He chuckles, and when I don’t hear footsteps moving away, I groan and imagine him leaning against the door.
He pushes, pushes, pushes until I’m forced to surge through the flames. Win or lose, live or die, he forces me to face my fear and come out the other side.
Clean hands, messy hair, flushed face, and no option but to step up, I turn away from the mirror and open the bathroom door. Spencer watches me with a filthy grin. He wears camouflage pants and… nothing else. No shirt, no socks. I have no clue if he’s wearing underwear, and his pants ride so low, I’m inclined to say he’s not. His chest is appallingly broad. Not just a bodybuilder type of broad, but the kind a man might have after he eats another, and then a third, and they all merge into one super bot with muscle and ink.
The tattoos that I snapped at him about not so long ago stretch from his arms up to his shoulders. His chest is completely covered, but his stomach remains bare. It’s almost like he’s wearing a long-sleeved crop top; images cover his arms, shoulders, chest, neck… and that’s it. Like the tattoo machine ran out of ink, or like he planned it exactly the way it is, so it provides these majestic colors up top, and starkly contrasted skin below.
I have no tattoos – “obviously”,I murmur to my prudish self – but my brothers do. Nadia does. The Bishops and just about every other person at that wedding does. But every tattooed person I know tends to stick to black ink and shading. Spencer has opted for a gruesome rainbow of skulls and fire. Flowers and wings. Roman numerals, demons, and serpents. It’s a terrifying display of art, but when its canvas smiles teasingly, it’s not so bad.
“You look good all sex-messy, Priss. I knew you had it in you.”
I do something completely out of character for me. I punch his stomach, getting absolutely no reaction from him but a solidifying of his abdominal muscles, before I move through his room.
I stop at the doorway that leads into the living room, and because Jay and his stupid gunshots can still be heard every three and a half seconds, I lean past the doorway and look from wall to wall. I’m still naked from the bottom down, and if a second man sees everything the way Spencer has, I might officially curl up and die.
When the coast is clear, and Jay’s shots don’t slow, I dart through the room and dive onto the couch. It’s like a fight to the death, but it’s me against a pair of jeans while I stab my legs through the denim and try my best not to get tangled up.
Spencer follows me out of the room and chuckles. He has this adoring eye, as though my mortification is endearing to him.
I’ve never in my life worn jeans with no panties, and the denim brushing against my skin now sends the receptors in my brain into a panic. It’s theScarlet Letteragain–everyone will know I’m indecent. Everyone will know what we did last night.
I push the button on my jeans through the buttonhole, and yank the zipper up while my lungs expand and drop. It’s like I’m running a race, but it’s just me against the possibility of everyone knowing my shame.
I catch sight of my sneakers on the floor; one by the coffee table, and one under the couch. I sit back down and start tugging them on and tying the laces.
“Don’t panic so hard, Priss. It’s still only me and you in here.”
“He’s going to know I’m here. He’s going to know what we did.”
“No.” Spencer walks around the couch and sits on the coffee table in front of me. He leans forward with that playful grin and takes my shaking hands. “It’s so much worse than that. He’ll assume we had sex.”
“But we didn’t!”
He chuckles. “A girl’s car stays in a dude’s driveway overnight, means they fucked.”
“Oh my gosh.” I shake his hands off and sit back. I cover my eyes and jam the heels of my palms against my eyeballs. “I didn’t even dothat, but now everyone will think I did.”
“Why does it matter what everyone thinks of you?” He holds my knee and squeezes. “Abigail, you are a grown-ass woman, and you don’t have to answer to anyone. You know what you did and didn’t do last night. You know your truths, so why does it matter what anyone else thinks?”
“I…” I hesitate. “I don’t know! But it feels super embarrassing. He’s going to tease me.”
“Babe.” He squeezes my knee hard enough to draw my eyes. “He’s my family. You have the kind of family that shares blood and would die for each other. I have the same thing, minus the shared DNA. Bish is my brother. He will laugh at you for sure, but only because he loves to laugh.”
“He’ll think I’m a…”Just say it, Abigail. Just say the word! “A whore.”
As though surprised by my horrible cussing, Spence lifts a brow and grins. “He doesn’t think anyone is a whore. He is the male version of an unpaid prostitute. He has Sophia now, but before her, he was all about hooking up with women before they’d even been introduced.”
“No…” My eyes widen. “Really? Who does that?”
Spencer does that, that’s who.
He grins. “Sometimes, we have loose morals until the right one comes along. Jay found Sophia, and he will never stray from her. Kane was no saint before Jess, but now he’s stuck, and he never wants to get out. We don’t judge each other for sex before marriage, Abigail.” He looks deep into my eyes. “That’s just you.”
I sit back as though he struck me. I’m offended that he insinuates that I judge. But I guess, in a way, I do. I don’t do it to be mean or rude, but because of my own expectations on myself. I expect a man and a woman toknowthat they’re in love, and if they’re in love, then they should marry. I expect everything to be fairytale perfect, and for couples that are in love to never break apart… But it can’t be that way, because my life has been a series of imperfections and broken pieces.
“He won’t judge you, Abigail. He’ll probably smack your ass and make a sex joke.”
“Will you tell him we didn’t do…that?”