As I’m lathering up, I hear footsteps in the hall. Then aslam. I freeze—instinct, even though I know I’ve locked the door and dragged the towel rack in front of it for good measure—and wait.
Nothing more. Probably just Blue, judging by the volume of the slam—his room’s right next to the bathroom, but soundproofed, thank God. I don’t need to hear…whatever he gets up to in there, least of all when I’m naked and just a few feet away.
Although I do wonder what he’s doing. Sometimes.
My cheeks go hot in a way that has nothing to do with the steamy shower, and I crank the water colder.
Another minute or two to rinse and I’m done. I’ll say this about my life: what I lose in beach time, I more than get back in personal hygiene savings. My hair takes like two seconds to wash, I have nothing to shave, and the bushier my eyebrows get, the better, so even an everything shower takes ten minutes, max.
Shaking my head, I slide the door back and step onto the bathmat, a sad flat little thing that I don’t think was originally gray, and grab around for a towel. The pickings are slim: faded beach towels, most of which were probably freebies handed out in the Marina around spring break time, a few scratchy, stiff, and threadbare rectangles that look like they were swiped from a motel (and probably were), and a single, mysterious washcloth—vaguely damp. I opt for the biggest, cleanest-looking beach towel I can find—white, with a faded Corona logo printed on one side—and tuck it under my armpits.
Obviously, I can’t just walk to my room post-shower, so I get dressed in here: night outfit means sports bra under binder under T-shirt, plus boxers. Back in my room, I’ll shed the first two layers, spritz the binder with vodka to kill the germs, lay it on top of my under-bed locker to dry overnight, then replace the T-shirt. In the morning, binder 1 goes in the locker, binder 2 replaces the sports bra, and Tink picks out his outfit for the day—some combination of T-shirt, jeans, and boots. With all my pajama gear laid out on the toilet seat, I scrub a peep hole through the steam on the mirror and blink into my own eyes.
Good-looking guy like you shouldn’t be sleeping alone.
No. No, Tink.I almost bark the words in my mind, fists clenched and eyes slammed shut. When I open them again, I peer into the mirror, the ugly fluorescent light catching all the shadows under my eyes, the almost blinding-white skin of my shoulders before my farmer’s tan kicks in just above the elbow—God, I could use some proper sun. I could use…
…a beach day, I remember. And then my whole body relaxes. Of course. That’s exactly what I need, and the timing is perfect. There’s nothing important tomorrow, now that the pickup from Krye’s taken care of—maybe Kit or Blue have some appointments in the shop, or Fox has some fucking around on bikes to do, but nothing Pan has to take care of. NothingIhaveto take care of. I could come up with some bullshit reason they wouldn’t bother questioning—especially if I do it early enough, when they’re awake but still hung over—stuff my bikini in the inner zip pocket of my jacket, and leave.
Ride.
Fly.
I close my eyes again, easily this time, and take a deep breath. I can see it, feel it,tasteit now—the roar and fizz of the waves, the building heat turning the sand from chill to scorching, the sun on not just my face and neck but my arms, legs, stomach. I could smuggle out one of my girly little canned Mai-Tais. I could even try to get the library app to work on my clunky prepaid phone and download something delicious and trashy to read as I sunbathe.
Yes, I decide.Perfect.
With that, I grab my boxers, scrub my towel up and down all my limbs, and let it drop to the floor.
But as soon as it does, my heart sinks.
Because right in the middle of the damp terrycloth is a bright red streak.
Shit. Shit. I look down at myself, my legs, and sure enough, a matching streak of red is trailing down my inner thigh…and not just there, but all across the bathroom floor in a tiny trail of spots.
Shit.My period.
For the longest time I just…didn’t get it. Stress, or the weight loss, the injuries…I don’t know, but my body decidednow isn’t a good time to be fertileand just cut off the whole process. Then, about three months after I joined the crew, it came back—barely, thank God, so no permanent stains anywhere, and one menstrual cup smuggled in from the Discount Drug and I was set, no risk of leaving a suspicious wrapper or applicator lying around.
But since then, it’s been inconsistent, to say the least. And since I don’t get crazy PMS symptoms, and I’m not about to install a cycle tracking app on my phone, I just kind of…deal with it when it comes.
Which, apparently, is now.
And I just had to pick the stupid Corona towel. The stupidwhiteCorona towel.
God, I’m dumb. I’ve thought about getting the pill to regulate my cycle, maybe even the one that lets you skip your period entirely. But the only place around here I could do that is at the free clinic—you know, the one where Blue and the Mermaids and everyone else in the Strip gets their STD panels done, AKA the last place on earth I’d want a nurse calling out my government name in the waiting room. I know they’re queer-friendly—an operation like that, in the Strip, you’d have to be—and have some “preferred name” slot on the forms, but I’m not taking the risk.
I don’t trust nurses.
Focus, idiot.I have to work fast—my showers are borderline suspiciously long to begin with, and every second I waste here is adding to the count, even if Blue’s the only one awake to notice.
No, I think,especiallybecause Blue’s the only one awake. I get on fine with the rest of the guys—get onwell,even—but Blue…
Blue’s not the warm and fuzzy type. Whatever he’s doing to Sapphire next door, I doubt he’s going to cuddle afterward. For that matter, they might be almost done—like I have any idea how long a sex show livestream goes on?—and he could be moments away from walking her to the door. Or kicking her out of it.
I’ve gotta move.
I yank a few lengths of toilet paper from the roll and fold them in the crotch of my boxers—awkward, but enough to hold me over til I’m in my room. Then tear off another length to wadup in my hand and clean up the trail I left from the shower…which seems to have hit the tilesandthe bathmat, I realize. I wrap the crumpled toilet paper in another clean layer or two before burying it at the bottom of the trash can (just a can, no bag or liner or anything) and looking back at the rest of the damage.
