Page 11 of Her Crew

I walk backward and let the water rain down my back. My eyes close as the stream hits me in the face. Before she can run off, I swipe the water away from my eyes and pull her into the stall. She gasps as warmth rushes down her body. Her cami and underwear cling to her skin, giving me glimpses of what lies underneath.

When I guide her toward the shampoo and bodywash dispensers, she just stares at them, lost in her own mind. I’ve never seen a woman shut down at the prospect of something as simple as a shower, and I need to find out what this girl has been through. Not now, of course, but soon.

I lean into her and dispense shampoo into my hand. Her body tenses, only relaxing once I start washing her hair. The soap forms a thick lather in my hands as I brush it over the crown of her head. Suds run off her long strands, taking brown water and filth with them. Her widened eyes slip closed as I massage the conditioner into her scalp. She leans back against me, and I smile. I won’t take this moment of vulnerability for granted.

The dispenser squeaks as I fill my hand with bodywash and move her hair to the side. I wash her skin, beginning at her neck and moving down to her shoulders and arms. The straps of her cami slip down as I wash her shoulders and back, and my brain goes to places it shouldn’t as the soapy water slides down her body.

I knew she’d be a different being entirely once she was cleaned up, but when she looks back at me with those hazel eyes, with water droplets clinging to her long, thick lashes, I almost lose it.

“Can you clean the rest?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t notice the evil thoughts flitting through my mind.

When she nods, I back the fuck out of there. I leave her in the shower, close the curtain, and drop my hands to the sink as I gather my composure. Frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed about myself.

She’s too young and broken. And besides, I said I wanted to help her, not get into her pants. As the shower continues running behind me, I close my eyes and will away the thoughts I shouldn’t have.

Maybe bringing her along wasn’t the best idea.

Chapter 7

Tegan

If this isn’t fucking uncomfortable, then I don’t know what is. I had to let a grown man see that I can hardly handle something as normal as a shower. Something most people do every single day for the entirety of their lives.

Showers have been difficult for me since I was a child. I mean, I take them eventually, but showering is the single most vulnerable position you can be in when you live in a home that isn’t safe.

But I felt safe when he came in with me, which blows my mind. I still feel safe because he’s guarding the door. With a renewed energy I haven’t felt in my entire life, I wash myself up. Every part of me. And I take my time doing it.

I even get courageous enough to remove my underwear and wash them with a handful of soap. Mindful of the holes in the fabric, I rinse and scrub the tiny cotton scrap until the water runs clean. Satisfied, I ring them out and step into them.

Fear chokes me for a moment as the curtain moves and a towel is presented to me. I grab it, flip off the shower, and wrap it around my waist.

When I walk out of the stall, Alec avoids looking at me. Normally, this is the outcome I want. I don’t want people staring at me. But his avoidance has the opposite effect, leaving me feeling incredibly insecure. I’m not accustomed to a man who doesn’t stare at me for one reason or another. Whether I was dirty or clean, they always stared. Every fucking one of them.

Maybe he’s trying to be polite. I mean, the thin, soaked cami isn’t exactly leaving anything to the imagination.

“Sorry you had to treat me like a child. I swear I’m not.” My gaze drops to a crack in the tiles. If I thought we were heading to a shower, I wouldn’t have let us come in here. I guess I needed it, though. I’m sure everyone is sick of me stinking up the van.

Alec swipes a hand through his wet hair. “I understand. I really do. Don’t even worry about it. Once you looked like you could handle it on your own, I let you.”

Does he, though? Does he really understand? Because I’ve never met anyone who has.

He picks up his shirt, along with the one he stole.

“The shower didn’t shrink me,” I say. “That shirt still won’t fit me.”

“It’s not for you.” He holds his shirt toward me. The literal shirt off his back.

I shake my head. “I can’t accept that.”

“You absolutely can.” He shakes his shirt, but I still refuse. “Just think of it as borrowing. I’ll get you something of your own tomorrow, and you can return it.”

Oh, great. More charity.

He wiggles the shirt again, and I take it because what choice do I have?

I turn away from him, remove my cami, and slide his dark shirt over my naked torso. It hides the curves of my breasts and stomach, which makes me feel a little safer.

By the time I turn around, he’s wearing the stolen t-shirt. That particular shade of blue is a little too bright and cheery for him, but he doesn’t have another option. He passes me the black sweatpants, and I put them on beneath the towel and drop the scratchy cotton to the floor.