Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
The water turns on, and I slink back to the futon, stretching out on the grimy cushion, feeling guilty and ashamed. Today is all about setting new personal lows, apparently. I lie there, struggling to calm my breathing while Tristan bumbles around below. It feels like a million years before a door opens and closes. My plan is to lie here until morning and pretend I was asleep the whole time. Unfortunately, the three margaritas I consumed and my anxiety over having to pretend for eternity that I didn’t just watch a professional hockey player whack off without his knowledge means I have to pee. Badly.
I distract myself by reading the message from Rob.
Rob
You sound drunk. Maybe you should call Essie. Text to let me know you’re safe, tho.
That was the opposite of helpful. I don’t bother listening to his voicemail. I don’t need to be kicked again now that I’m this far down.
I send him a thumbs-up so he doesn’t worry, or call again. I can’t take his brand of pity right now.
My bladder is screaming. I won’t make it until morning without peeing my pants, and I’d prefer not to hit that special low. Down is the only way. I’m sure Tristan passed out instantly, considering how wasted he is.
Decision made, my need to pee becomes a physical ache. It consumes all my thoughts. I rush to the stupid fucking ladder and realize it’s retracted on its own. To avoid making noise, I climb down to the last step, then hang from the rung and drop the rest of the way to the floor. It’s only a few feet, but because today sucks a giant bag of assholes, I roll my ankle and land with a thud and an oof. I clap a hand over my mouth. And pee a little in my pants.
I hop to my feet and sprint past Tristan’s bedroom, launching myself into the bathroom. I close the door harder than I mean to and turn the lock. I’ve barely flipped the toilet seat down before I unleash Niagara Falls. The relief is almost on par with an orgasm. Almost. I drop my head into my hands while my bladder empties.
Eleven years later, I’m finally done. I wipe and debate whether I should flush but decide against it because it could cause unnecessary noise.
The sink on the left is spotless, only a toothbrush holder and a pump soap sit on the counter. The other sink clearly belongs to my brother. The edge is rimmed in stubble, and toothpaste lumps and food particles sit at the bottom. And probably some residual jizz. The cap is off his toothpaste tube, and two razors lie on his side of the counter. Toothpaste and water spots dot the mirror on his side. I wonder if it annoys Tristan the way it annoys me.
I put myself here, though, so I don’t have a right to complain.
Based on the lack of noise beyond the bathroom, I’m in the clear. I take a deep breath and channel stealth vibes so I can get back to the loft undetected. But when I unlock the door and throw it open, I realize I’m very wrong.
Tristan blocks the doorway—arms crossed, muscles bulging. He’s wearing boxer briefs, and that’s it.
I’ve seen Tristan in pictures over the years. He’s a professional hockey player, and a good one at that. His stats are amazing, and he’s one of the top players in the league. He’s also stupidly hot. Like, my underwear wants to shimmy down my legs and throw itself at his feet.
His dark blond hair curls around his ears and at the nape of his neck. It swoops across his forehead, and the cowlick in front makes one unruly piece stick out in the wrong direction. His forest green eyes are framed with thick, enviable lashes and a day’s worth of stubble decorates his chiseled jaw. And don’t get me started on his chin dimple. Ugh.
He’s way bigger than I remember, which makes sense since I stopped growing my freshman year of high school, and he did not. He must be six four or better, and his shoulders are ridiculous. And his abs. God, his abs. He’s cut and rippling and hotter than any man has a right to be. I also think he might be sparkling, and he smells like he jumped into a bottle of cheap women’s perfume.
“How the hell did you get in here? Did Flip give you a fucking key?” he demands, listing to the right.
“Um…Clarice, the super, let me in… I thought Flip checked with you.”
He narrows his eyes. “You look familiar.” He blinks and lists to the left this time. He’s off-balance, so he uncrosses his arms and braces a hand on the wall, making all the muscles in his arm flex and pop. “You brought your friend last time, right? Suzy the screamer?” His face lights up at the memory.