Page 50

“You’re not invited.” Swiping the brush across the page animatedly, my forearm catches the water pot and it dips. Dirty paint water sploshes all over the desk, the page and my jeans. I jerk back, seeing the splatter now decorating my white T-shirt. This one was new and stain-free, but that didn’t last long.

“Brilliant,” I hiss, pushing up to my feet. There’s no saving the painting, the colors melting into one swampy mess. Patting down the desk with an old rag, I attempt to dry my jeans but it’s useless. They’re soaked through and filthy.

Giving up, I huff and reach for a towel, slinging it over my shoulder. Beyond the window, the weather continues to rage, hence why I opt to not roll another joint for after my shower. Somewhere out there, Everest is drenched in rainwater and determination. The last thing he’ll want when he comes to find me is paint beneath my nails and my groin stinking of chemicals.

Leaving my earbuds in my room, I leisurely stroll down the hallway. I swear I can still hear the thumping of the music, my head nodding and a small hum in my throat. Only, as I near the bathroom, the thumping grows louder and I realize it’s not actually in my head. It’s echoing from the stairwell, the trudging of shoes pounding against the carpet. Surely, given all of his stubborn pride to see this match through, Everest wouldn’t be back already.

Stepping into the bathroom, a figure rounds the corner, and I still with my hand on the door. I can only describe what I’m looking at as a swamp monster. Water drips from her muddy hair, skating through more mud coating her cheeks and neck. Her braid is soaked, slapping wetly against her back, her jersey plastered to her skin, dirt coating everywhere I can see.

Beneath it all, blue eyes filled with pure rage spear me with the same efficiency of a dagger. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t caught off guard enough to feel a trace of fear at the look in her eyes, but I very quickly shut that shit down.

“Oh no you don’t!” Meg cries out, lunging toward me. Ducking aside at the last minute, I attempt to slam the door closed, since chivalry isn’t in my vocabulary, but her shoulder wedges into the gap. Pain sparks through my healing palm, hard enough to make my teeth grind together. Meg shoves harder, slick fingers scrabbling for the handle, breath sawing out of her like she’s run the length of campus on an empty tank of sheer spite.

“Back off,” I growl, digging my heels into the tile. “I’ve earned this.”

“Oh, you’ve earned it?” she bites out, forcing herself farther into the gap. “I’ve been out there getting pelted by rain and god knows what else while you sat around doing... what, fucking your paint palette?”

I almost choke on an incredulous laugh, her anger slipping over me with the kind of warmth I recognize. That warmth buries itself into my gut, a strange churning that doesn’t feel awful taking root. Is this what Everest feels when she’s furious with him? Wait, what?

During the temporary misfire in my brain, Meg twists her body, jamming her knee into the opening and shoulder-barges her way inside. My towel slips halfway down my arm, while mud spatters the clean tile in an offensive splatter. This woman is insane.

Spinning, I quickly nudge the faucet for water to spray from the showerhead, as if that’s some kind of declaration in itself.

“I’ve already got the water running,” I snap.

“That was very thoughtful of you, now get out.” She growls straight back, peeling the sodden jersey from her body and throwing it to the floor with a grotesque slap. My mind slams to an abrupt stop. The artist in me wants to observe, curious if the anatomy I drew correctly reflects her lithe muscle and tight stomach. However, it’s the man in me that takes over. The taken man who has hated her for longer than she’s even known I existed.

Yet she doesn’t cower, or make any attempt to cover herself. This isn’t happening right now. This is Meg standing in front of me, her muscles shaking from cold and exertion. Mud streaks over her ribs, rainwater slips down her stomach, and oncoming bruises blur amongst the two. She’s drenched, muddy and furious, and I hate to say, smoking fucking hot.

Stripping off layers like she intends to win this argument through sheer audacity, I snap back into action. Yanking my shirt over my head, I throw it aside too. I have no shame about the fact I’m not built like Everest, my muscle lean and limbs covered in tattoos that hide scars. Yet, as Meg’s eyes flick my body, I tense just a fraction.

Only Everest sees me topless, our bodies so attuned to each other that I don’t even think twice about how I appear to him anymore. He loves me exactly the way I am, so there’s no need to make an effort on my appearance, tattoos aside. Still, I briefly wonder if Meg likes what she sees, before instantly hating myself for caring.

Keeping my expression hard, I feign indifference as Meg wrestles with the rest of her clothes, stripping down to her underwear. I do the exact same. The room thickens with steam, the air between us becoming less about hygiene and more about two people too stubborn to jolt back from a line neither of us meant to cross. As she jerks forward to the shower, I move too, drawing up right behind her as she steps beneath the spray.

The cubicle has never felt so small. Clenching my jaw, ignoring how every nerve in my body is suddenly and inconveniently rousing, I crowd closer. Hot water crashes over us, flattening her hair against her skin, turning the mud into rivulets that snake down her back and vanish beneath the drain.

A small sound escapes her before she can swallow it. Not a moan meant for me, not even close, but one of relief and exhaustion. The kind of sound a person makes when they’ve found a pocket of warm safety away from the bitter cold of the world outside. The kind of moment I crave for myself daily, using up all the hot water in the tank to banish my anxiety before I can face another day. In Meg’s case, it’s a moment I was never meant to witness, but I do. Oh, I do, and that little moan sends a catapult toward my dick.

Sensing me lingering, Meg suddenly stiffens, the reality of what she’s started suddenly dawning. Perhaps if I was anyone else, I would have scurried away and let her have the damn bathroom. Unfortunately, I’m in far too deep to give Meg any small wins. As her posture straightens, I allow myself a small smile, waiting for her to dart past and run for the safety of her room. Yet, it would seem both Meg and I share the same rebellious, stubborn streak that’s got us in this mess in the first place.

Hooking her thumbs into the last strap of fabric between us, Meg pushes down her panties and kicks them aside. It’s me who freezes now, the steam seeming to stop moving around me. It doesn’t. The water continues hammering against the tile, the pipes groan behind the wall, rain lashes faintly against the window, but inside my head, every sound falls away.

She’s completely naked. Filthy, bruised and trembling but beneath it all, muscle and pride keep her standing tall. Her waist dips and her hips flare. Her thighs are sturdy, her calves defined as the mud trickles away to reveal a clean slate underneath. Every inch of creamy, flawless skin is revealed rivet by rivet until I’m practically panting against the steam.

I’ve always considered myself demisexual, only forming a sexual attraction to those I have a deep emotional bond with. Or at least, that’s what made sense because Everest is the only person who’s ever filled me with desire before. No one else does it for me. Yet, from the stirring happening in my boxers, I’m starting to question everything. I don’t have a deep emotional bond with Meg, at least not in the traditional way.

Has she wormed her way into my life, into my brain and under my skin? Yes. Does she slide into my dreams and artwork uninvited to taunt me? Every damn day. Have I done whatever it takes to get her out of Everest’s life so that I can have him all to myself? That question I stutter on.

I thought that was my intent, but now I’m standing inches from her naked form and realizing I could never truly capture her essence on a canvas, I’m not so sure. Maybe I wasn’t just trying to remove Meg as an obstacle for Everest, but for myself too. I don’t want to want her. I don’t want to make my life anymore complicated. Nicholas taught me if there’s a problem, you simply remove it, but Meg isn’t going anywhere. I gravely underestimated her.

“Well,” Meg glances back at me with a raised brow when the awkward silence has stretched on for too long. “Don’t just stand there. Pass the shampoo.” My eyes snap back to her face. What?

Suddenly, it’s me who is a deer caught in the headlights. Not her. Never her, no matter how I try to throw her off kilter. Huffing as if this whole scenario is a burden, I try to settle the tic beating in my jaw. Neither of us is going to back down first, so it seems we’re doing this.

Reaching towards the rack, I grab one of my better bottles, since I’ve drained all of her rosewater toiletries. I like the smell, sue me. It only seems fitting to offer her my expensive brand in return, because apparently I’m not holding the reins this afternoon. Whatever self-destructive demon that lives inside of me is.

Holding out her hand expectantly, I catch Meg’s wrist and turn her to face forward. She gasps, bracing a palm against the wet tile, her body going rigid before me. The reaction cuts straight through the haze of desire building inside, reminding me that her surprise is not the same as permission. Keeping my grip firm but not cruel, I wait a few seconds, giving her the chance to wrench away, curse me out, or shove me away. She does none of those things, and before I know it, my hand has settled on the back of her neck. Her pulse thunders against my fingers.