Page 4 of Fighting a Riot

He stared at me for a beat. “That doesn’t change the fact you deserve privacy, and if you want me… or any man, to see your body, that should be your decision. Not some slip of the door or whatever. Enjoy your shower.”

I put my clothes outside the bathroom, and hurried to the shower. Stepping into the warm water, I tilted my head back and wished I could wash my health problems away just as easily. Life didn’t care about my wishes, so I turned around and looked for shampoo.

On the wire shower organizer sat a bottle of three-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body wash.

I wondered why women didn’t use all-in-one products. Were we getting manipulated by big business to buy three products when it could really be covered by just one bottle?

A citrus scent hit me once I flipped open the top. While I lathered my hair, I debated who I could crash with later today. I could call Mia, but she would likely be dead to the world still. For that matter, so would most of the other girls from last night… sadly, most of them were Mia’s friends more than mine.

I didn’t hang out with a lot of women. I kept my circle small and close-knit. Unfortunately, I was in that strange in-between place where friendships were concerned. My friends from college had drifted away while they completed their degrees. The women I hung out with from work, well, they were work friends but we didn’t typically hang out on weekends - Mia happened to be the lone exception.

Like a fool in love, I’d allowed my world to revolve around Destin. His buddies had girlfriends or wives, and I thought I was making inroads with them. But when invites for last night’s party came up, all of them declined.

All of them.

Perhaps that should have been my first clue that Destin wasn’t as dialed into things with me as I thought.

The urge to cry hit me at that thought, and I forced myself to finish showering and get ready for some much needed sleep.

I climbed into Yak’s bed, the sheets smelling faintly of bleach. My earlier hunch had been right. The bed had been made so well, the sheets were tucked tight, and once I settled in, they made me feel snug and safe. I turned my head on the pillow, and I caught a whiff of cloying perfume.

I sighed. There was nothing going on between me and Yak. He was a great-looking man. Of course he would have a woman (or even women) in his bed. Still, I didn’t want the reminder, so I swapped the pillow with the one on the other side of the bed. When I curled up on my side, instead of feminine perfume, I caught the scent of the citrus shampoo-conditioner-bodywash I’d just used.

Much better.

I dozed off until the bed jostled. My eyes cracked open and I saw Yak settling into the bed. He had on a white tank top and his hair was down, the strands looked damp. His head came up, his brows furrowed.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He turned his head, making eye contact with me. After a heavy sigh, he rolled toward me, propping his head in his hand. “You switched the pillows.”

Those eyes, his stubble, and that wavy hair hanging over his shoulder. Why was I so attracted to him? I just got dumped. This had to be how rebounds got started.

I shook my head. “Maybe… is that a problem?”

“Why did you switch them?”

I knew he wanted to swap them back, and for some stupid reason I lied. “This one’s firmer.”

He pressed his lips together and he hung his head. When he looked up at me, he had a patient smile on his face. “I’d believe that, if I didn’t know they’re exactly the same pillows. Why’d you switch them, princess?”

I stifled a groan. “I do wish you’d stop calling me ‘princess’. But to answer your question, this one… smells better.”

His eyes narrowed. “Want to say that sounds like bullshit, but really I think you’re sugarcoating things again.” He shifted, taking an audible sniff of the pillow. “Ah. Sorry about that. Don’t know how my pillowcases didn’t get washed. Have to kick a prospect’s ass for that.”

“What?” I cried.

He flipped the pillow over and settled onto his side of the bed. “Don’t worry about it. Get some shut-eye.”

I had thought he was going to sleep in the recliner. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him about that… but feeling as snug and warm as I did, I let sleep carry me away.

From the brightness of the room, I suspected it was three in the afternoon when I woke up.

“About time you got up, sleepyhead,” Yak said from the recliner. He had a book in his lap, black-framed reading glasses perched on his nose, and his hair tied back in a bun so messy I worried about the tangles he’d have in his hair later.

“What time is it?” I croaked.

He set the book aside, resting the glasses on top. “Two-thirty. You hungry?”

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