“Fat fingers equal a fat cock. We’ve discussed that previously too, Summer.” It dawns on me that our friendship isn’t as one-sided as many people assume when he lowers his tone before asking with genuine sincerity, “Are you sure there isn’t something I can get you? There’s a drug store across the street.”
“I’m okay. Once it’s out of my system, I’ll be good again.”
That was as embarrassing to say as it was for you to read.
We made it to the motel Lennox booked for the night, but it was a close call. I literally shoved him into the wall before racing for theonlybathroom. Every step I took was gobbled up by the horrendous gurgles of my stomach. I’ve never been more horrified.
“Could you get my bag out of the car? I’m zonked, so I should probably go to bed once I’ve had a shower.”
“Sounds like a plan. If we leave early, we should beat the traffic we got hit with today.” I almost rib him about our delay, but his next offer sees me letting bygones be bygones. “What do you want to sleep in? Your crusty nightie or one of my shirts?”
The cramps spasming my stomach are a thing of the past when I ask, “Did you bring any of your Morrison training shirts?”
“Should my cock hold the Guinness World Record for both thicknessandlength? Of course, I brought some Morrison training shirts for you. They’re your favorite sleeping attire.”
When the jangle of my car keys sounds through the door, I leap to my feet, flush the toilet for the hundredth time, snag the mat off the bathroom floor, then race for the only window in our room. My neckline dots with more sweat while endeavoring to remove the stench from the bathroom than it did while I desecrated it, but mercifully, with the quickest pump of the compact perfume I keep on me at all times in case of an emergency, the smell shifts from horrid to bearable in a remarkably quick timeframe.
I dump the bathmat onto the floor like I wasn’t doing anything suspicious when a knock sounds at the door. “Do you want your clothes in there or out here?”
“Here, please.” My reply should be obvious to Lennox. To settle us into the idea of sleeping in the same bed for the next ten weeks, he booked a motel room with only one bed, which means there’s no privacy to get changed or to poop in peace. He was right there, sitting three feet from the bathroom door the entire time I was convinced I was being summoned to hell.
It’s been an extremely testing thirty minutes for our friendship, and we’re not even halfway to Ravenshoe yet.
“Please don’t,” I beg when I unlatch the bathroom door so Lennox can hand me my things. His nostrils are flaring like he wants to learn just how poorly my body responds to uncooked eggs. “I’m already dying of embarrassment.”
“Why are you embarrassed?” he asks, his tone genuinely lost. “Everyone shits, Cocoa. Even the president.”
“But I bet the president wasn’t close to pooping in a bush when a waddle home one night was almost too long.”
“True,” Lennox replies with a grin. “But if he did, I’m sure he’d carry an emergency wad of toilet paper in his pocket to every party he attends.” He adjusts his plain white t-shirt like he’s wearing a tuxedo. “You have no idea how many times that paper has come in handy, Summer. No idea at all.”
I snatch my bag and his shirt out of his hand, then push him out of the bathroom. “You’re a pig!”
“And you smell nowhere near as bad as I was expecting, so I guess we’re kind of even.” He nudges his head to the motel room door. “I’m going to grab some snacks from the vending machine. Do you want anything?” My lips don’t get the chance to crack. “Before you ask, there’s no mayonnaise-laced products. I already checked.”
He darts behind the rapidly closing bathroom door before I return my bag to his possession by ramming it in his face.
“Is it off?”
Lennox huffs. “I already told you it’s off, so why do you keep asking?”
I crack open the bathroom door a bit more to check if it’s dark, stuttering when I notice how much light is illuminating our room. “T-the light isn’t off. I can see your chest mole from here.”And the eight bumps in your midsection, but I keep that snippet of information to myself.
“You asked if thelightis off. It’s off.”
“But the TV isn’t, and it has enough glare to show every bit of cellulite on my t-thighs…” Worry chops up the last half of my reply. I’m no longer petrified by the vivid glow of the flat-screen television. I’m panicked as hell by Lennox’s stomp across the room. He doesn’t have to worry about thigh dimples because none of the girls he dates have dimples in their lower backs, much less their legs. They’re the equivalent of super models, and I’m curvier than a slippery dip. “W-what are you doing?”
“I watched you barf into a bowl you served popcorn to me in the following weekandlick a brown mark off your finger even when you weren’t sure if it was poop, so I’m reasonably sure I can handle the invisible bumps youthinkyour thighs have.” A squeal pops from my lips when he bands his arm around my thighs and hoists me onto his shoulder. “Furthermore, my shirt hits your knees. I can’t even see your thighs!”
I try not to look too deeply into the disappointment in his tone, confident I’m misreading it. We became friends because he rejected my pathetic attempt to instigate a one-night stand. There’s nothing for him to be disappointed about.
Me, on the other hand.
Sigh.
When Lennox tosses me onto the bed, I yank down his shirt I’m wearing before skedaddling under the bedding. I’m covered by both the comforter and the top sheet before he returns to his side of the mattress. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? From the noises I heard thundering from the bathroom the past hour, I’m reasonably sure your stomach is empty.”
“I’m sure,” I reply through clenched teeth.
