shoulder.
A slight zap races down my arm and flips my heart.
She gasps. Her beautiful eyes go wide. Too quickly, she removes her hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are rosy and I can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or if she genuinely likes me.
She points down the short hall to a door. "Next to the stairs. If it’s a number two, we’re out of TP. You’ll just have to hold it, or find somewhere else to let your bomb loose."
As I feel my cheeks heat again. I quickly turn and head down the hall. The urge to look back at her tries to whip my head around, but the knowledge that my mortification is probably a bright neon sign on my face keeps me in check.
I enter the small half bathroom and lean up against the door. That chick is crazy blunt. Like she doesn’t care about what people think of her. The only other woman I know who is like that is Lina, and even she isn’t that direct. I don’t know if I’m pissed or turned on. That’s a damn first for me.
My hand goes to my fly as I walk over to relieve myself.
Why does she think I’m a drug addict? I’m not skinny by any means, and I sure as hell don’t have tracks on my arm. I might listen to Guns N Roses’ “Mr. Brownstone,” but I’ve never danced that dance with the devil. I never will.
Long-dead memories of my dad resurrect in my brain, flashes of the night I found him naked and cold, dead on the toilet with a loose band around his arm and a used needle on the floor. My little brother Logan screaming and me trying to hold him back so I could close the bathroom door. It was too soon to lose him. I was only ten and Logan five.
I remember screaming for my mother, but she was passed out on the couch, the fifth of vodka almost completely empty in her hand. She was no help to me, and calming Logan while trying to call nine-one-one was a very difficult task.
Forcing the memory that bites like acid into my soul out of my head is not easy. Going through lyrics in my mind does nothing to erase the vision.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"You lose your dick in there, man?"
It’s Bryan. How long have I been in here stuck in the nightmares of my past? "Be out in a sec." My bladder just doesn’t want to quit. I force it to, give my dick a shake and put it away.
"Hurry up, dude. I gotta go."
I quickly wash my hands and run them over my face. Shit. Maybe that’s why she thinks I’m a druggie. My eyes are blood shot and I have dark circles under them like I haven’t slept in years. I stayed up way too late last night and woke up way too early this morning.
"Dude. If you don’t–"
"I said give me a minute!" I flinch at my shout, hoping Shay didn’t hear me. My trip into the memories I’ve laid to rest has me irritable. Given the time I’ve been in here, she probably does think I’m a low-life druggie or that I took the biggest dump of my life.
The knocking turns into pounding. Fuckin’ A. Can’t a guy take a leak in peace? I fling the door open so hard it smacks against the wall. "What?"
A pair of beautiful sea green eyes looks up at me with confusion.
Fuck!
Six
Shay
Morgan’s blue eyes shoot icicles to my heart. I freeze. Earlier I couldn’t keep my mouth from running. When I get nervous, it just says whatever’s on my mind. I didn’t mean to accuse him of being a junkie. It’s just... well, I’ve had too many customers in the past shoot up in my bathroom. I’ve never allowed it, but Gary always did.
The way his eyes looked, all dark and bloodshot—I’ve seen the same in Gary’s after a three-night bender. I resist the urge to see if he’s left any paraphernalia in the waste bin next to the toilet, and try to keep accusation out of my eyes. The thing is, he’s been in here the whole time I was outside smoking a cigarette.
His friend Bryan leans against the stairs and mean-mugs him.
Is Morgan a druggie, and that’s why his friend looks like that? Morgan told me
A slight zap races down my arm and flips my heart.
She gasps. Her beautiful eyes go wide. Too quickly, she removes her hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are rosy and I can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or if she genuinely likes me.
She points down the short hall to a door. "Next to the stairs. If it’s a number two, we’re out of TP. You’ll just have to hold it, or find somewhere else to let your bomb loose."
As I feel my cheeks heat again. I quickly turn and head down the hall. The urge to look back at her tries to whip my head around, but the knowledge that my mortification is probably a bright neon sign on my face keeps me in check.
I enter the small half bathroom and lean up against the door. That chick is crazy blunt. Like she doesn’t care about what people think of her. The only other woman I know who is like that is Lina, and even she isn’t that direct. I don’t know if I’m pissed or turned on. That’s a damn first for me.
My hand goes to my fly as I walk over to relieve myself.
Why does she think I’m a drug addict? I’m not skinny by any means, and I sure as hell don’t have tracks on my arm. I might listen to Guns N Roses’ “Mr. Brownstone,” but I’ve never danced that dance with the devil. I never will.
Long-dead memories of my dad resurrect in my brain, flashes of the night I found him naked and cold, dead on the toilet with a loose band around his arm and a used needle on the floor. My little brother Logan screaming and me trying to hold him back so I could close the bathroom door. It was too soon to lose him. I was only ten and Logan five.
I remember screaming for my mother, but she was passed out on the couch, the fifth of vodka almost completely empty in her hand. She was no help to me, and calming Logan while trying to call nine-one-one was a very difficult task.
Forcing the memory that bites like acid into my soul out of my head is not easy. Going through lyrics in my mind does nothing to erase the vision.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"You lose your dick in there, man?"
It’s Bryan. How long have I been in here stuck in the nightmares of my past? "Be out in a sec." My bladder just doesn’t want to quit. I force it to, give my dick a shake and put it away.
"Hurry up, dude. I gotta go."
I quickly wash my hands and run them over my face. Shit. Maybe that’s why she thinks I’m a druggie. My eyes are blood shot and I have dark circles under them like I haven’t slept in years. I stayed up way too late last night and woke up way too early this morning.
"Dude. If you don’t–"
"I said give me a minute!" I flinch at my shout, hoping Shay didn’t hear me. My trip into the memories I’ve laid to rest has me irritable. Given the time I’ve been in here, she probably does think I’m a low-life druggie or that I took the biggest dump of my life.
The knocking turns into pounding. Fuckin’ A. Can’t a guy take a leak in peace? I fling the door open so hard it smacks against the wall. "What?"
A pair of beautiful sea green eyes looks up at me with confusion.
Fuck!
Six
Shay
Morgan’s blue eyes shoot icicles to my heart. I freeze. Earlier I couldn’t keep my mouth from running. When I get nervous, it just says whatever’s on my mind. I didn’t mean to accuse him of being a junkie. It’s just... well, I’ve had too many customers in the past shoot up in my bathroom. I’ve never allowed it, but Gary always did.
The way his eyes looked, all dark and bloodshot—I’ve seen the same in Gary’s after a three-night bender. I resist the urge to see if he’s left any paraphernalia in the waste bin next to the toilet, and try to keep accusation out of my eyes. The thing is, he’s been in here the whole time I was outside smoking a cigarette.
His friend Bryan leans against the stairs and mean-mugs him.
Is Morgan a druggie, and that’s why his friend looks like that? Morgan told me
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