He kissed my cheek, so soft and light and a complete contrast to the reason why my lips felt so raw. “I’ll go run us a shower,” he whispered in my ear.

And then he was up and walking toward the bathroom, his pleasure on my hands and mine on his tongue, and I watched, a smile twitching on my lips as his perfect bare ass moved away from me. And once he was in the bathroom, our views of each other obstructed by a wall, I kicked my legs and pumped my fists and screamed a silent ecstatic scream. Then I got up, careful not to make a mess, and joined him in the shower, pretending that I was just another eighteen-year-old girl, and he was just another guy—a guy who’d given me my first and most earth shattering orgasm in (I’m positive) all of existence.

26

Bailey

There was something intimate, something romantic about showering together that brought us that tiny step closer to each other. We ignored his erection, standing upright and pressed against my stomach as he held me around the waist, his arms loose behind my back while the water cascaded around us, the sounds of it hitting the walls and the floors creating a barrier from the outside world.

It wasn’t until we were in bed, my leg draped over him, my cheek against his chest and his fingers toying with my hair that we actually spoke. “How was the party tonight?” I asked, peering up at him.

He was already watching me, his features void of any emotion. “It was fine,” he said, his tone flat.

I sat up, making sure to take the blankets with me and covered my breasts as I half turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”

I’m not sure if it was my question or the fact that we were no longer a tangle of limbs that made him sigh softly, almost inaudibly. He linked his hands behind his head, the muscles in his chest flexing with the movement and nodded once. “I don’t have to answer, though, right?”

I returned his nod. “Do you like what you do?”

His brow knitted in response, almost as if he hadn’t heard me, but I’m sure he did because I made sure my voice was loud, clear, and confident. And so instead of repeating my question like he probably hoped I’d do, I waited—which earned another sigh from him before he looked up at the ceiling. “If you’re asking if I carry a smile while I work every day, then the answer is no. If you’re asking if I grew up wanting to be what I am, then the answer is no. But if you’re asking if I’d rather be doing anything else… then the answer is also no.”

My mouth opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. I scratched my head, a million questions on the tip of my tongue, but before I could speak his phone rang, the ringtone and vibrations echoing off the walls.

He sighed again, only, this time, it was loud, overly exaggerated. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance when he tapped the screen and grunted. I watched, intrigued, as his face changed from irritation to concentration and from that to—“How long?” he said into the phone, but his eyes were on me. “All right.” He hung up and rubbed a hand across his face. Then he sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. “I gotta go,” he mumbled over his shoulder.

“What? Why?” I scooted on my knees until I was next to him, sheets twisted around my body trying to hide my nakedness, my vulnerability. “What time is it anyway?”

He pressed a button on his phone, and I looked down at it. It was just past seven in the morning. Seven. He’d been out all night working, and then up all night with me, and now he was being called away, and I didn’t want him to go, and so I told him that as I held on to his arm.

“Bailey,” he said, turning to me. “You don’t think I’d rather be here with you?” he said, the frustration in his tone clear.

“So stay,” I pleaded.

He stood up and walked to the pile of clean laundry sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. He shrugged on a pair of black boxer shorts and a plain gray shirt before saying, “I can’t, baby.”

And there was something about the way he said it, like the pure disappointment eased out of each word, and I knew that whatever it was that was taking him away from me, it was bad. Really bad. “What happened, Nate?”

He walked to the side of the bed, where his jeans were left discarded and after pulling them on and sitting next to me to slip on his shoes, he said, “The less you know, the better.”

“Bullshit!” I snapped. I was angry that whatever it was, was taking him away on a night (or morning) that should have been ours, and I was scared that the danger of what it could be would take him away not just for now, but for forever. “Just don’t go,” I begged, holding his arm to my bare chest.

His phone chimed, and I knew it was Tiny, and I knew it was time for Nate to leave. He kissed my forehead quickly before standing up, gathering his wallet and keys and everything else he needed and pocketing them. Without looking at me, he said, “I don’t know how long this is going to take so don’t wait up, okay?” and then he was off, long strides toward the stairs, taking two, maybe three at a time. The basement door slammed shut and just like that, the ecstasy and elation I’d felt only minutes before were replaced with the same things I’d felt every time he left me. Pain and fear. I shuffled through the pile of clean clothes, picked out a pair of boxer shorts and then grabbed his dress shirt from the floor and slipped it on, subconsciously running my nose along the collar, taking in his scent. I was just about to make my way to the bathroom to count the tiles when the basement door opened, and the sudden thud of sneakers on wood sounded from the stairs.

“Did you forget something?” I asked as soon as Nate came into view.

“Yeah.” He rushed toward me. “This.” And the second he was able to reach me, he grasped my arms and pulled me to him, his lips consuming my lips, his touch possessing my touch, and his heart… his heart completely owning my heart.

*

I’d never been tempted to break Nate’s trust. Break the rules that had never truly been set. But I wanted to then. I wanted to leave the prison of the basement, and I wanted to go upstairs and look outside, not that it had much to offer, but I’d at least be able to tell if it was getting dark or not.

I don’t know how long it’d been since Nate left but it felt like a lifetime. Way longer than it should’ve taken for him to deal with whatever he needed to take care of.

I’d spent the time pacing, counting tiles, pacing, counting more tiles. I also took my meds and had breakfast and lunch, and it occurred to me then that Nate had never been late for dinner, and so I assumed (or hoped) that it wasn’t yet that time, and I was just being dramatic. The thought created a batch of new air in my lungs, and I was able to breathe easier, just for a while, and count to 2168 before I lost count and had to start again. There were no pens in the basement (Tiny’s advice—something about Anne Frank) so the only things I could mark the tiles with were toothpaste and soap and neither of those things would really help me. Besides, like I said, it kept me sane.

The familiar sound of the house alarm beeped from upstairs, and I rushed to my feet, my head spinning from moving so fast, but I ignored it as I ran toward the stairs, heart soaring at the thought of being with Nate again. But then the door opened, a shadowy silhouette appeared, and I squinted against the light from the main house as Nate’s footsteps traveled down the steps, one at a time, not rushed like when he left or like mine when I’d heard him return.