Page 23 of Better Watch Out

It’s probably because I’m tired. That’s obvious by my expression, though I couldn’t fix it even if I tried. I rub my face wearily, breath leaving me in a long, low sigh. “Worst Christmas ever,” I tell the mirror before leaning back on my heels. Goosebumps have broken out on my arms, even in the steamy heat of the bathroom, and I take that as my sign to step into the shower and under the hot water before closing the thick, black curtain that happily obscures most of the light.

I should’ve turned my phone light on and the ceiling light out, I realize belatedly. I love showering in the dark, or soaking in the mostly-dark with only a small light to keep me from slipping or tripping and eating shit. It always helps me feel more relaxed and off in my own little world after I’ve had a hard day. Today definitely qualifies as such, and I’m counting today asoverdue to all the shit that happened at four in the damn morning.

Being careful, I scrub my hair, watching out for the tender spot on the back of my head. Again, I wish I had the nerve toask Boone for more of whatever he gave me this morning, but I’m not sure I trust myself being that level of knocked out with them here. At least not until I find a way to barricade my door so Boone can’t come in and exact some sort of revenge for my shittiness earlier.

Though I suppose I could apologize.

The sound of the front door closing makes me glance up, but other than fading voices and footsteps, I don’t hear anything else. I have an urge to peek out from the curtain, to check on the bathroom to make sure everything is how I left it. But of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?

I don’t let myself. Irefuseto become a shaking, nervous mouse who has to look over her shoulder every few minutes to reassure my mind that everything is okay. But it’s hard for a few minutes to resist the urge, and I busy myself with letting the hot water relax my muscles and thoroughly warm me up.

By the time I’m done washing my body with shampoo instead of the body wash in the cubby, I don’t want to get out. So I sit on the bench, thankful again that we have what usually seems like a limitless supply of hot water up here. The fake-stone is cool under my skin, and the wall behind me is a dramatic contrast to the water continuously coming down on me.

But I know I can’t hide in here forever. I don’t want the disappointing, unfortunate feeling of the water cooling off and making me colder than I want to be. So I force myself to stand up, reaching out to turn off the water in one quick motion before it can get even a touch of a chill in it.

The bathroom seems suddenly so quiet, as does the whole house. Yet again I can’t hear anything, and I stand there for long enough that I’m surprisednothingfinds my ears. Maybe they left, I think to myself, grabbing the towel I slung over the shower rod and wrapping it around my body. Unfortunately, Cheryl hasn’t learned what bath sheets are, so the towel is justa standard bath size and covers me from my chest to the tops of my thighs. It makes me wish I had thought to bring my own towel, if only to have something that covers more surface area and makes me feel drier, faster.

“You can’t be so picky,” I remind myself as I shove back the curtain, striding over to stand in front of the mirror. I look a bit like a drowned cat, and with my eyes on my reflection I grab another towel and scrunch the excess water out of my hair. The whole time I survey the dark circles under my eyes and the irritated look on my face, trying to will both away but ending up looking like I might break into tears at any moment.

Finally, when my hair is somewhat dry and I’m not dripping water onto the tile floor, I decide it’s good enough. It’s not like I’m going anywhere other than my bed, anyway. I have no one to impress and nowhere to go. Though belatedly I do brush my teeth to get rid of the last vestiges of biscuit that I swear I still taste every once in a while, no matter how much iced coffee I drank to try and wash it out. But that’s all I’m going to do, with my hair smelling of leave-in conditioner and my mouth minty fresh.

It is so time for sleep.The best sleep, where I feel like my soul leaves my body for a few hours. I turn, going to where I left my clothes on the laundry hamper against the wall…and stop.

They aren’t there.

Confused, I look on the floor, as if I could miss a pair of pj pants and a tee, before opening the laundry hamper like they could’ve slid in there themselves.

Nothing. My clothes aren’t anywhere around the bathroom, even though I do multiple circuits of it to make sure. By the time I’m back to staring at my face in the mirror, my eyes are wide with realization and my heart is thumping against my ribs. After all, it certainly doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they went.

If I had to guess, I’d say this is one of Boone’s master plans. Especially with how I’d acted in the car. I should’ve known he’d do something I would never even think to try, and I groan, elbows thumping on the counter so I can bury my face in my hands.

On the bright side, my room is just a short jaunt down the hallway. I don’t even have to go to the living room or pass the kitchen to get there. It’s six seconds, maybe seven, of being just in a towel outside of this bathroom, then I can barricade myself in my room, put clothes on, and scream into my pillow while plotting my grand revenge.

Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. Just six seconds. Six and a half, if I’m slow. Taking a breath, I force myself not to look nervous or scared. If they are out in the hallway, I’m just going to walk past them and not even acknowledge their presence. It’s the only thing I can do. Or at least, the only thing I can think of that I can dobeforeI obtain clothes.

With my phone in my hand I yank open the door, turning down the hallway toward my room.

But I freeze when my eyes land on Fletcher, sitting in front of my door with his head leaned back against it, one knee drawn up and his arm resting on it oh so casually. But there’s nothing casual or unintentional about this.

My plan and my steps falter, but there’s not really an alternative. So I stride down the hallway, towel wrapped tight around me as I wish it had even just a half inch more material. Especially when I get closer and Fletcher gazes up at me, his blue eyes unreadable. With one hand holding the towel closed and the other gripping my phone, I don’t have any hand left to flip him off or hit him.

And honestly, the idea of hitting Fletcher is much more terrifying than punching Boone again.

“Move.” My voice is cold and unfriendly, but I manage to keep the nervousness out of it. “Seriously Fletcher. You’ve made your point. Somove.”

He doesn’t move; not that I really expected him to. That would be way too easy, and make my night not complicated enough in his eyes, I’m sure.

“And what point did I make, exactly?” Fletcher’s gaze wanders up my legs, from my calves to my thighs, where they stop as if he can see through the fluffy lavender towel. But then his gaze keeps going, keeps studying me in a way that makes it hard not to squirm.

“That you’re a real jerk.” It takes a lot for me to snap the words out at him, and I look down the hallway both ways, just in case Boone is standing somewhere nearby.

With a camera.

That thought makes me shut my eyes hard, and anxiety roars to life in my chest. It’s a testament to how tired I am that I can’t push away the memories or the feelings associated with them, so I barely notice when Fletcher uses that moment to push to his feet.

“What’s wrong?” He cups my jaw unexpectedly, palm warm against my skin. Opening my eyes, I glare up at him, fingers clenched hard over the towel.

“Nothing.” It doesn’t matter, but I still glance up and down the hallway, unable not to know that the idea has planted itself in my brain. “Just…” I can’t trust him, I know that.

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