Page 18 of Overtime
But it’s there, carved in virtual stone in the text message I sent, because I stupidly never deleted his number. I try to recall it, but I’ve waited too damn long to realize my idiocy. Betty must have missed the part where I said “Violet” And thought I said, “Text Colt.”
The panic starts to set in then, the anxiety ricocheting around in my chest until it feels like it might make my heart burst through my ribs. Shit. Fuck. Damn.
He couldn’t have seen it yet. Not when I handed him the towels. He would have said something. Been weird. Made a face. There would have been something to let me know he’d seen it.
I absolutely do not need Colt knowing all my inner angst about him. Every encounter since I got here with him has been one embarrassing moment after another, and I just need a break. One little break. Apparently, that’s too much to ask.
He was in a hurry to get cleaned up. So maybe, just maybe, he still hasn’t seen it yet. I’d bet money his phone’s just sitting on the counter while he takes his shower. All I have to do is creep in and delete the message.
Unless he locks his phone. But he’s from the Heartland, right? Some farm in the middle of a map dot. Where they leave their cars and their doors unlocked. Maybe that extends to phones. Maybe he’s the last man on earth who doesn’t lock it down hard so the woman he’s out with doesn’t find out about the other five on the roster. Especially since his roster seems to be pretty sparse if I’m to believe the rumors.
I could do this. I’d just slip in and out. Delete the text. He’d never see it, and I could stop having an anxiety attack.
I slip out my door, checking the hallway in each direction because while Violet would probably assist me in this endeavor, Ben would definitely stop me from busting into a bathroom while Colt’s showering. My hand lands on the door handle. I say a quick prayer that thing is unlocked. Because again, he showers in a locker room most days a week. While the rest of us wouldn’t leave it unlocked, he might… right?Please.Please say he would.
I press down on the handle and it moves, a second later the door creaks open half an inch, and I listen quietly. Making sure I can hear the water running. I pause again. Because he could just be letting the water warm up and the only thing worse than him seeing that text message is him seeing that text messageandseeing me creep into a bathroom on him.
I take a breath, count to ten and then slide it open a little further, peeking around the edge to see if I can see him. But sure enough, the main part of the room is empty, the water is running, and the curtain’s closed. I could get in and out.
I hurry through the door, pushing it most of the way shut so I’m not alerting Ben or Violet to what I’m doing. Then I look around frantically for his phone. I don’t see it on the counter or anywhere easily visible. I look on a couple of shelves and then spot the bag on the floor in front of the shower.
That has to be where it is. So I sneak closer and crouch down, hurriedly patting the outside trying to figure out if there’s a hard phone-shaped piece inside, and I finally feel one. I hear him move in the shower though. A small plastic clicking sound like he’s pouring shampoo or body wash out of a bottle. And a second later when the room floods with the smell of my shampoo, I eye the closed curtain. That bastard. Stealing my shampoo. I’m guessing he didn’t have any. But he could have asked first. So rude.
Fuck.The phone. I need to focus.
I pat around and unzip the pocket. Unfortunately, the sound of unzipping the bag sounds like it’s being echoed through a fucking megaphone against the tiles in this room. I pause, again saying a little prayer to the gods that this man doesn’t hear it. Maybe his head’s under the water while he washes the shampoo out. Maybe fans chanting his name all the time have made him hard of hearing at a young age. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.
I hear him clear his throat, the sound of another bottle being uncapped and then closed and set on a shelf follows it. I reach my hand into the open pocket, feeling around and finding socks, some energy packets, what I’m fairly certain is a condom—so maybe not a priest after all, my heart skips—and some kind of paper but still no phone. I reach the furthest part of the pocket and realize it must be in the inner pocket of the bag. I could honestly scream that this is so difficult. If he’d just left it out on the counter like a normal person, I’d have been in and out by now.
I go to unzip the inside zipper quietly, but it’s the next sound that stops me dead in my tracks.
“Fuckkkk…” I hear him hiss, and I stop. Going stark-still and listening hard to see if I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing. Because Colt doesn’t swear often. The rarity was always a reward for me to hear when we fucked.
The smell of my conditioner envelops me, and I hear another soft “fuck” come from behind the shower curtain, and I simultaneously want to die and melt into the floor. Because Colton St. George is very definitely jacking off using my conditioner about two feet away from me and has no idea I’m here listening. And it’s the hottest thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I can’t decide if that’s sad or serendipitous.
At least until I nearly fall and grab the cabinet to stop myself, making a loud noise that has him pulling back the curtain a second later. Where he has a full view of me, toppled over, hand in his bag, very clearly snooping and listening in on his little self-care session.
Kill. Me. Now.
I rarely blush. I’m not shy and there’s very little at this point in my life that shocks me. But the look on his face right now? It’s making my skin molten hot, and not in a good way.
TEN
Colt
“Joss?”I’d been imagining her just now to be fair—but naked, wet, and willing with me in this shower, not on the floor rifling through my bag while she stares at me with her mouth agape. “What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, her face contorts, and her brow furrows and she starts rifling through the bag some more pulling out my phone a second later.
“Joss! What the fuck are you doing?” I repeat because I can’t imagine she’s in the bathroom stealing my phone for a good reason. I can’t even begin to fathom why she’s doing it though.
“Nothing. I’m doing nothing!”
She starts to stand, and I realize she’s about to make a break for it, so I jump out of the shower, grabbing a towel in the process because I don’t need her to see the state the imaginary version of her has put me in, and bolt after her. She stumbles over the rug as she makes for the door, and it gives me just enough time to stop her in her tracks. I reach over her, slamming my hand against the upper part of the door, shutting it, and holding it tight while she struggles underneath me to try to open it back up again. I can’t exactly wrap the towel around me while I hold the door, so I’m stuck just holding the towel to shield the most crucial parts of my anatomy from her.
“Give me the phone back, Joss.”
“No!”
