Page 4 of Second Chance Ex
Upstairs is quiet and peaceful in comparison to the chaos occurring downstairs, and I take my first real breath since arriving.
I try a few of the doors that line the hall in the hope of finding somewhere safe and out of the way to hide until Madison is finished doing God-knows-what with Ryan Conrad. But unfortunately, the first two doors are locked and the third opens to what looks like a little girl’s bedroom if the pale pink walls and the collection of stuffed animals are anything to go by. I quickly close the door and continue.
The last door on the left opens to a bathroom. A huge and luxuriousemptybathroom, and I briefly consider my options once more; I could go back downstairs and risk having to socialize with the Rosewood High School degenerates, or I could hide out here in a bathroom like a total weirdo without anyone knowing. Madison will text soon enough to say she’s ready to go and I can hurry downstairs and pretend likeI’ve been there all along.It’s kind of a no-brainer. So, with my decision made, I slip inside the bathroom and lock the door behind me for safe measure, basking in my surroundings that smells like vanilla and lavender.
I kick off Madison’s painful mules that have given my little toe a friction blister, shrugging off my tiny backpack that holds my house keys and my phone, and the copy ofTwilightI take with me everywhere I go. Without hesitation, I step into the tub big enough for a family of five, right in front of the floor-to-ceiling picture window that looks out over the sprawling valley view. I sit down and relax as best as I can, opening my book to the dog-eared page I last left it on.
Three chapters later, the bathroom door knob twists causing me to startle mid-paragraph. I gasp, looking at the door, my heart flying up into the back of my throat. It’s locked. I know it is. I locked it myself. But fear still paralyzes me. Being caught readingTwilightwhile hiding out in a bathroom at a house party is not how I want to be known for the remainder of my high school career.
A knock thunders on the door followed by a string of muttered expletives I can’t quite make out. A deep male voice calls through the wood, “Who’s in there?”
I look around, searching for something, I don’t know what. The big picture window doesn’t open, and I’m hardly going to jump through plate glass. There’s a tiny window above the toilet, and sure, I could probably squeeze through it, but we’re on the second floor of a huge monstrosity of a house. I’d break my neck or, at the very least, wind up so mortified I’d wish I had.
Another knock sounds, and I clutchTwilightto mychest as if Edward Cullen himself might actually save me.
“Yo, open up,” the voice calls again. “I need to piss!”
And at that eloquent declaration, I huff. “Go downstairs.” This house is huge. I’m sure there’s at least six other bathrooms hidden throughout it.
“No,” he exclaims with an exasperated laugh. “It’s gross. Someone ralphed and there’s vomit all over the floor.”
I can’t help but grimace at that imagery, but I say nothing in the hope that whoever it is will just give up and go relieve himself outside or something. But then about five seconds later, the crystal door knob begins wobbling, back and forth, back and forth before the door suddenly flies open with such gusto it slams against the wall. I scream and, unable to move quick enough, I scramble to my feet. But then I slip on the shiny surface of the tub and, before I know it, I’m tumbling over the edge, heading face first for the marble floor in what feels like slow motion. And all I can think is that this is it. This is how it ends for me. I’m going to die tonight, in a bathroom at some house party, clutching a copy ofTwilightin my death-like grip.
I’m stopped, my face mere inches from the shiny tile. Collecting what I can of my composure, I struggle to right myself, wrestling against the hold of the strong arm wrapped around my waist, which is precisely when my gaze settles upon my unlikely hero. And… fuck my life. Just when I thought my night couldn’t get any worse. It’s only Joey Tanner, the most popular guy at Rosewood High. Oh my God. Joey Tanner has just caught me hiding out in a bathroom at a house party reading fuckingTwilight. I want to die. I glancelongingly at the tiny window above the toilet, suddenly wishing I had jumped; plummeting two stories to my untimely death would be so much less excruciating than this.
“What are you doing in here?” Joey finally asks.
He releases his hold of me and takes a few steps back, leaning against the vanity. He folds his muscular arms across his broad chest, weighty gaze trained on me and I instinctively cower beneath the intensity in his eyes.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. I avert my eyes to the damn book still in my hands and I momentarily consider hiding it behind my back. But then I remember I was here first. So, instead, I hold Joey’s gaze, standing my ground, chin held high in an audacious show of defiance I don’t really deserve to have.
After a somewhat intense stare-off, Joey breaks first, chuckling quietly under his breath as he turns to the toilet and lifts the seat. When I hear the familiar sound of a zipper releasing, I quickly come to. “Um, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I told you, I need to piss,” he says without missing a beat. And sure enough, less than a millisecond later, the unmistakable sound of pee hitting the toilet bowl seems amplified, bouncing off the tile and glass.
“Oh… my… god.” I quickly turn away, covering my ears with my hands. This is not happening. This isnothappening. What on earth am I even doing here? I wish I’d stood my ground with Madison earlier. What I wouldn’t give right now to be watching vapid teenagers getting hacked to death by some masked psychopath with absolutely zero knowledge of what Joey Tanner sounds like when he pees.
“So,Twilight, huh?”
“Please do not try to make conversation with me while you’re doing…that!” I press my hands even harder against my ears.
“Calm down, I’m all done.”
The toilet flushes and, reluctantly, I turn back around. As promised, he is done. In fact, he’s openly watching me while casually zipping himself back up. I can see the flash of the Calvin Klein logo on his underwear through the gaping fly of his jeans. I scoff, shielding my eyes with my book and feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. When the sound of running water drowns out his laughter, I peer over the cover ofTwilight, relieved to find him washing his hands.
I use the moments reprieve to watch him, taking him in. He’s tall and muscular, big for a high school boy. Dressed down in sliders with socks, jeans that hang off his hips in that way that makes you wonder how they’re even staying up, and a Rosewood Ravens High School Football t-shirt that pulls tight around his Captain America shoulders. Joey Tanner isn’t just hot; he’s a sight for sore eyes. He’s on the football team—defense, I think—and therefore basically a god. But I feel like there’s more to Joey Tanner than just being a varsity football player. He has these eyes that aren’t quite blue, or gray or green; they’re a kaleidoscope of colors that change with the season. And that hair. Swoon. A wild mop of chestnut locks with sun kissed ends that’s in a constant state of disarray, sticking up in every which way that makes your fingers itch with the need to run through it. Joey Tanner is something else. He certainly has thatje ne se quoiabout him, and it does things to me that I don’t necessarily hate, norhave I ever admitted out loud to anyone, not even Madison.
Joey clears his throat, and I’m pulled from my musings, mortified to find him watching me in the reflection of the mirror while I outright ogle him like a pervert. A knowing smirk tugs at his lips and I suddenly hate myself. That’s something else about Joey Tanner; he’s hot and he knows it. Just ask him.
Immediately, I’m on the defensive. “I locked the door. How did you even get in here?”
“Oh, there’s a trick to that lock-” He thumbs in the direction of the door, turning around to face me again, and I watch his hand reach into the pocket of his jeans, retrieving something from inside. When I catch the knowing glint of metal in his hand—Ohgod, no. No, no, no. I suddenly want to die for about the fifth time in as many minutes. “It’s called a key,” he says matter-of-factly. “This ismyhouse.”
I swallow the ball of dread that’s suddenly lodged itself at the back of my throat. Of course, this is his house. I venture a hopeful smile. “I’m… sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with this curious look in his eyes like I’m some sort of science experiment gone wrong, the slightest hint of a smile ghosting over his lips. He narrows one eye. “What’s your name?”
Don’t tell him your name. Don’t tell him your name.I briefly consider making a run for it. Leave my belongings behind, take what’s left of my dignity and just run like a bat out of hell. But, of course I don’t. “Prue.”Idiot.
