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I scooted back against the headboard, looking for support.
Vic leaned in close to me and gave me his I’m-getting-what-I-want glare.
The black caverns of his eyes were sucking me in and if I didn’t change the subject soon, I was going to tell him. I was powerless to those eyes. They were infinite space; full of light and dark, up and down, right and wrong. They held the secrets to everything that made me.
“Did you ask me if your face smelled?” I asked, perking up as I suddenly remembered what brought me out of my nightmare. Vic backed off a bit, giving me room to breathe. I took the space greedily, sucking in the oxygen like it was . . . well, like it was life.
“I washed my face this morning,” Vic said hesitantly, “and used a towel that was gross. Now every time I breathe, I smell something gross. I think it’s my face.”
I stared at Vic, trying not to laugh. “Why don’t you wash your face again?”
“That’s the problem, Lenny,” Vic said, exasperated. He narrowed his eyes, “Have you been using the towels more than once?”
Yes. “No.” Like I was going to admit I broke rule numero uno in Casa de Wall?
“Smell my face,” Vic pressed, pushing his face into mine.
“You’re such a weirdo.” I leaned into smell his face. Yikes, it did smell. “Oh. Yeah, you smell like mildew. Go wash your face.” I pushed him away in mock disgust.
Vic moved back and folded his arms. I tried not to eye his biceps. You’d think I’d be used to his sex god status by now.
“How hard is it to change the towels, Lenny?” Vic asked.
It’s hard. “I do change the towels!” I said defending the lies I’d built.
Vic jumped off the bed. He eyed me warily; I’m not sure if it was because I was amassing gross towels or because only a minute ago we’d been discussing my nightmare. Either way, he walked away without another word, presumably to go wash his face again.
After Dean and, well, everything else, I really wanted to put an emphasis on my physical health. I wasn’t even close to morbidly obese or weak as a kitten, but the fact that it had been so easy for Dean to overpower me really was an eye-opener. I mean, I had thought about the possibility of an altercation with Dean even before it happened, and I figured that if I couldn’t beat him, I could outsmart him. That hadn’t happened, because he’d overpowered me before I had had the chance to outthink him.
It had been like, “Oh, hey Lennox,” and bam, punch to the face, lights out.
Plus, the nightmare this morning had really freaked me out. I was expecting Zombie Dean to come stumbling out of the closet at any time now.
So… Exercise.
That’s how people get in shape, and that’s how I’m going to get in shape. Then, the next time a mentally unstable person targets me, I will be prepared.
But, let’s take baby steps first before I try to run.
In researching beginner exercises, I’d read that ten roll ups equal fifty crunches. I don’t know how true that statement is, but since I found it on the Internet, it must be true, right? I mean, it’s a statistic that exists in the world, so it’s true somewhere. Anyway, I’m doing roll ups.
I was mid-roll up when Vic walked in. With as much disdain as a Manhattan wasp walking in on a mixed-class mating, he said, “What the hell is this song?”
I finished my roll up and eyed him warily.
“A pop song to get my blood pumping.”
“It’s horrible. I’m turning it off before I get a pop-induced migraine.” Vic headed over to my mp3 player, which was conveniently connected via Bluetooth to his speakers.
“Hey!” I said jumping up to stop him. “No one asked you! Get out if you don’t like it!” I swatted his hand away from my mp3 player, since I wasn’t allowed smartphones anymore, and went back to my roll ups.
He had a really extensive music collection, sure, but you wouldn’t find any Katy Perry, Britney Spears, or Backstreet Boys on his playlist. And sometimes you just need some Kesha.
With all things Vic Wall, it’s always his way or the highway. So, naturally I was shocked when he stopped trying to change the music. Instead, he sat down on the bed and watched me do my workout. With any other person I would have been weirded out, but that was just Vic being Vic: always watching.
When I finished, I rolled up my mat. I tucked it under my arm, put my hands on my hips, and turned to face him.
“I just don’t understand how you can only listen to one type of music.” I bit my lip, contemplating how to explain my stance. “It’s like eating only savory foods for the rest of your life. Like . . .” I reached for a stray Jolly Rancher candy on the bedside table. What? I get cravings. There has to be a sweet within a two-foot distance of me at all times or I’m liable to go Hulk on someone’s ass.
