Page 46 of Under Pressure

I’m jittery. My skin is clammy, and one glance down at my legs confirms I’m still wearing only my oversized sleep shirt that has a bleach stain on the right tit and a burn mark by the right thigh. Not to mention, I haven’t shaved my legs for two weeks, nor brushed my hair since before I went to bed.

I tense, too aware of how close we are and that not only is he in my apartment, but in mybathroom. We’re standing in the most private of rooms. The same space that I know is cluttered with dirty laundry that’s now beyond soaked, along with my pile of towels and blankets. My toothbrush is on the corner of the vanity, along with my hairbrush that hasn’t been de-haired in way too long and the bottle of cheap perfume I picked up last week when I ran out of my good stuff.

May as well spill all of my secrets to this guy here tonight. At this rate, he’s going to learn them all anyway.

“Alright,” he murmurs. His hands fall to my shoulders, his thumbs sweeping up the sides of my neck, digging into the tight muscles. The tension I hold there slowly loosens. “One step at a time, yeah? First things first, you need to go pack an overnight bag because you’re not staying somewhere with no running water.”

My head, while having started falling forward to make room for his thumbs, snaps back up. I spin to face him, a refusal already on my tongue.

“I’m serious. You go pack, and I’ll get these towels moved into the shower, at least so I can snap some pictures and we canget a plumber in here as soon as possible. Once you’ve finished with the bag, find me your insurance information so we can get started on that, too. The most important thing is to make sure our ducks are in a row so you don’t have to pay for anything.”

“Our ducks? This is my problem. I’ll take care of it. And I don’t need running water to stay here. I’ll shower at Callie’s dorm or something until everything’s fixed.”

For the first time since he got here, I allow myself to look up at him. The shadow of stubble across his jaw and throat has a small ball of flame igniting between my legs. My eyes fall to his lips, remembering exactly how they looked in my dream, all swollen and wet . . .

“You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that, gorgeous. I’m trying to be a gentleman hero here,” he rasps.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

His eyes don’t shift even an inch as he draws a hand around to my nape and digs his thumb into the muscles there, finding a knot with little effort. A soft, almost breathless sound escapes him when I close my eyes, so close to saying fuck it and telling him to do anything he wants as long as he doesn’t stop that.

“Your independence is one of the sexiest things about you, Quinn, but it’s also unnecessary right now. I want to help, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Even if I tell you to fuck off?” I ask, half panting.

“Especially then.”

“Maybe you’re more stubborn than I am.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” he muses, moving his magic fingers up to the base of my head, working them through my hair. “So, yes? You’ll pack a bag and let me help?”

“I thought you just said it doesn’t matter what I think on the matter.”

“Gentleman, remember? I’m still gonna ask.”

I blow out a laugh and, for the first time in a long time, allow myself to lean on someone. Even when I’m not convinced he’ll stick around to keep me from toppling face first.

17

When I was twelve,I stood outside on the front stoop of my school’s music portable and waited for my mom to pick me up. I’d just gotten finished with the final after-school practice before our choir’s Christmas performance of “Silent Night,” and after spending weeks working on my solo, I finally impressed my teacher enough to draw a smile from her cranky face and for her to give me the one and only compliment she’d ever offered.

I remember being so excited to tell my mom and sing my part for her justonemore time before the concert the next day. She’d always given me a hard time about my singing, especially when I kept her up later than I should have rehearsing in bed. The one-and-a-half-bedroom mobile home that Callie and I shared with her kept us in tight quarters, and with the long hours she worked, she hated being kept up by the “sounds of savage, hungry hyenas.”

That didn’t stop me from humming or whispering my lines so I didn’t forget them. My old babysitter—Rena Lancaster—loved when I sang for her, but she was only sixteen and had no better taste than I did. The only difference between us back then had been the four extra years she’d had to differentiate the sound of a dying street cat from a well-pitched voice of an angel.I was clearly the former, despite my teacher’s minuscule approval.

Still, I had a gut feeling that day that I’d finally impress my mom. I’d convince her that I wouldn’t embarrass her at the recital and that she’d be so proud of how much I’d accomplished that she’d even record it and send it to Nan, who I knew wasn’t going to make it due to her having her driver’s license suspended after running into one too many light poles.

The after-school bus was long gone by then, and Mom had mentioned that morning that she was going to swing by to pick me up on her way home between jobs. If she couldn’t make it, she’d send our upstairs neighbour on her behalf.

I didn’t have any friends at this school, and I didn’t mind that much because not even Paisley Kepner’s pretty voice could take away her nasty habit of spitting when she chewed gum. They didn’t wave or say goodbye when, one by one, they were corralled down the steps and toward waiting cars. I waited, and I waited.

I think over an hour had passed by the time Ms. Colson started locking up the portable and noticed me standing there. My nose was cold, but it had stopped hurting by then. I was a pro at ignoring the burn in my lips from how many times I’d licked them. I’d forgotten my ChapStick at home, but then again, I only ever used it for special occasions because I didn’t want to run out again and be reminded of my reputation as the girl with the dry, crusty upper lip. The gloves on my left hand had a hole between the second and third fingers, so I’d shoved both of them into my pockets and blew on the thin fabric every few minutes to try to warm them up.

My music teacher jumped when she saw me before letting out a curse that I knew if I ever repeated it would lead to having a sore, bruised ass. I tried to hide in the shadows of the overhang, but she just kept staring at me. Glaring, really, like I was doing something wrong by standing here, waiting for my mom.

“What are you still doing here?” she’d asked, and the wobblethat was always in her voice wasn’t there anymore. “Where’s your mom?”

I shrugged at her, too embarrassed to answer. It wasn’t the first time Mom had been late to pick me up from school. That’s why I took the bus when even the driver knew I still had to walk another twenty minutes home once I got off at the last stop. She was too busy to get me, and I knew it wasn’t fair to make a stink about the walk when she was working so hard to pay the bills.