Good For You

He carries me through a doorway leading to a large bathroom, rather than the hal way I’d expected. There’s a cushioned bench along one wal , and he deposits me there, his hands gripping my shoulders lightly until he’s certain I can hold myself upright. My eyelids slit open just enough to track his movements and position in the room. Dressed in jeans and a faded black t-shirt, he pads across the carpet and marble floor, barefoot. He leans into the shower and a spray of water sounds, and then he’s walking back to me as steam bil ows above the frosted glass.

I never thought I’d see Reid again. Not in the flesh. My face grows hot at that thought and I close my eyes, reopening them when he says, “Hmm.” He’s standing in front of me, fists on his hips, staring down. I’m listing starboard but otherwise stil sitting up. And then he’s pul ing the fuchsia tank up and off, and taking my hands to stand me up.

“Nooooo,” I say, and it sounds more like a whine and less like a refusal. He begins to unzip the skirt and I grab his hands. He can’t mean to undress me now.

He picks up a huge bath towel from a fluffy stack on the opposite end of the bench, flaps it open and holds it up, a makeshift partition between us. “Everything off,” he orders.

“And then get in the shower.”

I try to glare at him over the towel, but even drawing down my brows hurts my head. I settle for a blank look. He looks back, one eyebrow raised like a chal enge. “You have to go home at some point.” he says, gesturing to the mirrored wal . “Is this how you want to look when you get there?”

I glance at my reflection, noting the smeared makeup, the sleep-creased skirt and the tangled hair, stiff with the half a bottle of whatever Kayla used to style it last night.

With al of the community service work I’ve done, I know this veneer al too wel . I look like a cheap prostitute. I can’t show up at Aimee and Kayla’s dorm like this.

“Dori. Shower.” It’s not a command or a plea, just a statement of common sense. I pul the top edge of the towel towards my chin with both hands and nod once. He returns the nod and leaves the room, pul ing the door shut behind him.

I hang the towel on a hook and unzip the skirt, dropping it to the floor. The lacy pink thong and bra that seemed so sexy last night feels incredibly sil y now. I strip off the lingerie and step into the warm cascade of water raining from a shower nozzle the size of a Frisbee.

As pulsing rivulets course over my face and body, I’m as relaxed as a person standing in a strange shower with almost no memory of the previous night could be. In the warmth and close quarters, every breath I take as I wash and shampoo catalogues the trace of almonds and exotic fruit and answers Reid. I had no idea I could recal his scent so acutely. Feeling as though I’m drowning in him, I don’t turn the water off until my skin is flushed and wrinkly.

My clothes reek of sweat, cigarettes and alcohol, and the last thing I want to do it put them back on. On the bench next to my tiny purse sits a bundle of folded clothing. Black linen shorts, soft white tank and a blue top with tiny snaps down the front. I’m reluctant to check the labels, but I do and then wish I hadn’t. The cost of this outfit would make a mortgage payment for most people.

After a soft knock, Reid gives me three seconds and opens the door. His eyes drift over me, wrapped in the towel, my hair hanging wet down my back. “I think those should fit.” He nods at the clothes, walking into the bathroom. “You and my mom are about the same size.”

“These are your mother’s clothes?” I shake my head and immediately regret doing so. “I can’t… take your mother’s clothes?”

“Sure you can. Or else you’l be wearing that towel home.” His eyes run quickly down my frame and more slowly back up. “You can give them back later, if you want.” His indifference concerning the return of his mom’s things is obvious, but he shrugs, placating me.

“I’l have them cleaned first,” I say. “Thank you.” Self-conscious, I run my fingers through my hair, trying to remove the bigger tangles and avoid his eyes.

He steps closer and hands me a bottle of water, which I gulp appreciatively. “There’s a blow dryer, hair products, al kinds of crap in this cabinet.” He leans down, rummaging, and pul s out a bottle of something, pours a little into his hands. “Detangler,” he says, running it through my hair, his fingers careful y separating strands while I recal him picking bits of fruit from my hair, in a different bathroom, a mil ion years ago.

Eyes closed, I drink as he detangles. As he moves around front, I force myself to look at him. “Reid… did we…?”

His fingers continue their careful paths through my hair, his expression al angel-faced innocence. “Did we… what?” I want to shut my eyes again but I need to see if he’s tel ing me the truth. I have to look in his eyes when he answers. “Did we… s-s-sleep together?”

He regards me with that bemused expression I know so wel . “You woke up in my bed, Dori. And yeah, I was in it with you last night.”

“Oh.” My gaze fal s to the floor. I slept with Reid… and I have no memory of it.

“Dori.” He waits until I look up at him. “Don’t look so mortified. We slept. I don’t do passed out virgins.” I swal ow. Of course he’s made the same assumption everyone who knows me makes: Dori Cantrel is nothing if not pure and innocent.

Chapter 38

REID

What I don’t tel her: she did just about everything imaginable to break that personal policy. Not that I’ve instituted much of a code of conduct for hookups; I’ve been with virgins, and I’ve been with girls who were so stoned or hammered they could hardly recal their own names. I’ve just made it a policy to draw the line at combining the two, if possible.