Page 26 of Washed Up
“Reid. Oh, God. I’m sorry. He kissed me and—”
“You liked it.”
I swallow. I can hear his disappointment clogging up his throat.
“I liked it when you did it, too.”
“But I’ve missed my chance, right? Went off half-cocked and got myself disqualified from the running as a result.”
“Reid. That’s not how…”
“Sorry, I can’t keep it up.” His sorrowful expression cracks into mirth. “Max doesn’t have a possessive bone in his body. Bet he even told you about past us, so you’d know he wasn’t erecting barriers between you and Wynter and me ’cause of you two shagging.”
My insides do a funny sort of belly flop. “He did mention something to that effect.”
“So?”
“So?”
“Wanna come upstairs with me after we’ve finished up here?”
“To do what?”
He raps on my head with the flat of his palm. “Iris, I feel you’re not keeping up. To give one another orgasms, obviously.”
“That’s awfully direct.”
He lifts his shoulders in his defence. “I’m a direct sort of guy. What’s the point in obfuscating. I want you. I think you want me—”
Do I?
“—Max isn’t going to get upset about it, and I’ll tell you what, I’ll throw in some camera time as a sweetener. You, me, that brute of a camera Ric’s loaned you, and not a stitch of clothing. I’ll even sign waiver papers so you can use them however you want.”
How am I supposed to resist? I finish up loading the dishwasher, while Reid runs a cloth over the work surfaces. Max is snoozing on the sofa as we pass, his long legs draped over the arm. We head upstairs hand in hand.
“Are you sure he’s not going to mind?”
“You want to wake him and ask?”
I don’t. He looks peaceful, his mouth partly open, and his expression turned all soft. I know what his answer will be. It’s not a problem, Iris. It’s the norms the rest of society imposes on us that are niggling me, not Max’s opinion, or worries over hurting his feelings.
“Your place or mine?” Reid asks when we reach the upper landing.
“Yours.” I want to see Reid Rushmore’s personal space almost as much as I want to see him stripped bare of his tatty clothes.
His room is tucked into the eaves, with a dormer window on one side. Still, the roof is low enough even I worry about banging my head on some of the beams. It’s clean and yet chaotic. He’s obviously been living out of his suitcase. It stands open, set on top of a sea chest, a jumble of clothes hanging out of it. There’s a small desk cum dresser before the window, looking out towards the fort, a high-backed armchair next to a small circular coffee table overflowing with electronic devices – laptop, chargers, ahandheld games console and a charging pad for his phone. And a second chair that looks as if it’s made of macrame suspended from the ceiling beams. What it takes me a minute to realise is that there’s something obvious missing.
“Where’s the bed?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then where do you sleep?”
His gaze flicks to a rolled-up mat in the corner.
“On the floor?” Did he give his bed up to me, when they rescued me off the beach?
“Sometimes I share with Wynter. Depends on the mood.”
