Page 5 of Nonverbal

“And I’ll be shuffling clients all over the damn house to work out. One room has a bed in it. Like that doesn’t send the wrong message to female clientele.”

Amber sizes me up in the mirror. “Oh, that’s what you’re calling them? I figured it’d be more convenient. No need to move rooms. Just work out and fuck.” She spins around. “On second thought, do not fuck on Paige’s bed. That’s her bed now. Move your gym to the backyard.”

I wish she understood how ridiculous she sounds. Just because I like to keep things casual with women doesn’t mean I’m a man-whore. I’m actually quite the gentleman. “Hell no. My clients would die of heatstroke. Why can’t she sleep in your room?”

Amber slathers on beige foundation as if it will restore her youth. Even though she dresses like a teen, men can tell she’s pushing thirty. “My room barely fits one bed,” she says. “Paige needs her own space, and I’m restless at night, so we can’t share. Me bumping against her would cause her too much stress. She’s been through enough.”

Lowering my gaze, I scowl at Amber’s bright pink wedges. God, those are the ugliest shoes. Like wearing Pepto Bismol on your feet. Staring at those gross pink blobs, Paige’s injuries flash across my mind. I just met her, but the idea of some pathetic asshole knocking her around, knocking any woman around, makes my blood boil.

“Are you going to tell me about her?” I ask.

“She’s my friend,” Amber states matter-of-factly. She moves to the curlers on her head, pulling each one from her damaged bleach-blonde hair.

“You know what I mean.”

Her hands lower to the sink to grip the edge. Her shoulders sag. “She needs a new life, that’s all. I promised I would be there for her and I am. Stop prying, because I don’t want you involved. I’ll pay her rent and food while she’s figuring out work and everything else.”

“Bullshit. You can’t pay your own rent and food, so now I’m feeding all three of us. I’m not saying she can’t stay. I just wish you’d consider me for once before making plans.”

She faces me. Her normally pissed-off gaze is now sunken, fighting emotions just under the surface. It reminds me of that scrawny ten-year-old girl who begged to skate with the big boys. After every tumble, every scraped knee, every busted lip, she got back up and fought the tears. Refused to cry. She was cool. She could hang. She could prove herself to the boys.

Only, I never asked her to do that. She didn’t need to prove anything. If she wanted to skate with me and my friends, fine, but she could also cry. Knee scrapes hurt like a bitch.

She turns back to the mirror, voice as hollow as her eyes. “Paige is the one who found me last year, you know. In my apartment. She saved my life.”

Her last words hit like a jab to my gut. My arms fall limp. I need to thank Paige, then. For being there for my little sister when I wasn’t.

I should’ve been there.

Recovering from the jab, I straighten. “Your shoes are ugly,” I say, and she sticks out her tongue. It makes me smile, which gets another of her infamous eye rolls.

Before I can leave, she spins to grab my arm. “Hey, Brody,” she says quietly. “Paige is off limits, okay? I know she’s pretty, but I just can’t handle the thought of you two…” Her words fade into a shudder.

With a sigh, I cross my arms again. “I don’t know why you’re so worried. I can interact with the opposite sex without ulterior motives. I have female friends.”

“Uh-huh. Who?”

“Carlita.”

“Your cougar client, who you hook up with once a month?”

“Yeah, but we’re just friends. Okay, fine. Jenny.”

“The woman who changes your oil at the mechanic down the street?”

“Yeah. We talk. We’re friends. She hangs out with me and the guys at the club sometimes.”

“Because she’s a lesbian. Doesn’t she have a wife?”

I dismiss her comment with a wave. “That’s a minor detail. The point is, I have platonic female friends.” Amber is about two seconds away from yelling at me, so I quickly add, “Hey, I’m not interested in your friend, so stop worrying. I take relationships seriously, which is why I don’t want one. Paige is staying here, and that violates my rule of ‘no-strings-attached’, doesn’t it?”

Reluctantly, she nods.

“Besides, didn’t she just get out of an abusive relationship?”

“Not exactly,” Amber mumbles, and then faces the mirror.

“What do you mean? Is she married and still—”

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