Page 42 of Something Forever

“If you put down murder next, I’m sleeping with one eye open tonight.”

She laughs again, a sweet, musical sound that has the corners of my mouth tipping upwards again.

“We’ve been married, what, eighteen hours? And you’ve had enough already?”

She laughs even more, and I want to keep it going forever. Her joy is addictive.

We play for a bit longer, and as expected, she beats me, sending me retreating to my room with a bruised ego. I pull up Luke’s business plan and spend the rest of the night researching educational organizations, adding more details to the outline. Once I have a more fully formed idea, I can start reaching out to some of my old friends from school who have more experience with this type of thing. Until then, I’m on my own.

I’m bent over my desk with about twelve tabs open on my computer when I hear the shower turn on from the bathroom. The sound of it sends a jolt of awareness through my body, and suddenly the article I’m reading can’t seem to keep my attention.

Who cares? Whitney is in the shower. That’s completely normal. Nothing sexual about it.

Except that my mind is conjuring up all types of images. Ones of her naked body lathered in soap and hot water, her hands roaming up and down her petite figure.

Stop it. This is your roommate.

Torn between feeling like a complete creep for listening to my roommate’s shower with bated breath and wanting to deal with the blood that has rushed to my cock, I groan, abandoning my laptop and falling onto my bed. I’m reaching for my headphones to blast music in my ears so loudly I’ll be risking permanent damage when I hear another sound.

A moan.

Whitney’s moan.

Fuck.

No way. No way is she in there touching herself right now. I’m imagining things. My horniness is making me delusional. It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex, and this is the consequence. I’m out-of-my-mind to the point where I’m hearing fake moans that aren’t there.

But then I hear it again, louder this time, and if I thought I was hard before, it’s nothing compared to the throbbing I’m dealing with now. This is worse than Vegas. At least there the walls were thick enough that I could escape to the bathroom. Here, there’s nowhere for me to go.

Holding my headphones in my hands, I hesitate. I should put them on. I know I should. It’s a complete invasion of her privacy to listen to this. She’d hate me if she knew, and she’s just starting to warm up to me. It’s not worth slashing all our progress. With a sigh, I pull the headphones over my ears, drowning out the sound of Whitney’s moans with the bass of the music.

It works; I can’t hear anything. The only problem is that just the knowledge of what she’s doing in there seems to send my thoughts to a dirty place. And if this is going to be a regular occurrence in our household, I am so screwed.

17

WHITNEY

I’ve been a married woman for two months, and it’s been surprisingly uneventful. The leaves have started to turn, fall officially in full swing, my wardrobe shifting to an array of browns and reds.

Liam and I are on better terms than ever. We even eat dinner together, and our Scrabble nights have increasingly become my favorite night of the week. I spend nearly all my time working on the salon, and best of all, I finally came up with a name. Since I have my grandmother to thank for the funding, it’s going to be called All Rhodes.

For now, I’m on a mission to speak to my mother. Before Vegas, I tried every number she’s called me from, and none of them were functioning. She has a habit of using exclusively burners, and it’s incredibly frustrating since she gets rid of them every few weeks. I need to tell her about grandma and the inheritance, and my last option to get in touch is through her boyfriend Chuck — if he still is her boyfriend, that is.

It rings twice before he picks up. “Yo, this is Chucky.”

He’s a real keeper.

“Hello. I’m trying to get in touch with Caroline Rhodes. Do you happen to have her number?”

“Sweet Caroline? Phew, that’s a babe if I ever saw one.”

“Charming,” I reply in a low tone. “Do you have her number or not?”

“Who’s askin’?”

I shake my head, searching for my inner patience. “Her daughter.”

“She has a daughter? Damn. She must have been 18 when she had you.”

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