Oh, and another question: why the hell does he sleep with no shirt on?
I can see him. Like, really fucking see him.
He’s sprawled on his stomach, both his arms flung above him. One over the pillow and the other seems to be under. The gray sheet that he has on only covers his lower body, leaving his back exposed and bare.
I wasn’t wrong last night. He has grown and has become tan.
Even though I haven’t ever seen him without his shirt, I can still tell that those grooves on his shoulders where they meet his biceps, weren’t there before. The bulges of his arms have grown as well, making them look like tight waves of water. Not to mention, his back is a freaking study of taut planes and ridges that move when he breathes.
Jesus Christ.
It’s so unfair, right? That someone so breath-stealing can be so rotten.
I don’t know how he can sleep with that sun glaring down at him but I’m going to count my blessings and leave.
But I don’t leave like I should. Like the policy is to not disturb when the occupant of the room is sleeping.
Because my eyes land on his backpack and his clothes from last night. They are lying in a heap at the foot of his bed.
Without volition, I move toward them.
The backpack’s black and it’s open. Going to my knees, I widen the gap and look inside. His clothes smell of fresh laundry but they are all wrinkled up and shoved inside, as if in haste. Kind of like how I’d do it, sloppily and messily.
In the next compartment, I find his wallet, keys, some toiletries and a book.
A book?
I pull it out without thought.
Zach isn’t into reading and stuff like that. Nope. He’s not the kind of asshole where he’s all tough on the outside but secretly harbors love for the written word.
I’ve seen him tearing out pages from a textbook and making planes out of them, sitting on bleachers. One time he tore a book in two because a teacher asked him about homework. Granted, I only heard about that but I believe it.
So why would he have a book inside his bag? A book about the stars. Written in the Stars.
I forgot that you could see the stars up here.
I flick through the pages. There are constellations, described and drawn, along with their origin and the stories behind them. It’s clean and crisp. Almost untouched, but somehow, I have a feeling that it’s not. Not really.
Zach has touched these pages. But that doesn’t make sense.
I always thought that stargazing and watching the sky is something that poets and philosophers do. People who have depth.
Zachariah Prince is no poet nor a thinker. He has no depth. All he is is a rich, bored guy who amuses himself by tormenting others, namely me.
But then, I come to the end of the book and all my thoughts get channeled into the fact that it’s a library book. It’s overdue and it’s from New York. NYPL: New York Public Library.
I was right.
He wasn’t in the UK, going to Oxford. I don’t know how but I can say for sure that he’s been in New York for the past three years.
I glance at him. He’s still sleeping heavily, probably dreamlessly too. I wish that I could ask him about the city, about all the places he’s seen.
But I can’t because I hate him and he thinks I’m a plaything.
Such a fucking waste.
I quickly look through the rest of his stuff and a good thing too. Because I hit the jackpot with the pack of cigarettes. A double pack, at that.
His stash, maybe?
Staring at the Marlboros, I smirk. He has no idea what’s coming.
I clutch it in my hands and stand up, ready to get out of here. But then, I hear a sound. The worst sound in the world. Worse than a bomb blast.
A grunt.
Then, a groan.
“Fuck.”
Another grunt.
“Jesus Christ.”
My mind has completely shut down. I watch his back on the bed and there’s movement, rustling.
He’s waking up.
Oh my God, he’s waking up.
He couldn’t have kept sleeping for five more seconds? Because five more seconds and I would’ve been out of here.
I stand frozen in the middle of his room as I lose my ability to think.
What the fuck do I do now?
Suddenly, my legs move. But instead of taking me to the door, they take me into his bathroom and before I can even comprehend what’s happening, I hop into the bathtub off to the side, and I pull the shower curtain shut.
It’s one of those opaque ones that completely hides you and thank God for that. Then, I plaster myself against the wall and press my free hand over my mouth. In the other hand, I have the double pack of Marlboros that I stole.
I hear bare footsteps and a couple more grunts. To my horror, those sounds are walking closer.
Oh God.
He’s coming toward the bathroom.
Toward me.
Why the fuck did I think it would be a good idea to hide inside his bathtub? I wasn’t doing anything illegal – well, if you don’t count stealing his cancer sticks and going through his stuff. I could’ve easily gone away through the door.
Now, everything is way, way worse than it needed to be.
Apparently, not worse enough because there comes a hiss. A distinct sound of something – a thick stream – hitting the ceramic, followed by a sigh.
I take it back. This is the worst sound in the world. Zach, peeing.
Why? Why is this happening to me?
Hysterically I think, if he’s sleepy and his aim isn’t on point and if he gets something out of the bowl, I’m not cleaning it up.
No.
Nuh-huh. I’ll quit my job before I… do that.
An eternity later, I hear the flush of the toilet and the rush of the tap opening. Oh, thank God. He’s done.
What are the chances that he’ll go away now? And go back to sleep like before, no less?
Zero.
Zero chance of that happening because a microsecond later, the curtain rips open and I come face to face with the guy I’ve been trying to avoid ever since I was ten.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he thunders – I don’t know how he manages that since he just woke up but still, the sound echoes in my chest.
His arm is stretched out wide, strangling the curtain with his grip, and for a few moments, all I can do is stare at his face.
It’s clenched tight, every little line, every taut muscle on display. He’s anger personified with his ticking jaw and gritted teeth.
I’m supposed to answer him; I know that.
But my tongue is swollen.
I stare at the five o’clock shadow on his square, killer jaw. Dark, enticing skin. Spiky, messy hair. Black eyes dripping with rage.
And veins.
God, he has so many veins, running just under his skin. One of them goes down his taut neck. It bumps over his collarbone and then disappears beneath his muscled pecs.
His chest is massive and the curves of it make a tight valley that then changes into the ridges of his abdomen. I go to count those ridges; I’m pretty sure that he’s got a six-pack. Could be eight too.
But I get sidetracked by the fact that he’s not wearing anything.
He’s naked.
Naked.
“Oh my God!” I squeak, clenching my eyes shut.
“How did you get in here?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” I chant, trying to dissolve into the tiles my spine is stuck to. “You’re naked. I thought you’d at least have your pants on.”
“What the fuck. Are you doing?” he growls, this time slowly.
“Why were you sleeping naked?” I snap. “Who sleeps naked?”
“People who wanna rub one out whenever the mood strikes.”
My breathing ceases at his drawled reply.
Rub one out.
He means… rubbing his thing out. Right? Masturbation.
The thing that’s on full display right now. A few feet away from me. Within touching distance. Is this the punishment for making up that lie about him?
No. No. No.
“Open your goddamn eyes,” Zach seethes, breaking my internal chant.
I grit my teeth. “Put on some goddamn pants.”
“Not until you tell me what the fuck you’re doing, hiding in my bathtub.”
I can’t believe this is happening to me.
I can’t believe I’m trapped inside a bathtub, with a naked Zach glaring at me.
But I need to woman up. I need to open my eyes, get this over with and leave. From now on, I’m not volunteering to take up anyone’s duties. At least, not without knowing what they entail.
Slowly, I open my eyes and make sure to keep them only on his face. “I wasn’t hiding.”
He shoots me a long stare. “If you’re in there to take a shower, then I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how you do it.”
“What?”
He gestures to my clothes, looking up and down my body. “You’re supposed to take them off. And not only because it makes rubbing one out easier.”
“What?”
This time my what is higher in cadence. I shrink into the wall some more. Although I don’t think I’m going anywhere.
Zach puts his other arm out and splays it wide on the wall. Leaning toward me, he says in a raspy tone, “Rubbing one out. Haven’t you ever done that in a shower?”
“Of course I have.”
Oh man.
Wrong thing to say. So completely, utterly wrong.
The tightness of his face melts away and his eyes shine with mirth. Before he can comment over my slipped-out careless reply, I almost shout, “Don’t. Don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear it, okay?”
His jet-black eyes flick back and forth over my face. “Kind of uptight, aren’t you? For someone hiding in my bathtub.” Throwing me a lopsided smile, he rasps in a low voice, “Tell you what. I’ll turn around and you can do whatever you do to make yourself…” One final sweep of my features and then, “Loose.”
Loose.
Right.
Can I murder him? I mean, how bad can prison be, really? They give you free food and a bed to sleep on.
Puffing out an angry breath that widens his smirk, I snap, “Real classy. I’m here to do my job, you idiot. Taking out your trash and changing your bedsheets. My life goals, remember?”