Page 6 of Detour

Running my fingers through my dripping hair, I consider his question. There’s no way I’m telling him the truth. Even if I was the sharing type, Beckett’s too carefree, too light to be dragged down by my gloom. He wouldn’t know what to do with the bleak answers that question produces. You can’t touch tar without getting dirty and the last thing I want is to infect his sunny disposition with my grime. So, I settle for a portion, a very small portion, of the truth by shrugging my shoulders and saying, “I just couldn’t.”

His eyes narrow before jumping over my shoulder. My gaze follows to see Coty watching from his elevated spot. He looks at his roommate, unease marring his beautiful features, then as I begin to turn away, he calls down, “hey, neighbor girl,” bringing my attention back to him.

Where Beckett uses the term in a playful, borderline endearing manner, Coty says the nickname like a caress. A tender stroke straight to my core. One that robs my ability to think clearly, breathe regularly, or behave properly as I sit here frozen in place. This is the first time I’ve heard him speak and it was to me. Not about me. Not around me. But to me. A single look eclipsed an entire party. A simple smirk short-circuited my motor skills. And now a friendly greeting threatens to send me hurtling through space without so much as a parachute. Danger. Pure, unadulterated danger. That’s what Coty’s interest suggests. What his attention warns. What my persistent survival instinct is screaming at me to realize.

My fingers snag on a tangle sending me spiraling back to Earth. Several strands become collateral damage as I rip my hand from the hair snare, standing so suddenly Beckett frowns beside me. With weightless limbs, I gather my small pile of things before scurrying past the gate, under the boys’ balcony to the stairs. A quick peek reveals Coty flashing that sinful smile that’s sure to keep me up later than their obnoxious parties ever could. I try to stifle my own, I really do, but my mouth betrays me and lets it slip anyway.

* * *

I throw on some active shorts, a loose short sleeve shirt that hangs off one sunburnt shoulder and my Adidas slides. As soon as I enter the downstairs laundry room, I spot Coty pulling clothes from a dryer into a basket and stop. He finds me frozen in the doorway before I can retreat and smiles warmly. I eye the empty walkway, considering waiting outside until he’s done but his voice lures me inside much like his eyes did the other night. Propping the door open with a nearby rock, I walk in slowly, methodically, keeping him in my peripheral.

“Hello,” I croak out, immediately regretting my need to wash my clothes. Who needs them anyway? A swimsuit and some strategically placed leaves could suffice, right?

Coty returns to his task while I stand here, not knowing what to do with my hands. He’s at an advantage having something to keep his busy.

I open the washing machine my clothes are in and push them around sluggishly, waiting for this to be over already. My shirt falls further down my shoulder but I don’t bother fixing it. The heat from the dryers mixed with the warm air wafting into the room is making me downright feverish. Maybe it’s just being in the same room as Coty. I glance over, noticing his movements have stopped altogether. Yes, it’s definitely him. Finding his gaze zoned in on me like a starved animal stalking its next meal, I clear my throat still randomly poking at the sopping pile. When he makes no move to continue with his own load, I surreptitiously glance around the floor checking for anything embarrassing that might’ve fallen out. If there’s a pair of period panties lying out, I will die right here, right now. Just climb into the machine and hope for a death less tumultuous than the life I’ve lived so far. Luckily, there’s nothing—unless you count the few hundred lint clusters littering the scuffed linoleum.

Frowning, I ask, “Are you done with that?”

My voice seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was in and he looks down to his hands gripping the top of the machine. “Uh…” His white knuckles regain color once he releases his tight hold. “Yup. It’s all yours.”

He strolls toward the door, leaving me plenty of room to switch my load over, so I work quickly but efficiently getting all my clothes into the vacant dryer without leaving anything behind. With his basket overflowing, I expect him to leave straightaway. He doesn’t. His black cut-off muscle shirt is doing a hell of a job showing off his muscles which I take great satisfaction in surveying. Coty’s the one to clear his throat this time making my already flushed cheeks bloom a deeper shade.

The final handful of wet clothes nestled in the still warm dryer, I hear coins tinkling beside me so I shoot my hand out to cover the slots before Coty can get any in.

“I can pay the dollar to dry my own clothes.” Which today is actually true. I almost never carry change but one of the last customers of the day tipped me in quarters which made doing laundry that much easier. Well, before this whole fiasco.

A multitude of thoughts cross his face—questions, assumptions, fears. All silenced as he drops his hand along with the issue.

“Hey, I never got your name. I’m Coty, in case you don’t remember.”

“I remember.” I shut the lid with a bang, insert my own quarters, then press start. My eyes find his. “I was tired, not drunk.”

Ignoring my jab, he presses, “And your name is?”

His arched eyebrow dares me. To answer? To run?

I decide to throw him a bone if not to get out of here that much faster. That’s what I tell myself anyway as I say, “Angela.”

I stick out my hand to shake his but he ends up enveloping mine with a soft palm accentuated with long, tender fingers. There’s no quick shake. There’s no movement at all save for the thrum of the metal against my thighs as the load inside picks up speed. His eyes bounce between mine as my heart begins whirring to the rhythm of the machine. The moment stretches, expanding, folding in on itself until I feel like maybe I’m in the dryer as well.

I yank my hand out of his grasp, mumbling out, “It’s nice to meet you.”

I grab my own basket when he presses, “Have I seen you somewhere? Maybe at your work?”

Again with the probe disguised as an innocent question. These guys are relentless. “Maybe,” I say carefully.

Walking backward, he surprises me by saying, “At Hot Spots Car Wash maybe?”

Damn. So, he was checking my clothes out. Hopefully he didn’t see everything. Never have I wished I could afford to shop at Victoria’s Secret more than I do right now. I’m adding that to the top of my adult list as soon as I’m back upstairs.

I shake my head lightly. “I’d remember if I saw you before.” Instantly, my lips clamp shut as I eye the empty washing machine, gauging if my body will fit in there after all. A chill like the one Coty’s mere presence evokes is not something I’d ever forget but he doesn’t need to know that. Or that his face has been burned into my memory with no chance of rehabilitation. Fourth-degree. Straight through, zero interference. When I donate my body to science after I die, they’ll find an exact replica of Coty’s face right there on my hippocampus.

Planning to get the hell out of here before anything else slips out of my mouth without my brain’s consent, I attempt to step around Coty when he shifts to block me. Not in an aggressive way. More like a last-ditch effort to get my attention. Little does he know, he already has it.

And there it is. That alarm blaring as loud and persistent as someone else’s dryer buzzing from across the small room. The one telling me to avoid the looming threat by way of either fight or flight. My stupid body, not consulting with my brain yet again, chooses the lesser known option—to freeze, like a mannequin modeling last year’s newest laundry basket. Mid-air. I’ll never be able to look at this stupid thing again without remembering this day. The day my neighbor realized he was living next to a woman with the equivalent of blow-up doll arms—utterly fucking useless.

Coty regards me another moment so I take the opportunity to do the same. His shirt’s open arm pits are cut so wide I can just make out tattoos under his collarbone on each side. Something intricate. Something with wings.