Just a little longer.
With only a few weeks left of school, the teachers are cramming in as many big projects as possible right up until the final grades are collected. That’s cutting things awfully close in my opinion. At least I know I’ll graduate on time with honor roll but what about all those stragglers? The kids on the verge of failing? When will they find out if they can graduate or not? After the caterers have set up? When they’re the only ones still waiting for their names to be called onto the stage?
My English paper needs to be typed before I can turn it in which means I’ll need to go back to the library this weekend. I’ve already written most of it on my notes app on my phone but I still need to finish it, then print the stupid thing. All my other teachers let us email our assignments—save the trees!—but for whatever reason my English teacher insists we physically hand our reports in. Typed, printed, leather bound, sealed with wax, covered in blood and whatever else medieval shit she can think of.
I don’t have the time, or patience, for any of it though. I have to open the wash both Saturday and Sunday which could end up being two full days of work. Hopefully anyway, since I need the extra tips right now while my schedule is still limited with school.
Tonight though, tonight I’m taking a bubble bath while simultaneously shoveling handfuls of popcorn in my mouth, careful not to drop any in the water. Popcorn is cheap yet filling, making it the best of all snacks, especially right before payday.
It’s Friday night so I’ll need to be up early again tomorrow. The guys across the hall have been somewhat quiet except for the other night when someone over there played music like they were trying out for America’s Next Top DJ. I ended up actually liking their song choices, so it didn’t bother me in the slightest. In fact, they did me a favor by saving me from playing my own before bed. A trick I picked up to drown out the incessant arguments between my mom and whoever her nightly opponent was. I can sleep without music playing, I just prefer not to. Music is the one thing that can make you feel while making you forget all at once. It can take you away or bring you back, depending on the song.
All three motorcycles were missing from the lot earlier, not that I’m keeping track, so I’m hoping they won’t be entertaining again tonight. Maybe they’ll be gone all night, leaving me to sleep in peace. Although the images that scenario conjures aren’t all that relaxing either. Thoughts of nighttime activities they might partake in ruin my good mood, so I dry off just as my skin begins to prune.
In a sports bra and matching shorts, I open the windows noticing the bikes are still gone then crawl into bed. The last couple weeks play through my head but my mind keeps stopping on Coty. There’s no arguing the man is attractive but it’s his eyes that tell me there’s something deeper, something warmer, something I’ve never experienced but could easily covet with greedy hands. Those mocha eyes hold a mischievous glint like Beckett yet a seriousness to rival Marc’s. The few interactions I’ve had with him somehow leave me yearning for more. More from him. More of him. Just more.
That’s the sole purpose of that deafening alarm that sounded the second he threatened my resolution. To protect against that little pang of want his company creates. More is a luxury, an extravagance I can’t afford.
“Issues” by Julia Michaels fills the small space of my studio. I hit repeat, hoping the melody will lull me into an effortless sleep.
* * *
A few hours later, the steady purr of motorcycles cutting off startles me awake. Through squinted eyelids, I watch headlights bounce across my ceiling as other cars pull in. Voices rise in unison while car doors slam shut making me groan.
What sounds like a stampede stomps up the stairs outside, reverberating through my tiny home. How many people did they bring back with them? Judging from the high-pitched giggles that keep erupting it’s too many. Great. Just fucking great.
My eyes land on my open windows. Just as I move to close them my name, or nickname anyway, has me freezing in place when I hear what must be Marc sneering, “Quiet, guys. We wouldn’t want to wake up the neighbor girl.”
With his callous tone and who knows what gesture, the crowd does not quiet. At all. If anything, they grow louder. And louder. How many more steps are there?
“Nah, she’s too busy getting hers to be sleeping. Don’t you hear the music? That’s making love music right there.” There’s a short pause before Beckett adds rather distastefully, “Don’t come a knockin’ when the neighbor girl goes a rockin’.”
“Shut the fuck up, B.”
Huh. I guess Coty didn’t like his buddy saying that. Well, join the club, because I don’t like any of what they’re saying. What I do, or don’t do, is none of their business. I just want to finish high school, make enough money to stay in this place, and never, ever, go back to my mom’s. Where digging for gold was my mother’s game, digging for answers is the sport of choice for the boys next door but I’m already bored with their shit. Flirty looks paired with constant questioning doesn’t work on me. I don’t want them, or anyone, to know what I’ve gone through. I don’t want my past to define me and until I can rectify the damage it’s done, that’s all they’ll see. Those things happened to me but they didn’t make me. I make myself and I’m just getting started. You don’t put a bare seed on display at the grocery store and expect people to see the mature fruit it’ll bloom into one day. You hide the growth away for safe keeping until the time is right. Until they’re ready to handle the responsibility of such delicate goods. And I can tell right now those party boys across the hall aren’t ready for fragility. Pushing my limits for kicks doesn’t wear me down, it only pisses me off.
Thankfully, all goes quiet after a door closes until a few minutes later when a series of four quick knocks on my door jolt me out of bed. I’m across the room in the next instant, yanking the door open before I can even think it through.
Coty, with the ease of a house cat relaxing in a warm window, lounges against the doorframe. My doorframe. I plant my foot behind the bottom of the door, keeping it firmly in place. Unabashedly, his gaze runs the length of my body reminding me I’m only wearing a sports bra and tiny shorts.
My fingers clench around the cold handle.
“Yes?”
His eyes meet mine, holding for a beat before moving past me to scan my apartment. I resist the urge to turn and check what he might see. If a box of pantyliners, or worse, is on the counter, I will die a quiet, yet agonizing, death of embarrassment after he leaves. But not a moment sooner. Coty might try to beat mortification to the death punch by killing me himself and I can’t have that. No overzealous neighbor of mine is going to kill me before I can ensure my feminine products are properly hidden away first. I refuse to show up to my afterlife with unfinished business on the other side. It’d be just my luck to get stuck haunting this shithole for the rest of eternity.
While he searches my humble abode, I give him a once-over. Hair adorably ruffled from his helmet, alert eyes taking in more than his casual posture suggests, with a clean white shirt and low hanging jeans on, he looks like the kind of guy any girl would be lucky to move next to. Any girl, but me.
Coty nibbles the corner of his mouth as I pick up the distinct smell of beer. It’s faint but it’s there. Corona. With lime. My hold on the doorknob tightens. The hint of citrus on his breath tempts me more than if he were to have shown up naked. Him showing up naked would be weird. And awkward. For both of us. But the promise of tasting lime, my all-time favorite garnish/fruit/snack/side dish/whatever, directly from those restless lips, nearly overrules all the guidelines I’ve previously written. The citrus mixes with his usual coconut fragrance making my mouth fill with enough water to put Hot Spots out of business. Well, for at least an hour. Coty’s chocolate eyes make their way back to mine. Maybe two.
Finally, he releases me from my tropical haze, stepping back. All the way to his door, in fact, without so much as blinking. I wonder briefly if he knows how hot men multitasking is. It shouldn’t be. It should be commonplace, yet somehow, we’re always amazed when someone from the male species is able to pull off more than one task at a time.
“Goodnight.”
Coming to, I shake my head, asking, “That’s it? You woke me up to say goodnight?”
He stops in front of his apartment, peering across the hall at me. “So, you were just sleeping?”
My eyes search his. The few feet between us seems minor, insignificant. The wall erected directly in the middle of it though, the one Coty has yet to learn about, that’s fucking insurmountable. The stairwell chatter from before springs to mind. “Goodnight, Coty.”
I close the door softly, leaning against the scuffed metal, blowing out the breath I so desperately needed a few seconds ago. A glance at the clock has me groaning. Thanks to Coty, I’m now horngry—horny and hungry—with little to no chance of sleep without solving at least one of those issues first.
Tossing a frozen waffle into the toaster, I settle on the easiest of the problems, shelving the other for a more…convenient time. As I wait for my snack to pop up, I glance around my countertop thankful when I don’t find any rogue tampons. Sighing, I scoop up my tips from earlier still scattered across the worn laminate and stuff them next to the new jar containing coins for laundry.
What was he looking for?
Coty’s wakeup call was odd for sure. He said six words. Six. And not one of them was important enough to warrant knocking on a neighbor’s door at one o’clock in the morning. I mean it was nice he wished me a good night and all, but wouldn’t the night have been better without needing to be dragged out of bed in the first place? One could argue that hearing the sentiment straight from Coty’s citrus-spiced lips made the slight inconvenience worthwhile.
One would be right.
