Ten Tiny Breaths
Page 11

“So, what do people do for fun around here?” he asks, leaning back at bit to give me space, like he can read that I’m about to pass out from his proximity.
“Uh …” It takes me a moment to find my voice. And my wits. “Hang out in laundromats?” My words come out shaky. Dammit—what is wrong with me?
He laughs, his gaze settling on my lips. The feel of his eyes there makes me spew out words that my brain hasn’t approved yet. “I don’t know. I just moved here. I haven’t had any fun yet.” Ohmigod Kacey. Shut up! Just shut up! Now you sound like an airhead and a loser!
With a lopsided grin, he leans against the washer and crosses buff arms over his chest. And then he stares at me. That stare lasts an eternity, until sweat starts to trickle down my back. “Well, we need to change that, don’t we?”
“Huh?” I croak, heat igniting in my lower belly. He has effectively stripped me bare of my titanium cover again. He’s tossed it to another planet where I have no hope of ever finding it. I am naked and vulnerable and his eyes are boring into my core.
His body slides across his washer until he’s leaning on mine, his hip nudged up against me, his arm stretched out to the opposite corner of the machine in front of me, effectively invading all personal space. “Change the fact that you’re not having any fun,” he murmurs. My breath snags. I feel like he’s reached into my body and seized my pounding heart. Does he have any idea what he’s doing to me? Am I that obvious?
His index finger reaches up and runs down my temple, down my cheek, to join the rest of his hand to cup my jaw. He rubs my hanging bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as I gawk up at him. I can’t move. Not a muscle, like his touch has the power to paralyze. “You are so very beautiful.”
My nerves are a ball of contradictions. His fingertip feels so damn good against my lip and yet that voice is screaming, No! Stop! Danger!
“So are you,” I hear myself whisper and I instantly curse the traitor within.
Do. Not. Let.This. Happen.
He leans in closer and closer until his breath caresses my mouth. I’m paralyzed. I swear he’s going to kiss me.
I swear I’m going to let him.
But then he stands up straight, as if remembering something. Clearing his throat, he says with a wink, “See you around, Kacey.” He turns and vanishes up the stairs, his long legs taking two steps at a time.
“Ye … Yeah. Fo … for sure,” I stutter, leaning against the machine for support as my legs turn to jelly. I’m sure I’m two seconds away from melting into a puddle on the concrete floor. I fight the urge to chase after him. One … two … three … I struggle to shake off the uncomfortable edge that has slinked into my body. Hunching over, I lay my cheek against the machine, my flushed skin reveling in the feel of the cool metal.
He’s one hell of a player. I’m usually so good at shutting them down. Being a female in a male-dominated gym, I dealt with those juiced up egomaniacs at O’Malleys every day. Hold my bag for me … Dominate me … The comments were never-ending and uncreative. Then, when the lot of them decided that I must be a lesbian because I hadn’t dropped my shorts for anyone, the stupid comments increased tenfold.
I’ve never had issues resisting the hottest of them. None of them have broken though this masterful wall of self-preservation I’ve constructed around myself. I enjoyed sparring with them. I loved knocking them to their knees. But never had they stirred any interest from me, physical or otherwise.
But Trent … there’s something different about him, and I don’t have to think hard to see it. Something about the way he takes over a room, the way he looks at me, like he has already identified and can disarm every one of my defense mechanisms with no effort, like he sees through them to the disaster lying beneath.
And he wants it.
“Fucking player,” I mutter as I run to the sink. A splash of water temporarily douses the flames in my chest. He’s smooth. Oh so smooth. Way more sophisticated than the asshats I normally deal with. “You’re so very beautiful,” I repeat, followed by a harsh mock of myself saying “so are you.” I’m sure he tells everyone that. Watch, he’ll meet Storm and say the exact same thing. Oh God. My gut spasms, my fists clenching so tight that my knuckles go white. What’ll happen when he meets Storm? He’ll fall in love with her, that’s what. He’s a guy. What guy wouldn’t fall in love with Sweet Stripper Barbie? And then I’ll become nothing other than that head case in 1C and I’ll have to watch them cuddle on the couch, and listen to them have wild-stripper sex on the other side of my bedroom wall, and I’ll want to rip Storm’s arms off. Dammit. I crank up the cold water and splash my face again. In no time, this guy has created permanent fissures in my carefully constructed suit of sanity, and I don’t know how to fight against it, to protect myself, to keep him out.
To keep all of them out.
Ninety-nine percent of me knows I need to keep him at arm’s length. There’s no point considering him. He’ll get one look at my shit and he’ll run, leaving a bigger mess behind. And yet, as I eye the washer where he just stood, where his bed sheets swirl, I give serious consideration to stealing them and leaving a “come and get it” note in its place. No. I shove angry hands through my thick mane, gripping the back of my head as if to keep it from exploding. I need to stay away from him. He’s going to ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to put in place.
Suddenly, I can’t get out of that laundromat fast enough.
***
Mia and Livie sit cross-legged on the living room floor with a Chutes and Ladders board game between them. A freshly showered Storm dumps a pot of spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water. “I hope you don’t mind veal in your sauce,” she says as I step in without knocking. I figure we’re past the knocking stage. I just touched her thongs, after all.
“That’d be great. Your clothes are all here.”
She looks over her shoulder at the hamper and shock twists her face. “Did you fold my underwear for me?”
“Uh ... No?”
Turning a bit more to see my face, still drenched from the tap water, she frowns. “What happened to you?”
How do I explain I had to have a mini-cold shower in the laundromat because that damn smooth-talking neighbor of ours cornered me? I don’t.
“It was Stephen King’s Maximum Overdrive all over again. The washing machine came to life and attacked me. Laundry and I are officially on no-speaking terms.”
“I’ve never read that book,” Storm says at the same time that I hear a tiny frightful gasp.
“I’m not surprised,” I mumble as I head toward the kitchen, catching a scathing glare from Livie for scaring Mia. Our dad made us watch all the movies from his era as a way of keeping the classics alive. Most of the time, no one in my generation has a clue what I’m talking about.
Storm turns to face me wearing an apron that reads, How’s the sauce? Has anyone seen my Band-Aid? and a big grin. “Hey, so I spoke to my boss. Job’s yours if you want it.”
“Storm!” My eyes bug out.
Her long blond locks sway as she tips her head back to laugh, my surprise apparently amusing. I can tell she’s happy to give me the news. I get the impression that she genuinely wants to help us and for no reason other than because she’s just that nice.