Page 64 of No Interest in Love

“There is a God!” I exclaim as the shower stream hits my face. The heat loosens my sore muscles, and I lean against the wall and let it rain dirt and sweat down the drain. I see Monday in the water, the mud from Shay’s clothing coating my exposed skin. I laugh as I picture that tidal wave of puddle water completely soaking her. The way her lips pursed and her arms spread wide like she had no clue what had just happened. I picture it, and I see it wash down the drain…along with Tuesday. The dog hair that stuck to her ass that she kept trying and trying to wipe off but to no avail. Then yesterday—was it really onlyyesterday? Feels like a lifetime ago when the blue toilet water stuck to her hair, dripped onto her shirt, making her nose wrinkle up in the most hilarious way. I’m laughing at that, watching it wash down the drain, wondering if all of today will follow. The sweat on her neck, the marinara sauce on her lips…

I can’t see the drain anymore. I can’t see it because something has decided to stretch out right into my line of vision.

He’s been relentless this week. True, I’m on a mission to get laid. But this rising to the occasion whenever the brain in my head runs on the Shay station is getting out of hand. It’d be different if she wanted a Barney. It’d be different if she wasn’t my agent. It’d be different if she wasn’t my friend.

But Downtown Jace doesn’t think it’s different at all, the horny son of a bitch.

That’sprobably my anxiety problem. The Smurfs need action, and though I don’t have the parts they’re craving, I’ll just take care of it. I’m nearly to Alabama, and with the money now in my account I can catch that flight and land the part. I’d hate for Carletta to think I have the stamina of a sixteen-year-old.

Ah, good. Carletta channel. I can work with that. I try to picture her rack and her ass and think about the fact that I’ll be seeing them in person if I’m lucky. It’s going good. I mean, I’m getting there. Honestly, I thought I’d tap myself once or twice and be gone, but I’m holding up even though my arm’s getting tired.

A ten-ton weight plunks into my gut and knocks the wind out of me. Suddenly I don’t want the Carletta channel. I don’t want it because I’m thinking about Shay’s hand on my arm. I’m thinking about her in my Marvel pants. I’m thinking about her red bra in my hands and her leg draped over my hip, and I try to shake the thoughts from my head, but I can’t. And I let go of myself, refusing to do this while I’m thinking about her because it’s confusing the hell out of me.

I run a hand over my hair, splashing water onto the wall. Why does it matter who I’m thinking about? The fact that Shay pokes my brain, forcing me to think about her in a way I hadn’t before—at least before this week—scares me. And not because I like it but because I wantmore of it. I don’t want the thoughts and fantasies of her to stop.

“Dude, you have lost your mind,” I say to myself, slamming the water to cold. I wait for complete flaccidity before climbing out (it takes a while because I keep thinking about Shay, who might be showering right now). I wrap a towel tight around my waist and run a hand through my soaked hair. Through the buzz of my thoughts I catch a lighttap tap tapgoing through the wall every ten seconds.

A grin pulls at my lips and I pad my way over andtap tap tapback. I can almost hear her say,Finally, to which I reply,I was in the shower, impatient woman. And after ten seconds of grinning stupidly at the wall, at the conversation I’m clearly just having by myself, I shake my head and stuff myself into the covers.

Sleep will cure this virus I’ve caught. I’m about 93 percent sure of it.

Friday

2:00A.M.

I can’t do it.

She’s right next door, head probably by mine, like in those camera shots when they show the two characters only separated by a wall, but they both are staring at the same thing. In my case¸ it’s the ceiling, which has an unnerving stain. How does a ceiling get stained?

(Murder hotel.)

I twist in my sheets, trying to get comfortable, but my whole body itches. That same under-the-skin itch. Nothing I can dig my fingers into and relieve.

I can’t do it.

Nearly a week of funked-up sleeping habits, and when I finally get to a bed, I can’t doze off.

I stare at the clock now, watching it tick from 2:00 to 2:01 and imagining Shay doing the same thing in the room next door. Stupid thing to imagine, since she’s probably passed out cold. Mouth open and hair covering half her face. Her arms in weird positions and blanket tangled around her fidgety legs. Adorable.

Damn it.

I fling the sheets off of me and start pacing the room to get rid of the itch. It’s gotta be nerves. Pressure to get the part. Worry over mixing up words in the script. Something. I reach for my bag and tug on the zipper. Before I even get to the pages of the script my head goes back to Shay saying these lines with me—her monotone and horrible acting. She went through it with me with all the patience in the world. Shay isn’t a patient woman, but with me—forme—while I’m trying to read the damn words, she is.

Gah, I can’t even think straight. I need to walk or something. Get some air. Avoid knocking on her wall, and then on her door, because that’s what I reallywantto do.

I grab the ice bucket and shove into my shoes. Once I’m outside the itch starts to dissipate. Maybe my room is infested.

The ice machine is down the stairs and off to the right in a closed-off space that doesn’t look like it needs a key. It’s not too cold outside, so I don’t worry about my balls freezing off on the way.

My feet pick up speed, and I cross the parking lot at a sprint. The door to the ice machine and vending machine isn’t locked, so I push my way in and settle my hands on the top of the freezer. I’m losing my damn mind, and I know it’s because it’s late, been a weird week, and on top of that I’ve got not only my career on the line with this screen test but also Shay’s. Man, if she gets fired, I’ll still make her work for me. Unless shedoeslose her contacts…What’s the protocol for that?

Ah, shit. My head. My brain. This itch. I feel so trapped in my thoughts and skin I just want to break out of it and go somewhere else for a while to sleep it off. I open the lid to the ice and dip the bucket in, letting the cold knock some sense back into me.

The Stinson Approach…I need to get laid. I need a crazy night to get rid of the itch. I need Miss Sure Thing, but she’s not here. And so what do I do? Find some random woman to help out, or is it just me and my hand tonight? That didn’t work in the shower, and I’m almost afraid to try again because what happens if I start seeing Shay?

I look around as if some miracle one-night stand will show up at a cheap motel in Missouri. All I see is a couple of scratch marks by the door.

The weight bearing down in my stomach triples. And it’s not the pressure of getting the part. It’s not the pressure of performing or making it on time and has nothing to do with the screen test or the movie at all.

---