hair grows back daily, especially on my legs and armpits, but sometimes I say, fuck this and don’t shave every single day.
I haven’t always taken the carefree route.
But I guess as I grow older, I just care less what people think of me. Sometimes I wish I could transport back to seventh grade and tell myself, “Don’t be sad if you’re teased for having hairy arms. It’s just hair, and kids are fucking cruel.”
With a swipe of the razor down my calf, I run my palm over my skin. Ugh, my legs still feel prickly.
“Fuck this,” I mutter and ditch the razor. About the same time I throw it beside my body wash, I notice a bug crawling on the tiles near my shoulder.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Fuck,” I gasp and jerk into the scalding water. “Cum—fuck.” I wince at the stinging heat and edge backwards, but my wide eyes are on the black curled tail of a scorpion.
I hate scorpions.
My little sister, however, loves them. Winona adores every living, breathing creature—especially the amphibians. Tadpoles are her jam. Even though this is not a frog, my sisterly love surpasses my instincts. So I don’t wash a scorpion down the tub drain.
You’re an Olympian, Sullivan.
You can save a little ugly scorpion.
My hair wet on my collarbones, I whip open the shower curtain. Assessing. Okay, so a skinny window is slightly ajar above the sink. Big enough for the scorpion to meet freedom and nature. I can usher it there with…the shampoo bottle!
Grabbing my shampoo, I stand on the edge of the tub and create good bodily distance from this tiny, poisonous beast. It better not prefer the wonderful amenities of a motel bathroom. Complete with yellow-stained tiles and some type of mold growing out of the air vents.
I try to traffic control the scorpion, nudging him ever so slightly along the tile wall. “Come on, little guy. This way.”
He jumps!
What the fuck—I jerk back and grab hold of the shower curtain rod for balance.
The metal rod breaks off with barely any force.
I let go fast, catching my balance in a stance, but the rod and curtain tumble to the fucking floor with the loudest, most volatile crash.
“Sulli?!” Akara’s panicked shout sends shockwaves down my body—my really, really naked body. Footsteps sound just as quickly, and the bathroom door thrashes open.
I solidify. Standing tall and still naked on the edge of the tub.
Akara skids to a halt, eyes on…my eyes, then the window.
Banks slides into the bathroom behind him, realizes I’m in my birthday suit with a short glimpse, and then also eyes the window. “You alright?” he asks me, but I can’t read either of them beyond their concern.
Bodyguards.
They’re my fucking bodyguards, and of course they were worried about the window. They’re being professional—I shouldn’t be this disappointed, but fuck, they didn’t even inhale like wow, that’s a babe right there.
I’m starting to feel like the ugly little beast in their eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Without stepping off the tub, I snatch my towel off the shut toilet lid and hold it up to my chest. “It’s secure. No one was trying to kidnap me.”
Banks picks up the rod and curtain, setting both in the corner. Akara rechecks the window.
“I was just dealing with an arachnid intruder. A scorpion is in here somewhere.” I step down—fuckfuckfuck, my foot slips on the slick tile.
With the shower still on, mist wets the floor without a curtain to block the spray, and I go down.
“Sulli.” Akara reaches out and pulls me further from the tub. So my head won’t meet the edge.
But his feet slide out from under him too.
Now we both go down. My ass hits the ground hard. Butt bone on fire, and the pain is dulled by two realizations.
I dropped my towel.
And Akara falls on top of me.
His hands lie flat on either side of my arms. His biceps flexed, tattoo peeking from his black tank—really though, he’s never been this close to my bare body. My boobs. My legs are practically spread around him. Open for him.
Oh…
Fuck.
My cheeks roast, but not from embarrassment. His body is hard muscle, and the weight of him on me is dizzying. My pulse drops between my legs.
His eyes search mine. “Are you hurt?” He’s more worried than aroused. Hell, all worried. No arousal.
We’re just friends.
It’s painfully clear that I’m as attractive to him as the scorpion on the ground, or tile—or wherever the fuck he catapulted to.
“I’m fine,” I say again. “Just a bruised butt.” And ego.