Page 9 of Fault Line

I push myself off the bed, trying my best not to look like a fucking dweeb as I stretch out in front of her. I’ve been lounging in bed for the last hour, so my sweatpants hang low on my hips, my T-shirt long gone in the laundry hamper.

“Right this way.” I motion for her to step in front of me, guiding her through my walk-in closet. To my slight embarrassment, it’s kind of a disaster in here. Thank God I had the foresight to clean up my en suite bathroom earlier this week.

“Would you look at that,” she mutters, running her fingertips across a row of my clothing. “A whole damn closet full of shirts you could put on.”

I clench my abs, involuntarily flexing at her insinuation. Well, alright, then, it looks like she’s not as flagrantly unaffected by me as she pretends to be. “You’re the one who barged into my room without invitation.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know why you’re sitting here alone half-naked while there’s a party going on downstairs.” She walks fully into my bathroom, turning on her heel to face me. “A party that’s being hosted at your house.”

“Probably ’cause I can do whatever the hell I want in my own house.” I lean against the doorframe, perched up against it with one raised arm. Staring down at her, I add, “In my own bedroom, for that matter.”

“Oh, God.” She shudders, eyes quickly diverting to the crotch of my sweatpants. Gesturing wildly toward the subtle outline of my dick, she all but whispers, “You weren’t about to, like,you know...”

“No, I don’t know.” I bite my lower lip, holding back laughter. “You’re gonna need to be a little more explicit than that.”

“You know exactly what I’m referring to, Becker,” she bites out through gritted teeth, cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink. “Don’t pretend you’re that clueless.”

“You’re asking if I was about to fuck myself up here?” I grin at her outraged expression. There she goes again—so easily flustered. “Alone in my bedroom while all of you partied downstairs?”

She nearly chokes, eyes popping wide. “I, uh, I wasn’t—”

“What?” I cock my head, feigning confusion. “Rendered you speechless for once?”

“No.” There’s a fire blazing in her eyes now. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so gross about it.”

I lean further onto the frame, propping my head against the crux of my elbow. “So you think masturbating is gross, then?”

“You know what?” She pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closed as she shakes her head—a frantic little bobble back and forth. Then, placing one hand on the door and the other flat against my chest, she gently shoves me out of the room. “Never mind. Just—just let me use the restroom, and then I’ll leave you alone to ... do whatever it is you were about to do up here.”

I clear my throat. “Touch myself, you mean?”

I wasn’t, hand to God, but I’m certainly enjoying this anyway. Fighting with her, making her blush, fueling her fire, that is.

She narrows her eyes—tiny green flecks glinting in the fluorescent lights—and scolds me like a child. “Stop it.”

Holding my hands up in mock defense, I retreat back to my bed. It doesn’t take long to resume my former position, stretching my long legs across the mattress and flicking my movie back into play mode.

Sure, I may have wanted to be alone tonight, but pressing Kaia’s buttons is always a welcome interruption.

A few minutes into Tom Cruise’s monologuing, I hear the faucet running. It’s followed by the faint sound of a door closing, fumbling footsteps, and then the sweet murmurings of Kaia talking to herself. I can’t make out most of what she’s saying, but I know I hear the words “golden” and “arrogant” mixed in there somewhere.

When she finally pops out of my closet, she says, “Well, thanks for that. I’m gonna go back to the party now.”

“Hey,” I call, voice soft and low, effectively stopping her in her tracks. “Before you head out, I’m just wondering one thing.”

She perches both hands on the swell of her hips. “Do I even wanna know?”

“Probably not, but I’m gonna ask you anyway.” I stretch both arms up, folding my fingers together behind my head. Following a casual yawn, I ask, “How would your boyfriend feel about us being alone together up here? You know, with you asking me questions about my dick and all?”

Her head drops back with a groan. “Okay, first off, that’s not what just happened. And second, I don’t know whatboyfriendyou’re talking about.”

I perk up at the notion, shifting a little more upright against my headrest. “Little Reynolds?”

“Jesus Christ, Elio is not my boyfriend.” There’s a deep frown line etched into her forehead. “And he’d kill you if he heard you call himlittle.” She gives me a half-smirk of her own, as if she’s secretly pleased by my insult. “The two of us have been friends for ages, though, like little kids on the playground type shit. We’renottogether.”

“Huh.” I press my tongue to the side of my cheek, giving her a noncommittal shrug.

“Huh, what?” There’s that telltale blush again, but this time, the heat seems to come from a place of anger. “Are you one of those misogynistic weirdos who think that men and women can neverjustbe friends?”

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