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I notice, rather suddenly, that her shirt is a Tarot card, but not a normal one. What I think would normally be the depiction of some sort of wizard, mountain, blade, whatever, is replaced with the outline of a woman, kneeling, facing away with only a pair of black panties on. Above her head is the card number, “XXX,” and across her back is the phrase “Yes, Sir” in swirling writing. The name of the card, at the bottom, reads “The Good Girl.”
I swallow hard, and press myself further into the counter in front of me to hide the immediate rise of my cock at the thought of Piper in that same position.
“Noted,” I repeat, and it comes out in a hoarse, throaty sound that leaves her pausing again, head tilted at a weird angle. I point vaguely to the only hall in the apartment. “Bed.” She narrows her eyes at me, but I see something in them, just for a second, that makes me even more uncomfortable against the handle of whatever drawer I'm about to smash my full hard-on into.
“Bossy. Only because you brought food.” Finally, with an eye roll, followed by a wince, she turns and walks slowly toward the hall, a final glance back at me over her shoulder.
I watch her long legs go, and when she and Bex are finally out of sight, I let out the breath I’d been holding in, taking a step away and looking at the bulge between my legs.
Get with the program, man.
I will myself to relax, trying to shake the thoughts out of my head as the microwave goes off behind me, and I turn to find silverware while the rest of the food heats up.
Five minutes later, I’m walking down the hallway balancing two glasses of water and the two containers, searching for her room. I pass a few doors - one looks like a shared office, and the other is closed with a C, woven out of thick gold wire and pearls, hanging on the door. Directly across the hall, I head into the only open door and find Piper sitting atop a canopy bed, draped in a purple, gauzy fabric.
I pause in the doorway, taking it all in. The room is lit by two gold lamps on either side of the bed, and strings of lights that weave in and out of the fabric above her. The walls, painted what I think is a light gray, are covered in posters and paintings and tall bookshelves. Each shelf is arranged artfully, like displays at a bookstore, with candles, art, and what looks like memorabilia.
“I take it you read a lot,” I muse as I make my way into the room, and she looks up from her phone. Smiling at me, she sets her phone on the side table and turns back.
“You could say that,” she replies, and then holds out her hands to take one of the glasses of water and a container of food from me. She sets the water down on her side table, the food in front of her, and then she looks at me where I stand on the side of the bed.
There’s nowhere else to sit, but I don’t want to invite myself into bed with her.
I don’t have to - she gives me a sheepish smile, patting the spot next to her on her deep green sheets, a pile of blankets rolled down at the foot of the bed. Gingerly, I slide off one of my tennis shoes, then the other, and slowly sit down, pivoting to put my long legs out. Bex barely registers my movement from her place by Piper’s feet, which, I notice, are covered in thick, fuzzy blue socks.
“What are we watching?” I ask, setting my water down and gesturing to the TV, which is displaying a screensaver slideshow of photos, mostly of Piper and her friends, the ones I’d either already known, or met recently. As she holds a small remote up and points it to the screen, I see a quick flash of a photo of Alex, Penny, Nolan, Brett, Piper, and who I think is Mickey. But he looks so different from the photo I’d seen of the two of them - his face was full, his eyes were bright, his hair longer.
“I was watching Outlander.” She seems a little embarrassed to admit it, so I hide my smile. She would absolutely be friends with Frannie, especially given the number of familiar titles I’d seen on the shelves in the living room that I know she has sitting in her home office. “We can watch something else.” I watch her as her eyes flit across the screen, scrolling and settling on one of theV/H/Smovies, something I know we’ve both watched. She turns to me, then, and catches my eye. I don’t look away. “What?”
“I’m glad you’re ok,” I answer, and then take a bite of my food, because I don’t know what else to say.
Well, I do.
I want to say, “Piper, I’m so sorry I was such a shitbag, and I can’t believe you didn’t kick me in the balls that day in the office at the Pine, because I definitely deserved it.” And also, maybe, “If you keep looking at me with those giant blue eyes I’m not going to be able to sit comfortably, much lesswatchanything.”
But both of those don’t seem like options at the moment.
Finally, she sighs, and picks at her food with her fork.
“I’m not really totally ok,” she admits, and I stare down at my own food. For me, it’s easier to talk when I’m not being stared at, when I’m not being watched. Maybe it’s the same for her. “Physically, yeah. But otherwise…” She trails off, shrugging, and then takes a bite of the gnocchi. She chews, slowly, before a satisfied smile slides across her face and she lets out a low moan of approval.
I force my eyes shut, crossing my legs over each other.
“Who made this?”
“One of our chefs,” I simplify when I’m finally able to speak, because calling José anything else would likely lead to probing questions, and this wasn’t about me. I wasn’t about to stear this conversation, our first conversation in person, out of earshot of spectators, toward myself and my drama.
“Well you can tell them that as a full-blooded Italian, I approve.” She takes another bite, settling herself back on her pillows and wiggling her shoulders in what I think is a little happy dance. I can feel the smile on my face, and her head tilts slightly as she chews, like she’s not sure what to make of it.
We sit there for a few minutes in silence, panic-filled screams filling the room from the TV, eating the food I’d brought. When she puts her container down on her bedside table, taking a long sip of water, she lets out a big sigh and lifts up her shirt, moving her hand over her stomach appreciatively. I feel myself swallow hard again, finishing the last few bites of my food.
“I definitely needed that,” she finally says, closing her eyes and leaning back against the wall behind her bed. “I’ve been snacking all day.” Without looking, she tilts her head toward a mountain of packages on the TV stand.
“Sugar all day after a concussion? Sounds like a great idea.” She peeks out of one eye at me and then closes them again, but I can see her rolling them behind her lids, and she winces again. “Does it hurt when you do that?”
“A little.” She reaches behind her head, eyes still closed, and pulls her curls out over her shoulder. “The doctor gave me pain meds, but I’m trying not to use them too much if I don’t have to. Tylenol is working for the most part.”
“Masochist?” I ask sarcastically, and she snorts.
