No Interest in Love

by Cassie Mae

  “We should just ask to borrow one of their phones for a second,” I say. Shay’s arms loosen around my waist. She’s gung ho about getting us on the next train heading east. When we heard the whistle blow back at the shuttle station, she shot to her feet and dragged me out here. Apparently sneaking onto a train without paying is her brilliant plan, even though the train only goes to certain stops. She’s determined to get us closer, even if it’s not Alabama exactly.

  The doors open on the train down the platform a bit, and Shay tightens her grip. “Okay, follow my lead.” She takes one step forward, then turns back around. “But don’t…say anything.”

  I salute her, and she grabs the hand against my forehead and weaves me and my carry-on through the crowd. As passengers spill out from the train that just pulled in, she waits for a lull, then sneaks us into flowing traffic.

  “Uh, don’t know if you noticed, but these people are leaving the train station.”

  “You’re saying things,” she sings at me. I laugh and squeeze her hand. Then wonder why the hell I just did that.

  “Oh, shoot!” she says very loudly, startling the lady in front of us. (And me.) “I left my bag.”

  Her hands find my arms and spin me around. She uses my body to get us back through the crowd and toward the train door. The ticket checkers or whoever those people are smile as passengers get off, telling them to enjoy the rest of their evening. I try not to make eye contact with any of them.

  Shay’s relentless in her steering. I’m at the stairwell before I know it, and as much as I didn’t want to catch anyone’s attention, a soft hand touches my shoulder briefly before the cheery hostess says, “We’re not quite ready to board, sir.”

  I shoot Shay a look, because I’m not supposed to open my damn mouth, but she could’ve given me something to go on. Improv is my forte.

  Shay squeezes in close to me, running her nails up my forearm. Unexpected goose bumps shoot up and down my skin.

  “Sorry,” she tells the hostess, “I left my bag.”

  “Oh, you must’ve been in the upper coach.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  She steps out of the way, and Shay heads toward the stairs that lead to the upper level at a speed I think is a little too fast to be inconspicuous, but she doesn’t go up them. She pauses, keeping an eye on the staff as they continue to help people off the train. When the hostess turns around to assist a woman with a bag the size of Texas, a strong shove from the side knocks me into the train bathroom.

  “I knew you wanted me,” I joke. Shay narrows her eyes, takes her hands off of my shoulders, and shushes me. “You want me to lock it?” I whisper.

  She shakes her head. “Locking it will let them know someone’s in here.”

  “So you’re just hoping they don’t do bathroom checks.”

  She doesn’t answer, and I blow out a breath and lean against the sink while she rests against the opposite wall. We’re gonna get caught, but for the sake of our nonarguing week, I don’t bring that up.

  Shay shifts, the bottom of her shirt dangling by her knees because she’s still wearing the one I loaned her. An unexpected laugh floats on the edge of her lips when she catches my gaze.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “Nothing…It’s just…I can’t even say this is the first time I’ve been in a bathroom with you.”

  Half my mouth picks up and I nod at the floor. SHAY, SCENE FOUR: Setting: guy’s restroom at the Culture Club. There I was, doing my business, when she comes bursting through the doors, dumping her purse onto the counter. She was muttering Korean mixed with English. The only word I remember was “bitch.”

  I shook off—only twice, like we’ve all been taught—zipped up, and said, “I’m all for gender equality, but a little warning might be good next time.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked up into the mirror, then they filled with amusement when she saw me sauntering to the sink next to her.

  “Of course,” she said, turning the faucet on, not even attempting to leave while I washed my hands. “Of all the guys I could’ve walked in on, it had to be you.”

  Then a tiny bit of blood dripped from her left eyebrow.

  “Whoa…what happened there, Elmo?”

  She shot me a deadly glare, made even more deadly by the blood. “It’s Shay. I know you know that, Jace.”

  “Damn,” I said, turning off the water and grabbing a towel, “you’re a mean drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk. My head just…hurts.” Her eyes pinched shut while her fingers massaged her temples. “That girl’s purse was lined with bricks.”

  I had missed a catfight. Damn bladder.

  I pulled a few extra towels from the dispenser and wetted them for her. “Put pressure on it,” I offered, taking her hand and securing it to her head.

  “I want to sit.”

  “Whoa,” I said, catching her before she slid to the tile. Her skin was on fire. “You don’t want to sit on this floor.”

  She whined then, and I believe it’s the only time I’ve heard her whine like that. I carefully placed my hands on her small waist and gauged her reaction because I didn’t want her swinging at me. When she didn’t bat me away, I hoisted her onto the counter. A low groan rose from her gut, and I prepared to shove her face into the sink if I needed to.

  “Are you here with anyone?” I asked after a few scary, pale seconds. She let her head fall back against the mirror, fingers still pressing the wet towel against her forehead.

  “Why are you being nice?” she asked. “You’re a jackass.”

  “Well, I love you too,” I said with a grin. She let out a very off-sounding laugh and started sliding down the glass. I caught her again, and she mumbled something that sounded a lot like “Sleep.”

  “Stay awake,” I told her. I felt like I had to get her home or something, so I carried her to a cab, snuck a peek at her license to get her address—back then, it didn’t have such a hilarious picture—and then walked her to the apartment door. A woman who looked exactly like Shay, only five years older, answered.

  “Shaylene?” her sister said when she saw Shay draped on my side. She was awake still, but not exactly coherent. “What happened?”

  “She hit her head. Didn’t know where to bring her.”

  We set her up on the living room couch, and her sister started going off on how bad this was going to be if her parents found out. That if Shay wanted to be taken seriously she had to stop making a spectacle of herself or some shit like that. I just nodded and slowly made my way to the door. That’s the only time I’ve been to Shay’s place. Actually, I have no idea if she still lives there. I considered stopping by the next day to see if she was okay, but for some reason I chickened out.

  “You know,” Shay whispers in the bathroom we’re currently occupying, “if that bartender hadn’t pulled me off, I would’ve lodged that pool cue right up that girl’s—”

  “Shh.” I put out a finger, leaning toward the bathroom door. I hear people. A lot of them. “I think…I think they’re boarding.”

  Shay’s bright brown eyes widen, and she presses a hand on the door and peeks out the crack.

  “Okay, we have to hurry,” she whispers, then snaps her fingers around my wrist and drags me with my carry-on up the stairs to the upper levels.

  “Do you even know where we’re going?” I ask as she rushes down the tight hallway. My shoulder rams into a wall.

  “Sleeper car 2J.” Her eyes pivot back and forth between all the room numbers. “The kiosk at the station said it was still open.”

  She’s going so fast she walks right past the room she’s looking for, and so I grab her belt loop and tug her back. Her arms flail in this hilarious, cartoonish way, and I keep my laughter in check while she pushes me into the car.

  It’s tiny. I mean, more room than the lounge seating on the lower deck, and definitely more spacious than the bathroom, but it’s so damn cramped I’m wondering how people spend hours confined in this thing. The entire car c
onsists of a bed that lowers down, two seats with barely enough legroom, and a fold-away toilet and sink. A toilet right by where we’re supposed to sleep. Shay and I have gotten to know each other on a pretty good level, but we’re nowhere near that level.

  She shoves me into the opposite wall—before I can comment on bathroom logistics—where apparently there’s some sort of makeshift closet. Well, it’s got a hook for coats and it’s sort of tucked away. Enough that I can’t see the train hallway anymore. Shay squeezes up against me, and Woody goes, “Hey, a warm body!”

  “Um, hello,” I say to her invading my space.

  “Shh.” She pushes closer to me and there’s no hiding the horny bastard in my jeans. She jolts a little and meets my eyes with a cute drop of her jaw. I snort and shake my head.

  “Dry spell.”

  “Well, get rid of it.”

  “How do you suggest I do that?”

  She wiggles, trying not to press against it while also staying out of sight, but she’s failing.

  “That’s not helping,” I croak.

  “How is it even…?” She extends her forefinger so it’s pointing straight to the ceiling, and it cracks me up.

  “Well…you’re close. And warm. And he’s not picky.”

  She snorts. “I’ve been in the same clothes since Sunday night. Haven’t showered. No makeup. I’ll probably have to chop this pen out of my hair.”

  “You do stink,” I joke. Like I’d notice her smelling after three days.

  “You’re worse. I’ve had to breathe through my mouth.”

  I shift, making her face fall right into my armpit. She gags, then sucker punches me in the gut.

  “That is the most god-awful smell…”

  “I’m wearing deodorant, big fat liar,” I tease, and my fingers find her ribs. I tickle her enough to get a giggle out.

  “You have deodorant?”

  “Uh, yeah. I have my bag.”

  “Why the hell haven’t you been sharing?”

  I shrug, and she hits me again. There are a couple voices down the hall, and we both snap our mouths shut to keep quiet. She’s right. We both stink. But Downtown Jace doesn’t have a sense of smell, so he continues to press into her hip. If only I could reach down and strap him under the waistband.

  I shift again and Shay wobbles backward, and instead of adjusting myself I snatch her waist and pull her back to me. Her face rams smack into my chest.

  This really isn’t helping. Her warmth makes my neck feel hot, and I think I’m breaking out in a sweat. A sweat I haven’t felt in a long time. The one that makes my heart pound like I’ve been running for miles. And I don’t break out in a sweat around women anymore. I just don’t. I thought nervous, pheromone-induced sweat was something that was long gone, and I was damn grateful for it.

  My hands slip to the small of her back. She’s shaking. Her breath comes out in offbeat patterns against the fabric of my shirt, making her glasses pinch one of my nipples.

  “Are you laughing?” I whisper, smile curling my lips. Shay shakes her head vigorously against my chest, and my other nipple gets pinched by the old-lady frames.

  She’s full of shit. She’s having an all-out giggle fit right up against me, and I don’t know why she’s laughing, or if I’ve ever seen her this way before, but it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever witnessed.

  And that word keeps creeping into my thoughts and pushing me into a panic.

  I’m ready to nudge her off me because I suddenly need air, but I hear a voice checking in on passengers across the hall, and Shay’s still laughing, occasionally squeaking as she tries to contain herself.

  “Stop,” she whispers.

  “You’re the one laughing.”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  I chuckle and push her face further into my chest to muffle the sounds she’s making. She’s gotta calm down or that attendant is gonna catch us within seconds. Wonder if we’ll just get escorted off or if this is some sort of felony. I’m too pretty for prison.

  Then I get that feeling. The feeling that someone is right there at the door, just out of sight, and my heart starts pounding in my throat. Shay’s stopped laughing, but she hasn’t moved a muscle, still pressed up against me from toe to neck. I’m guessing the attendant is feeling that same “someone’s there” paranoia, because it feels like she’s there for a lifetime. My lungs tighten from not being used, and I may just pass out from lack of oxygen.

  They can’t cart me away to prison if I need medical attention, can they?

  After forever, the car door slides closed, and the conductor comes over the intercom, running through travel procedures. Shay and I both exhale in unison.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” she says. I push up against the wall as if it’ll move to give us some space, but when she looks up at me with a half grin, I relax.

  “Well, there is a toilet right there.” I tilt my head to the side, not releasing her eyes. I don’t think I want to. My forehead’s sweaty and I feel like I just climbed out of a garbage can ever since she pointed out how long we’ve been without showers, but I can’t stop this urge to keep eye contact and try to…make a move.

  I want to make a move on Shay.

  She fixes her glasses, and her eyes drop to my lips. I swear to the man upstairs, they drop to my lips and I lean down not all that much because we’re already so close.

  Then the floor moves. The initial lurch of the train pushing itself down the tracks knocks us both from our feet planted in our hiding spot. I reach out and catch myself using the wall. But Shay…

  She falls face-first into the private toilet.

  “Oh shit,” I say, rushing to help her up. But she jabs her finger at the door windows, and I pull the privacy curtains shut.

  When I turn back around, Shay sits upright, covering the bottom half of her face, revealing only her pinched-shut eyes and bright red forehead.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, trying like all hell not to crack up. She drops her hand from her nose. Blood streaks over those lips that not two seconds ago I was thinking of making a move on.

  “Damn…” I say, pushing back my amusement.

  “Please don’t laugh,” she says, eyes watering but not quite letting any tears loose. Her glasses have flown from her face. I search the tiny car for those and for toilet paper. I locate the latter first and tear off a chunk.

  “Tilt your head back.” I press the toilet paper against her nostrils and hold the back of her neck. Her hair’s a little wet. I’m guessing she didn’t want to shower via blue toilet water.

  “I’ve heard that’s bad.”

  “What?”

  “Tilting your head. It’ll get blood in your stomach or something.” She pushes her head down. I nudge it back.

  “Where the hell’d you hear that?”

  “From every doctor ever.” She leans forward again. I press against her forehead to stop her.

  “Every movie I’ve seen with a nosebleed, they tilt back.”

  “That’s a great resource,” she snuffles, blowing the bits of toilet paper by her mouth. “Next time I lose a limb, I’ll watch Monty Python and tell everyone it’s just a flesh wound.”

  I shake my head and let go of her neck. She leans down. I let her because we’re not gonna argue over dumb shit.

  “Do it your way, but I’m looking it up when we get to an Internet source.”

  “You do that.”

  My gaze drops to the blood on her shirt. Or technically my shirt. I sigh and fumble for the handle on my carry-on.

  “You ruined another one.”

  “Hope you weren’t attached to it.”

  I unzip my luggage and dig around for a replacement for her. My elbow keeps hitting the seat behind me, my legs cramped up against the wall. The only shirt I haven’t dumped a day’s worth of sweat in is a black wifebeater I wear to bed. I pull it out, and she huffs out a sigh, pulling the toilet paper from her face.

  “Think you can keep this one clean
?” I ask, and she takes it from my outstretched hand.

  “We have two and a half days. So no.”

  I smirk and toss her my tube of deodorant. Her nose is still draining, so I nudge her wrist so she keeps that sucker plugged.

  “You know,” she says, “I keep flashing back to my bag being sucked down that drain. If only I had saved just one pair of pants.”

  “Is that a hint?” I gesture to the pair of Marvel pajama bottoms I have resting on top of all my clothing. “Because those are sacred.”

  She shakes with silent laughter. “Don’t worry. I won’t risk your precious pants.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry if you’d packed more than one purse.”

  “It’s a tote. It’s bigger than a purse.”

  “And it’s gone.”

  She narrows her watery eyes at me. “You shouldn’t make fun of someone who may be broken.” She gestures to her nose, and I see the faded lines from her glasses on her skin. Oh yeah. Gotta find those.

  “Well, if it’s broken, you won’t be able to smell the funk coming off me.”

  “Silver linings.”

  I smirk and push at her hip a little to check under the seat behind her. My fingers tumble over the frames and I have to press the side of my head into her shoulder to get a good grip on them. They’re still intact, just a little fuzzy. I wipe them off with the clean shirt I handed to her.

  “Toss me a fresh roll, would you?” Shay points to the toilet paper. I tear off a piece and fold it before handing it over. Thankfully there’s a trash bin right by my butt, so we can dispose of the bloody mess.

  Shay’s nose has stopped draining, but her upper lip is stained. She swipes at it, but the dry paper isn’t gonna do shit.

  I reach over her and pull down the fold-out sink. She wrinkles her nose at my armpit in her face. A small laugh rolls through my stomach as I wet a thick piece of toilet paper.

  “Let me see,” I say, tapping on her chin. She flattens her top lip over her teeth so I can wipe the blood off better. Her eyes flick to the ceiling, and I take my time, being gentle with the strokes in case she really did break something.

  “I’m such a mess,” she whispers, the air snapping around us.