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No, I want to tell Iris.
I want to actually know her.
* * *
Iris saunters into my apartment like she owns the place.
She tosses her purse on the couch, spins on her heel, turns to me, motions come here.
My lips curl into a smile. She's cute tired.
She puts a hand on her hip. "Do I have to get started myself?"
"Fuck yeah." My tongue slides over my lips. "Can I watch?"
"You want to watch me touch myself?"
"You're really asking me that question?"
"Yeah."
"Of course."
"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "I just… I never thought anyone… I've never done that."
"You want to?"
Her nod is slow. Needy.
"You awake enough?"
"Haha. Very funny." She takes a step backward. "I'll have you know I'm running on an exquisite blend of caffeine and sugar."
"And that never leads to a crash."
"Ever."
"You're an addict."
All that joy falls off her face. She shakes it off. Forces a smile. "We all have our vices." She plays with her skirt as she takes another step backward. "I am going to start without you."
"Good."
She spins on her heel and skips into my bedroom. She leaves the door open a crack. So I can see her strip out of her dress. Toss her bra aside. Push her panties to her knees.
Fuck, I do want to watch this.
In one minute.
I move to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands, return to the main room.
My cell sits in my jeans like a rock. It taunts me. What if Bree didn't get home okay? What if she's walking the streets somewhere? What if you're responsible for your sister's death?
I try to shake it off, but it won't go.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? My girl—well, whatever I should call Iris—is teasing me with touching herself and my head isn't in the game.
This isn't me.
