Page 3 of Touch Me

With the trip home just a short elevator ride away, this was my favorite perk of the job.

I kicked off my heels and peeled off my clothes as I marched toward the bathroom. With the taps running at full, I poured a good slosh of scented bubble bath into the hot stream and lit the two vanilla-infused soy candles at the end of the tub.

I headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was a barren wasteland. My staples of fruit, yogurt, and eggs were long gone. I reached for the foil-wrapped package on the top shelf and lobbed the three-day-old pizza slices into the waste bin.

A bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the door caught my eye. Andre, the restaurant manager, had given it to me for Christmas. I grabbed the champagne and a long-stemmed flute and convinced myself that I was in America, where they would still be celebrating New Year’s Eve.

I popped the cork, filled my glass to the top, and nestled it on the tub with a packet of corn chips I’d plucked from the cupboard.

Before I slipped into the bath, I grabbed my new diary from my bedside table. My best friend’s choice of Christmas present was an interesting one. According to Lolita, documenting my miserable life would make me realize just how gloomy it was.

Apparently, I couldn’t see the spiral I’d fallen into because almost every day was a repeat of the one before. Day after day blended together with no highlights to break up the monotony.

I had my own little Groundhog Day situation going on. Lolita was convinced that writing in this diary would be a life-changing experience.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Moving to the Gold Coast, away from my family, friends, and my cheating bastard ex-fiancé, was my first foray into life-changing events.

It hadn’t turned out exactly as planned.

It was easy for Lolita to make such grand statements; she had everything.

My best friend was living my ultimate dream—a husband she was puppy-dog in love with, two kids, a boy, and a girl, and a gorgeous house in the suburbs with a pool in the backyard.

She also had a stunning body, due to her exercise obsession. She was quick with a laugh, incredibly intelligent, and could recite who was married to whom in the celebrity world without pausing.

The day she ran next to me on the treadmill in the gym downstairs was one of the luckiest days of my life. I was running off volcanic anger because of my shithead boss, and Lolita homed in on that fury and showed me exactly how a good workout relieved tension.

Sex, according to Lolly, was just as useful.

I grabbed the diary, flipped to January 1st, and with my champagne in one hand, I waited for inspiration.

What the hell do I write?

The first morning of this year had been uneventful—until the Lobster landslide, that was. For the rest of today, I planned to have a nice long bath, for starters, then crawl into bed for eight or so hours. Then . . . then there was nothing.

It was pathetic. I was pathetic.

Maybe I could masturbate. That would release some of the tension Lobster had created.

Wow . . . I’d officially hit a new level of pathetic.

My mind drifted to George Whiteman. We were twelve years old when I’d caught him in a game of Catch and Kiss. It hadn’t been hard; he was the slowest boy in the entire seventh grade, given he was in a knee brace at the time.

Once I had him in my clutches, I’d dragged him to the love tunnel and made him kiss me.

I chuckled at that memory. The love tunnel had been nothing more than a large concrete pipe located between the play swings and the football oval.

With nothing exciting, intelligent, or even interesting to write, I set the diary aside, tugged my long hair into a bun on the top of my head, and lowered beneath the warm water.

My nipples bobbed to the surface, peeking through the foam bubbles like a couple of dials on an ancient radio. As I rolled my head from side to side, I breathed in the vanilla-scented air and closed my eyes. The water embraced me like a lover’s cuddle.

The tap dripped and I opened one eye to glare at the damn thing. I’d meant to mention the annoying leak to maintenance weeks ago, and I cursed myself for forgetting. I poked my big toe into the faucet to stop the drips, and at the sight of my disastrous nail polish, I added paint toenails to my exciting agenda for today.

I parted my legs and allowed my hand to fall between my thighs.

Inhaling a deep breath and forcing myself to relax, I blocked out the irritating drip and ran my finger over my sweet spot. I imagined a hot guy’s fingers exploring my deepest, darkest secrets, searching for the one true thing I treasured the most.

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