Page 30 of The Love of My Next Life
“I’ll go clean up in the bathroom,” I say under my breath, and Eric looks back down at me with sympathetic eyes.
“Upstairs, end of the hall on the right,” he tells me with a nod. “I’ll find you something else to put on.”
“Thanks.”
I push through the crowd of people and weave my way up the stairs toward the bathroom. No sign of Sam, thank god. I close the bathroom door behind me and lock it, then rest my head on the wall. Closing my eyes, I take a few steadying breaths. What a disaster.
But I’m strangely relieved, in a way. At least I avoided the public kiss.
I slip the jersey over my head, then my camisole, and stick them under one of the sinks on the dual vanity. I soak them in warm water and wring them out, trying to at least get some of the beer out before they’re washed. I glance in the mirror and huff a laugh.
Ridiculous.
I’m standing in a nude bra in the quarterback’s bathroom, cleaning beer out of the running back’s away jersey because my best friend’s brother’s bitchy girlfriend decided to dump her drink on me. For the second time in as many weeks, too.
Luckily, Sam missed most of my braid, and the band of my bra isn’t too wet. I dig through drawers until I find a washcloth, wet it with warm water, then run it over the back of my neck and shoulders as best as I can.
I smell like Bud Lite.
I’m attempting to clean the middle of my back when a door on the opposite side of the bathroom, not the door I came in, opens.
“Someone’s in here,” I start to say, but the person steps in anyway and shuts the door behind him. Macon.
I drop the washcloth and cover my chest.
“Get out, Macon,” I hiss. He leans back on the door with a smirk, then hooks his thumb over his shoulder.
“Josh’s room,” he says, explaining the second door.
“Why were you in Josh’s room?” I ask, then frown. He distracted me. “Get out.”
“I sell weed to him sometimes,” he says, like it’s nothing, then turns toward the toilet. He reaches for the button on his jeans, and I whip myself around and throw my hands over my face. The sound of him peeing infuriates me, but also makes me feel...strange. Odd at the weird intimacy of the moment. I don’t like it.
“Gross, Macon!” I shriek. “You could have warned me. You could have asked me to leave.”
He flushes and laughs, then I hear the sink turn on as he washes his hands.
Thankgodhe’s washing his hands.
“You can turn around now,” he drawls, so I do, covering my chest once more. “It’s just a dick,Astrea.”
I scoff. “You can leave now,” I sneer.
He doesn’t budge. Instead, he takes a step toward me.
“Nice bra,” he says with a chuckle, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Yeah, well your girlfriend dumped beer on me,” I spit, then bristle more as his smirk widens. “I have to wash my freaking clothes in the sink, and Eric is finding me something else to wear.”
The smile drops off his face, his blue eyes flaring with irritation.
“Eric Masters is a tool,” he says, and I grit my teeth, my jaw so tense that it makes my head hurt. He flicks his eyes to the sink, where the jersey is soaking, then back to me. “And you look like Tool Bag Groupie Barbie in that jersey.”
My jaw drops and my hands turn into fists. I’m practically vibrating with fury.
“Shutup,” I growl, and he takes another step toward me. “I do not.”
“You do,” he says plainly, then drags his eyes from my face to my chest. “You look much better without it.”
