Page 82 of Distortion
I bark a laugh. ‘You guys actually think she is?’ I roll my eyes.
‘Fucking morons,’ I mutter. ‘She’s not mentally challenged. She’s just dumb.’
Then, I remember the doorbell. ‘How long was she out there?’
A couple shrug.
‘Don’t make me check.’
‘A few minutes.’
I heft my pizza box into one hand and grab a second beer from the door of the fridge, ignoring the guys who have mostly gone back to playing cards, though I feel a couple of sets of eyes track my movements until I’m out of sight.
I go upstairs and step into my room, putting the pizza on my bed and setting the two beer bottles on my desk.
She’s standing in the middle of my room, looking like I’m about to eat her alive.
Maybe I will.
Deciding not to waste any time, mostly because I probably won’t have much of it before Mav gets back and tells her to get the fuck out, I draw closer.
‘Are you ready?’
She doesn’t look at me. Her arms are at her sides. Her breathing is quick.
‘Are you scared?’
She nods a little.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I say softly, not really liking that she’s so apprehensive.
The realization that I want to put her at ease is new. I don’t usually give a shit so long as they give me what I want.
My fingers glide up her arms and my hands settle on her upper arms. I’m trying to calm her, but all she does is startle. I feel how cold her skin is. Her body is shaking.
Suspicion twists through my gut. The guys downstairs weren’t straight with me.
‘How many times did you ring the doorbell?’ I ask softly.
My question throws her.
‘Three,’ she answers immediately.
‘I’ll be right back.’
I leave the room, pulling out my phone and bringing up the app. I look at the history and see the exact moment she rang the bell tonight for the first time. Nine-thirty. And the third time was at ten fifteen. The fuckers left her standing out in the rain for forty-five minutes and she doesn’t even have a jacket on.
I grab a fresh towel from the closet and go back to my room. She’s still standing in the same spot.
‘Take off your wet clothes.’
She looks at me and then at the floor. She hesitates, but her fingers begin to work the buttons of the sweater and she shrugs it off, revealing a maroon camisole underneath. I watch her as she undoes her jeans and sits down on my bedto peel the damp fabric down over her knees. My eyes follow the lines of her long legs.
If I was hoping for a racy strip-tease like I’d get from Jolie, or one of the other girls I’ve messed around with before, I’d be disappointed. Her movements are wooden and she doesn’t give me even one sultry glance.
But I’m not. I’m actually a little worried about her. Between the other day’s river dunking and today’s soaking, she’s going to end up getting sick. It’s weird that I give a shit, but I can’t help it. I also can’t help but watch as she takes each item of clothing off. Turns out I might be a nicer guy than I gave myself credit for, but I’m not a fucking saint.
Her fingers grasp the lower hem of the cami and I watch with bated breath as she pulls it up and over her head in one swift motion. She lets it fall to the ground with her other clothes and sits silently on the bed, facing forward with her back straight and her hands in her lap. Her legs are together and her ankles are crossed, I realize with some amusement. She’s sitting like she’s in a suit at a job interview.
