Page 10 of Detour

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.

CHAPTER 7

Angela

I slip on my white with black stripes shell-toe Adidas then take a quick glance in the mirror to throw my wet hair into a ponytail, pulling it through the back of my black sports hat knowing it’ll dry on the drive over. Luckily, my hair is easy to maintain even though it’s long. Thanks to a life of limited funds, I rarely get it cut, allowing my locks to grow unchecked. Even making my own money now, my hair isn’t a top priority. Call me crazy, but I’d rather buy a new pair of shoes any day over getting a trim. It’s a dark brown naturally but the sun has played master color specialist by bleaching blonde streaks throughout. It’s why I choose to wear hats to work over the visors Hot Spots provides. Now. I learned that lesson a little too late and after months of working at the wash, my hair currently showcases more colors than a paint store display.

Parking in the back lot, I grab my small bag and climb out, smoothing a hand over my altered work shirt before noticing my sunscreen slipped out onto the passenger seat. Unlike the ugly visors, sunscreen isn’t optional. Working in the sun is downright dangerous, just look at my hair to see the damage it can cause, and I never want to get caught unprepared even if skin care isn’t as important to Hot Spots as logo-splashed merch. If I had my own car wash, it’d provide sunscreen by the bucketloads. Non-negotiable bucketloads.

As I reach back in to grab the tube, I get that feeling. The feeling every woman knows by heart. The one that says someone is watching. Someone that makes your skin tingle in an unwelcome, unflattering way. With a peek over my shoulder, I see the outline of my boss, Joe, through the office window. My mouth scrunches into what I hope passes as a friendly smile but feels more like I ate something incredibly bitter. Meekness. It tastes like oppression going down, so I keep it floating around my mouth until he looks away then blow it out on a fortifying breath.

When I first started here, Joe was nice but distant. The way a manager should be. Lately though, he’s been different toward me. Lingering looks that seem more intrusive than curious. Comments that sound more flirtatious than friendly. My hours were something we both agreed on when he hired me. I needed the money, he needed the help. With a long line of irresponsible teens as my predecessors, my reliable work ethic came at the perfect time, making my employment a fortunate arrangement for both sides. Or so I thought.

I’ve heard rumors whenever someone at school finds out I work here. He’s known for dipping in the staff pool. A very young, very feminine pool. A pool that should not only be off limits to him for ethical reasons but also because he’s married. Like with kids and a dog and probably a white picket fence that’s in desperate need of touch-ups.