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He’ll probably thrive there.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that the headlines tomorrow will read, International Figure Skating Champion Found Dead in Apparent Strangulation; Older Brother Confesses, ‘I Told Her to Focus on Skating, Not Dating.’
Shit. Shit. SHIT!
“Babe? Hey, babe?” My boyfriend, Michael, pushes me against the elevator’s back wall—knocking me out of my thoughts. “Babe, you’re scaring the hell out of me. What are you thinking about?”
“Getting murdered.” I look into his eyes. “Did you notice anyone following us when we left the arena? Was the person driving that green Honda a guy who looked like a human version of the Hulk?”
“Um, wow. And no.” He tugs at the medal around my neck. “You’ve been away from me for months, finally won another medal like you wanted, and you’re thinking about getting killed?”
You would be too if you knew my brother. “Sorry, I’m just—” I struggle to think of a lie. “Tonight’s competition was a bit more intense than I thought.”
“The only thing you should be thinking about is how your loving boyfriend, i.e., me, is about to lay down this nine-inch pipe when I get you into my bed.”
I blink a few times.
I’ve envisioned losing my virginity hundreds of ways, and a guy saying any version of “laying down this pipe” has never appeared in any of them.
Also, I’ve felt him rock-hard before, and he definitely isn’t “nine inches.”
Four, maybe …
“Babe, pay attention.” He presses his lips against mine, kissing me so hard that I lose my train of thought. Once he’s rendered me breathless, he grabs my hand and leads me off the elevator and toward his room.
Pressing a kiss against my cheek, he unlocks the door and pulls me inside.
The mixed scents of old pizza, beer, and soy vanilla candles waft around me as he walks me to the bed.
“I’ve missed you so damn much.” He slides a hand under my dress, pushing my panties to the side.
As if he can sense my hesitation, he pulls back.
“Let’s get tipsy so you can get comfortable,” he says. “I have strawberries, whipped cream, and some specialty champagne I bought for you.”
“Actually, I think all I need to do is make a phone call.”
“To who?”
“Travis.”
“Your brother?” He raises his eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I nod. “He’s called me like ten times tonight, so I should probably let him know that I’m fine.”
“Your brother is a thousand miles away.” He shakes his head. “And last time I checked, he left you in Seattle to fend for yourself. He can wait.”
Good point.
Pulling me close, he runs his fingers through my hair—kissing me all over again. I wrap my arms around his neck as whispers my name. I try my best to focus on this moment. On him.
“Take off your shoes,” he says, and I kick off my heels.
Without another word, he rolls me onto the mattress and stamps a line of kisses against my neck.
As I’m threading my fingers through his hair, a loud knock sounds at the door.
“Coming!” He groans. “I forgot to put a sock on the door for my roommate, babe. Hold on.”
Walking over to the door, he looks through the peephole. “Holy fucking shit.”
The knock comes again—much louder this time, and he steps back.
For a moment, I start to believe that my premonition of murder is seconds away from coming true. I look around for our best chance at escape, but both windows are blocked with beer can towers, and I can’t risk my legs by jumping down four stories.
I consider volunteering as tribute to be murdered first, but logic steps in to alleviate my fears.
It would take Travis seventeen hours to drive here, and even if he chose to fly, he wouldn’t dare waste money on a last-minute plane ticket.
He’d also call me a million times in advance to let me know.
“Who’s at the door?” I ask him.
“Shhh.” Michael presses a finger to his lips. Then he stares at me, looking torn between jumping out of the window and hiding under the bed.
Suddenly, like a scene straight out of Mission Impossible, he runs over to me and wraps his arms around my legs. Tossing me over his shoulder, he carries me to his closet and drops me onto a pile of musty clothes.
“Stay here and be quiet, okay?” he whispers. “I love you so much.” He slams the door shut, but he quickly reopens it.
“Here. Take your shoes.” He almost hits me with them.
What the hell? I stand to my feet as he pushes a laundry basket in front of the closet door.
Through the thin slats, I watch as he puts on an erratic one-man show.
In the first act, he makes and remakes the bed—adjusting the pillows by color. In the second, he takes off his jeans and changes into a pair of sweatpants, all while humming an off-key refrain of a familiar pop song.
