Page 85 of Safari Murder Party
In the end, it wouldn’t be one of her rabid colleagues or a dangerous wild animal that would keel her over. Mortification would do the trick.
Fletcher yelled, “I have to get out of these clothes immediately. Do you mind if I—” Waylon appeared back in the doorframe, entirely too close for her to be yelling about nudity this loudly. A cough, clearing her throat and dropping her voice. “Um, do you mind if I hop in the shower?”
“Ladies first.” Waylon set a stack of things on the counter—a couple towels and washcloths, a T-shirt, some boxers, and a pair of khaki pants. “Faucet’s a little tough. Let me help.”
Nervous hands fidgeted with Fletcher’s shirt buttons as Waylon twisted the shower knobs until water gurgled out of the fixtures. Slow at first, then with water pressure that put her apartment to shame.
She’d managed a whole two of six buttons by the time Waylon turned his attention away from the shower. His lips flicked upward into a faint smile. Being in such close quarters with him couldn’t possibly be good for her cardiovascular health. Her heart thumped and thudded. Stopped altogether.
“Should be all set.” Two confident steps brought Waylon in front of her, pulled by a magnetic force. Waylon’s fingers found the buttons she fumbled with. “Sorry there’s no silk robes here.”
“How will I ever survive?” Fletcher asked, and it occurred to her again, in the milky light of the too-yellow bathroom that she might not. That this moment could be the last of hers before falling prey to a biting blade, a wayward bullet, or any number of wild beasts.
“It’ll be hard, but I’m sure you’ll find a way.” Button by button, Waylon worked toward the shoulders of her shirt. Only one remained. His eyebrowsthinged in silent question. Waiting for permission to make the next move.
After high school gym class, Fletcher used to change in the bathroom stalls. She didn’t have sisters who wandered around in sports bras or best friends to share changing rooms with. This kind of closeness, this kind of casual vulnerability was uncharted water. Something that used to be reserved for Kent alone, and even then, sparingly.
But what part about this week hadbeencharted?
Her heart a bubbling cauldron of anticipation, Fletcher cupped her hands around his, sliding the last button through its hole.
Damp fabric dripped down to her elbows, revealing the beige lace of her bra and the divot of her belly button. Fletcher’s skin buzzed as he digested her, dissecting every slope, every line. Suddenly, she grew entirely too aware of each rounded curve of her body, the dimples and freckles she usually kept hidden beneath polyester blazers and secondhand linen.
“Is that another tricky zipper?” he asked, eyeing her skirt.
Electricity thrummed under Fletcher’s skin. “One of the many plights of womanhood.”
Spinning her to face the mirror, Waylon’s knuckles grazed past the band of her bra, down the ridges of her vertebrae, until his fingers found the zipper of her skirt. Loosened, tweed spilled off her hips, lower and lower until it joined the fabric pooling on the pale tiles. Waylon’s hands hovered near the trim of her seamless panties. Nude. Practical. On sale from Target. But severely lacking in the sex-appeal department.
It didn’t seem to matter. Any embarrassment she’d felt before vanished. Waylon looked at her the way a drowning man looked at dry land. Eyes roaming and ravenous. How long they stood like that, she wasn’t sure. Seconds? Minutes?
Finally, his Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow, throat working when he said, “You’re gorgeous.”
Fletcher fussed with her matted hair. Pretty sure there was a caterpillar in there somewhere. “Oh, I don’t—”
“It’s not up for debate.” His eyes roved down the length of her once more, scanning her like a Xerox machine. Committing her to memory. When he looked up, their eyes met in the mirror. The blues of his, the greens of hers. A dangerous mix. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you, Fletcher Spence.”
Waylon kissed her once, hard, and then inched back. LeavingFletcher grasping, head pitched back to watch him watch her. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. And she hated him for it. She also didn’t hate him even a little bit.
Tension rippled between them. As fog gathered at the edges of the mirror, Fletcher considered the proper etiquette for asking someone to ignore the fifty-two layers of grime on her skin and thoroughly ravish her. Instead, she stood dumbly, lips parted and pink.
At her silence, Waylon tucked his hands into his pockets with a nod. “Water’s hot. Here’s a towel. Change of clothes. Everything else should be in the shower. Carlotta usually kept this place stocked.” His voice strained, trying to stay even and calibrated, and his lips thinned into a thoughtful line, something tucked unsaid just behind them.
The door closed. Latched. Leaving Fletcher alone, half naked and flushed. In the shower, steam rose in rivulets around her, and she let herself think about Waylon as she lathered, rinsed, and repeated.
I think people who order Manhattans are too afraid to ask for what they really want.That was what he’d said on the pool deck, days ago but also a lifetime ago.
Things were different now.Shewas different now. And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
By the time they’d both finished showering, the rain had lulled to a drone. It patterned the windows in fat droplets, smudging the jungle beyond into an abstract idea. If she squinted, she could almost pretend they were perched in a Park Ave. penthouse, overlooking the greens of Central Park.
She met Waylon in the kitchen. Their picnic supplies had rapidly depleted, but he’d spread what was left of them across the island’squartz countertop. “Ooh, you know how I feel about a charcuterie board,” she said, sliding one of the bruised tangerine slices into her mouth.
A tint of a smile touched Waylon’s lips. Beneath it, a smolder. While the rain turned the afternoon into a soupy gray, the shaded lamps and scalloped sconces cast orbs of amber light. Gold dripped off the lines of his face, gilding him. He popped a couple yogurt-covered cranberries in his mouth. Chewed. His gaze soaking her up. Finally, he said, “You look good in my clothes.”
Goodwasn’t the word she would have chosen. One of Waylon’s three-sizes-too-big Subtext shirts hung loose on her limbs, a wet patch rapidly growing beneath her plait of washed hair, and his pants bunched at her ankles but fell loose around her hips. Her nipples forced her back into her bra. They had no trouble remembering the way he’d kissed her, touched her, left her trembling and needy in the bathroom. They pebbled against the fabric, sensitive and eager.
If he asked, she’d lie about how comfortable the soft knit of his shirt was, how she longed to submerge herself in the oud and amber notes of his cologne that lingered on the fabric. But for now, she slid on the painted-blue barstool and said, “Thanks for sharing.”
