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It’s a large, open space with cubicles along two walls. A third wall houses an enormous, gold framed mirror and purple velvet chaise, and the final wall has sinks on either side of the door. The floor is polished wood, and not at all sticky like clubs at home.
“This is way nicer than the men’s,” Cove says, looking around. “Take a seat and I’ll sort your dress.”
I follow his instruction while he grabs some paper towels, wets them and squeezes them out. He returns to me and drops to his knees so that he can dab the bloodstains on my lap. My cheeks heat at how close he is, how sexy he looks on his knees before me, and the inappropriateness of the area he’s trying to clean. I should do it myself but I can’t seem to make my muscles move.
“I don’t think it’s coming off,” he says softly a few futile minutes of dabbing later. I shudder and rub my arms.
“It’s okay. I’ll just go home.” So much blood. A stranger’s blood. I need to scrub…
“Stay.”
“I feel gross. I should go.” I can’t explain to this beautiful, kind guy the compulsion I have to go home, shower and scrub until my skin is raw. It’s a miracle he’s talking to me and being so nice anyway, if he finds out how weird I am, he’ll run a mile – not a metaphor, but an actual mile – just to get away from me.
“Let me give you my shirt. Stay.”
I blink at him. He wants to give me his shirt? He wants me to stay?
I hesitate, torn. I like Cove. His friendly manner and flirty banter put me at ease, and I only feel mildly awkward in his presence. It’s easier to be around him than other people. Nice.
But wearing his shirt? That feels too…intimate. And even though I’m curious as to what it would feel like against my skin, my brain has to spoil the moment by shouting panic-stricken questions at me: what size is it? Will it fit? Where’s it from? What if it’s itchy? Is it clean? How long has he been wearing it? Has he been dancing? Sweating? Has he spilled anything down it? Has he had sex in it?
I scream at myself to stop.
Cove is patiently waiting for my answer.
“What about you?”
“I have an undershirt. Besides, it’s a beach club. Everyone’s virtually naked out there anyway and we can always go for a walk on the beach.”
I find myself nodding in agreement – we are overdressed compared to most on the dance floor – but Cove misreads me and pulls the shirt over his head, holding it out to me.
I blink rapidly and stare at his naked chest, not understanding why my mouth is suddenly watering. I thought he was wearing an undershirt? I’ve not seen his chest before. He was wearing a rashie at the beach that day. He’s tanned and athletic. Toned with well-defined stomach muscles from surfing. I think they call it a six pack, but a six pack of what? Sexy. A six pack of sexy is what it is.
I admire his tattoos too: a star above his right pec and a gorgeous mermaid’s face obscured by a starfish on his right bicep.
“Erm.” I blush and wave my hand at his chest.
“Oh shit! Sorry. It must be stuck inside the shirt.”
I check, and sure enough, he’s right. I tug the white top out from inside the shirt and pass it back to him. He shoots me a sheepish grin and pulls the sleeveless vest back on.
“I should change in the toilet,” I say.
“It’s fine. I’ll wait outside and make sure no-one comes in. Just change here.”
“What should I do with the dress?”
“I don’t think it’ll come clean, I’m afraid, but we can take it with us and try.”
“No. It’s fine. I’ll dump it in the bin.”
* * *
It feels weird, wearing a man’s shirt. I’ve never done it before, and even though it covers more of my skin than Summer’s dress did, it feels…sexier. The white cotton is loose, hitting my mid-thigh, and Cove has rolled the sleeves up for me because they were far too long. He grinned at me and teased me for being tiny, but I see him shooting little looks at me when he thinks I’m not noticing. Maybe he’s worried I’m going to wreck his shirt, but I’m being very careful.
We dance. We drink. We even do shots. They’re not terrifying, but the way Cove makes me feel is. He makes me feel lighter. Freer. The best version of myself that usually only Summer gets to see.
I’m having fun and I don’t want the night to end, even as he leads me out to the car park for some fresh air and we leave behind the sound of ‘Let’s Go Home Together’ by Ella Henderson & Tom Grennan. He gets bonus points for not suggesting we go out onto the beach too.
