The house had been kept up nicely with all those frat dues, but the name they’d given it had stuck: The Brothel. Their other enduring legacy was the way that the house sprung parties like a leaky barrel when we least expected it.
The street was quiet; it was too late for even the weeknight party warriors. I pulled into the spot I’d vacated less than an hour ago.
I turned off the ignition and leaned back in my seat, rolling my head to the side to watch her.
Her lips were parted, and a gentle snore rumbled in her throat.
The streetlights haloed the nest of her hair. She was here and she was safe. I’d only been more scared once in my life, and I never wanted to feel that way again.
I could’ve lost her. Shoving those feelings aside, I focused on what she needed right now. A shower and real sleep.
Wrapping my fingers just above her knee, I squeezed the spot twice.
She jolted awake, her head whipping around.
“We’re here.” She must have been exhausted, because I made it to her door before she could open it.
“I had it,” she grumbled and hopped out. “My toes are freezing.” She wiggled them against the hard, dark concrete.
I glanced down at her bare feet. If I offered to carry her inside, she’d probably punch me in the balls, so I bit the inside of my cheek, watching for glass or splintered wood on the porch steps.
Inside, I got her straight to my room and handed her a t-shirt and some boxers before I sent her to shower.
Her quietness told me just how much she needed to get under the covers—for once she didn’t have a quip or a biting comment.
The stench of smoke hung heavy in my room, more noticeable now that we were away from the fire. I sniffed my shirt and jerked away from the burning smell. The last thing I wanted was for her to walk in here and be hit with the stink of char.
I took off my smoke-soaked clothes and grabbed my towel off the back of the door, wrapping it around my waist. I dumped the clothes outside my door and grabbed fresh ones.
The water in the bathroom shut off and the door opened, the hot, humid air billowing into the hallway.
She stumbled back in and spotted me, freezing mid-hair-drying.
Dammit, maybe I should’ve waited to take my clothes off until I’d gotten to the bathroom, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen me in just swim trunks before. At least I’d gotten the towel on and she hadn’t walked in on me totally naked like she had last summer after our water balloon battle.
“My clothes smelled like smoke too. I’m hopping in the shower.”
Seeing her in my clothes did something to me—something that couldn’t be contained by a towel. I clutched my sweats and t-shirt in front of my now-straining erection. My blood pounded in my veins and I didn’t know how I was supposed to spend the night lying beside her. Maybe I should take the couch. I rushed out the doorway, poking my head back in.
“Get into the bed. I’ll be back in a few.” I flicked off the light, blanketing the room in darkness aside from the glow from the hallway.
The shower was quick and efficient and I kept myself from relieving the pressure that had built up when I saw her in my clothes. I cranked it to cold until my cock deflated and I could end my freezing torture.
Climbing out, I picked up her clothes from the floor and dropped them outside my bedroom door. I’d wash them in the morning and see if a gallon of detergent got the smell out.
If it didn’t, I wasn’t opposed to her wearing more of my clothes until we got her some new ones or she got to go back to her place to see what could be salvaged.
There was no sound in my room. For a second, I thought she might’ve gone downstairs to get something to eat, but then I heard her soft, gentle breaths coming from my bed.
I hung my towel up and crossed the room.
Marisa was spread out like a starfish, taking up most of the bed.
Chuckling, I took her arm and put my hand on her waist, rolling her toward the wall. She grumbled, but let me move her, shifting her pillow and clutching it to her chest.
If I weren’t a glutton for punishment, I’d have taken a pillow and blanket and gone downstairs to the couch of torture, or I’d have nudged her even further toward the wall and put my back against hers. But I couldn’t help myself.
Sliding into the bed, I curled my body around hers, wrapping my arm around her. Just for tonight. Just because of how close I’d come to losing her. Just because I couldn’t help myself.
Her hair smelled like me. As much as I loved that, I’d have to pick up some of her shampoo and soap when I got a chance.
“Night, Marisa.” Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply, matching my breaths to hers.
Tonight, I’d hold her in my arms.
Tomorrow, I’d figure out how to deal with being in love with the coach’s daughter.
2
Marisa
I rolled over, running my hands over the blankets. The sheets were soft and comfy, like flannel. This wasn’t my bed.
Shooting up, I looked around the room and it all came flooding back. Staying up late studying. Being woken by Liv. The choking smoke. The panic and fear. The blind crawl down the stairs and sucking in lungfuls of still-smoky air once we’d made it outside. And LJ.
Seeing him had calmed me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. He’d been the only person to call after the fire. No way was I calling my mom or Ron, and his number was one of the few I’d committed to memory.
Seeing him standing next to the ambulance, though, I’d almost burst into tears. I’d only managed to hold them back because I knew how much it would freak him out to see me cry. Once his arms were around me, the fear had ebbed away, and when I was in his bed, sleep had come quickly. I barely remembered the shower, only his body wash that smelled like evergreen and orange zest even through the smoky burn still lingering in my nose.
The blinds were drawn on the two windows in the room. I couldn’t even tell what time it was from the light peeking through the slats. Sometime between 7am and 4pm, since it was light out. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d slept through an entire day.
I had no idea where my phone was. I’d need to call work and let them know I wouldn’t be in. All those student tour groups at the Philadelphia Museum of Art would have to carry on without me for a little while. I was sure no one would miss my museum curator jokes.
LJ’s phone sat on the nightstand beside his bed, which was wedged into the corner of his room. His towel was hanging on the back of the partially-open door. The desk was neat and clear, and multicolored tabs stuck out of the neat stack of notebooks. Pens and highlighters were lined up beside them for easy access. His closet door was fully closed and there wasn’t a thing on the floor other than his shoes. His room had always been neater than mine.
It made all those sleeping-bag sleepovers in middle school less like going on a fungal expedition and more like seeing how a normal house functioned.
Now my excuse for my messy room was that my days were filled with cataloguing and organizing, so once I got home all bets were off. Technically, I didn’t need an excuse now. I didn’t have a room—at least not one I’d be returning to anytime soon. I’d rather sleep on the train than go back home and commute in for classes and my internship.
My mom had probably turned my room into a speakeasy since I’d been there last summer. That had been the visit where I vowed I’d never stay at home again—not that it had been much of a home after my dad left.