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That’s me.
The thought was reassuring. It calmed her. No matter what she looked like, no matter how long she’d been away from civilization, she was still her. Clara Destacio.
Reaching up, she fingered her straw hair. It had grown long. Nearly to her waist. Maybe the spa quality product would help tame it.
With a sigh, she stripped off her muddy clothes, shoving the shirt and cap in a nearby trashcan. Once again, she’d have to salvage her jeans. Her boots and socks, she tucked in a corner by the bench.
Reaching into the shower, she turned on the water to let it get warm. When it came to temperature, she gingerly stepped into the stall, bringing the soap with her. But as soon as she did, water began shooting in pulsating streams starting from her head and moving down her body.
A yelp clawed its way up her throat but she stifled it with her hand.
The shower was motion activated.
Clara pressed her hand to her chest, willing her heart to remember its normal rhythm. She needed to hurry in case someone noticed the noise from the shower. She didn’t know for sure how insulated this room was. And getting caught with her pants down would be the ultimate embarrassment.
But the water felt so damn good. With the hot springs that were abundant in this area of Arkansas, she had warm water to bathe with. But a shower… water spraying over her body like warm summer rain… that was a privilege she didn’t get often.
She let the vacillating streams wash the mud and smelly junk from her body. Staring at the tile beneath her feet, she watched as the water went from mucky brown to clear. Then she went to work on her hair. She washed it twice with the sweet smelling shampoo before coating it in conditioner and letting it rest while she tackled her legs.
Following the instructions, she mixed the herbal powder into a paste and rubbed it over her legs, keeping them out of the stream of water. She was supposed to wait ten minutes but maybe it’d work faster. Ten minutes more under the shower seemed risky.
While she waited, she thought about her situation. Eagan The Cook. He was handsome as the sun was hot. He probably knew it too. She’d known many guys like him in her former life. Had relationships with some. It wasn’t anything she missed. Relationships. Not with her family. Not with her friends. And certainly not with any muscle bound hormone-ridden hot heads.
He was the only one who knew what she looked like. For whatever reason, he’d kept her break-in to himself. If she could avoid him, surely she could get her book back. It would be quick-like. One night inside, and then talk to whoever manned the front desk tomorrow. She’d be back at her camp before she knew it.
Clara moved and realized the paste on her legs had transformed into a semi-hard shell.
Whoa. Now what?
The directions said remove the mask carefully but quickly, in swift downward motions. Aw, crap. This was going to hurt like hell.
Shoring up her courage, she grasped a spot just above her knee and jerked down hard.
She let out a gasp as searing pain shot from her leg to a spot between her eyes, tapping there like a hammer against a nail.
Satan’s hot hairy mama. What fresh hell had she gotten herself into?
Sticking her leg directly in the stream of hot water, she attempted to wash away the paste, but it was no dice. The stuff was like cement mixed with cockroach shells—because those things are indestructible.
Clara looked around. She didn’t have any more time to waste. She needed to clean up here and find a place to stow away until morning.
Her poor, poor legs. She was going to have to do this the hard way.
Gripping another piece of the shell, she counted to three in her head. But her hands didn’t move.
Come onnnn, Destacio. Sucker up.
One, two, three. Pull.
A bigger strip came off this time, and Clara’s throat constricted around a cry. Before she could think about it anymore, she yanked another piece, and then another, tears mixing with the warm water of the shower. When one leg was free of hair, she went after the other one, scraping at the mask with her nails until there was nothing of it left.
Panting and raw, she leaned against the tiled wall and watched as the clay collected around the drain.
Holy shit. Holy freaking shit.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself into action.
Rinse hair. Now.
She contorted so the water couldn’t hit her tender legs, and scrubbed vigorously at her mop until all the conditioner was gone. Then she turned the water off and burst from the stall. Snatching a towel from the shelf nearby, she wrapped it around her head and went back for another. She leaned against the counter to catch her breath and shot a glare at the open shower door.
The shower from hell. She never wanted to shower again. Give her a natural hot spring bath any day.
Clara squeezed her eyes closed, breathing deep to calm her nerves.
Just a little longer. Just a little more work to do. Then she’d have her book, and she’d go home. To her skink. To her mattress made of a sleeping bag and newspapers.
Just a little longer.
