Page 9 of The Order of Disorder
A groan, low in his throat, as his hand slides over my hip. His fingers spread across my stomach. He murmurs against my neck, voice rough with sleep.
I stay still. Maybe if I don’t respond, he’ll fall back asleep.
But his palm slides higher, finding my breast. He cups it, thumb flicking across my nipple, and then he shifts closer. I feel him hardening against the curve of my ass.
“Missed this,” he whispers. “Waking up with you.”
I close my eyes. Try not to flinch when he presses a kiss to my shoulder. When he tilts his hips toward me, rubbing his erection against me.
He groans. “I’m hard for you again, baby.”
I breathe in. Out. Then turn my head just enough that he sees my profile.
“I need a shower.”
A pause. Just a beat. “You can shower after.”
I shake my head. “I need one now.”
“C’mon.” He wraps an arm around me, pulls me tight against him, and panic flowers in my belly. “Don’t you want me to make you feel good?”
“I’m serious, Billy.” My lungs feel tight. I can’t breathe. “Just let me shower.”
He sighs, and relaxes his arm, easing the pressure. I squirm out of his grasp.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Go ahead.”
Then, sharper: “Leave the door open.”
Of course. I always have to leave the door open.
No privacy.
I slide out from under the blanket, the rush of air over my bare skin feeling like oxygen I’m sucking into my lungs. Out of Billy’s grasp, I can breathe. The plywood floor is cool under my feet, the rough boards slightly warped from years of humidity and neglect.
Billy’s private bathroom is barely more than a closet with a toilet and a tiny shower stall. Inside, I catch my reflection in the broken mirror. Skin so pale it’s almost gray, cheeks hollow.
My eyes are bloodshot. Hair clings to my cheeks in greasy strands. My body’s thinner than it used to be, thin from not caring—from not eating unless someone hands me food. From not sleeping until I’m so tired I collapse.
I reach up, unfasten the thick leather collar, and set it gently on the edge of the sink with a sigh of relief. Then I step into the shower and turn the tap all the way to hot. The pipes rattle. Water blasts out in a sharp, hissing stream, and steam curlsaround me. The water beats down on my scalp, my shoulders, my back. The heat seeps into my skin, loosening the cold knots in my muscles.
For a few minutes, I almost remember what peace feels like. I lather shampoo through my hair and rub my skin vigorously with soap, then, when the water starts to get a little cooler, I reluctantly turn off the tap and step onto the bathmat.
I dry off and pull the towel tight around me. Then I brace myself, lift the collar, and fasten it back into place.
By the time I step back into the bedroom, Billy’s sitting up, underwear on, bent over his phone. He points to the outfit he’s laid out for me on the chair—a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a small gray tank top—and I pull them on with practiced detachment.
He puts down his phone and watches me as I sit down on the edge of the bed to pull my hair into a knot.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Just taking it in,” he says with a small smile meant to be sweet.
I cross to the interior window that’s been cut into the wall beside the door, and lift it open. A breeze drifts in, cool and faintly metallic, carrying the scent of grease, coffee, and bacon from the hangar below.
It’s midday maybe, based on the light, and the main floor is buzzing with activity. From Billy’s second-story bedroom, I can see almost everything. It’s like looking out at a whole village below from a castle turret.
Word’s gone around that a crew is coming back tonight—guys who’ve been gone for a few weeks, running something cross-border. Smuggling, I think. Guns, probably. Something profitable and illegal and impressive enough that everyone’s been talking about it for days. The success has made Billy smug. Smug and keyed-up. A party’s been promised, and that meanssomething bigger than the usual club nights. This will be a blow-out.
