “How is it?”
“Too short.”
“I mean the ankle.”
“Oh. Better. Not as swollen.” I wiggle my bare toes that are poking out from the ACE bandage. “That doesn’t hurt anymore.” Female laughter drifts in, the sound of footsteps walking past his door.
“I thought the room before yours was the bathroom.” An involuntary smile spreads across my face.
“It’s Cole’s bedroom,” he casually informs me, not at all aware of where I’m going with it.
“Mmmyeah.” My face gets warm.
He eyeballs my profile and a crooked grin comes and goes. “Did Cole have company?”
“Mmmyeah.”
“More than one?”
I nod slowly. “An image that will stay with me forever.”
He chuckles and I flush to the roots of my hair. His amusement fades. It blends into a tension-filled silence. I’ve never felt at a disadvantage around him before.
Annoyed? Definitely. Amused? A lot. Vulnerable? Not till now.
Unable to bear it for very long, I find myself bridging the silence by babbling. “Why do you guys have the same dolphin tattoo?”
He makes a face. His mouth puckers. “It’s a shark…a shark, Bailey. As in Malibu Sharks water polo.”
Laughter builds in my chest, dying to come out. “But it’s got a cute little bottle nose.”
“It’s a man eater with razor-sharp teeth.” He fake chomps the air.
“The game was a lot of fun today. It was very…” What’s the word that won’t get me in trouble? “Dynamic.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles. At me, it sounds like.
“It’s exhausting just watching. You must be in great shape. I mean, you are in great shape, obviously. What I meant was aerobically. Like…you must have good lungs.”
Good lungs? Wtf, Bailey?? Just shut up.
“Was this your first sporting event?”
I swear there’s laughter in that question. Hidden, but it’s there. “Give me a little cred, would you. I went to a football game once.”
A coy smile appears. “I’m flattered.”
“I didn’t say I went to watch you.”
“But we both know you did,” he responds without missing a beat.
Shaking my head, I chew on my lower lip to impede the grin parting my lips. My attention returns to the screen, where more of the home movie plays.
“That was your brother today…at the game?” He nods. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He exhales audibly. “Yeah. Me too.”
The importance of the moment is not lost on me. He’s trusting me and I need to tread carefully. I don’t want my sympathy to be misconstrued for pity. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t appreciate it. Hence, I carefully contemplate my words before speaking, clear my throat, and start.
“How long has he––”
“Since high school––” he says beating me to the finish line, his gaze far away as the movie ends and the screen goes dark. “A long time.”
“Your parents must be worried sick.” Which is entirely true. Whose parents wouldn’t be anxiety ridden over a son being a drug addict and, judging by Reagan’s brother’s appearance, living on the streets.
Reagan snickers. There’s no real humor in it, though. It’s dark and cynical and makes me dread whatever else he’s about to say. “They were worried. For about a minute. They tried to fix the problem and when their best efforts failed they gave up on him.”