by Erin Leigh
Sitting back on the couch I meld in, getting comfy. It’s only eight at night. I don't have to be asleep for three hours. I don't intend to move until then.
She walks out of her room with a towel and strolls into the bathroom next to the kitchen.
Snickering, I wait for the tap to start. I would bet my left nut she does the typical girl thing where they turn on the tap and then pee. Like we can’t hear them peeing over the sound of the tap? Like we don't notice the water just got way fiercer but only for half a minute?
But she doesn't do it.
She just starts the shower.
Who doesn't take a piss before a show—holy shit!
She’s a shower pisser.
That dainty little flower in there with the perfect face and God-help-me body, pees in the shower.
Nooooooo!
I glance at the list, contemplating writing it down but then she might think I was listening at the door or something. Plus, I guarantee she hasn't ever talked about pee with a guy before. She’s got prude written all over that doll face.
Shit!
She’s going to pee in our shower. It’s a thing for me. The memory of my brother laughing and peeing on my feet when my mom made us shower together and at hockey when we were on the same team, rolls through my mind. It makes me gag and shudder, looking back at the game and forcing my mind from the feel of his hot piss between my toes.
The more zombies I kill the more worked up I get.
I’m downright pissed off, from being pissed on.
My nose is stuck in a complete wrinkle, even when she comes sauntering out in nothing but her towel. I waste my chance to see her nearly naked.
She casts a glare my way but I don't care. I glare back. “Did you piss in the shower?” I can’t even stop myself from asking.
She stops. “What?” Hate fills her eyes. “Did you listen at the door when I was showering? You’re a freak.”
“No. I didn't listen!” I jump up, pointing at the bathroom as the way she said it hits me. “Oh my God, you peed in the shower? That's a thing for me! You don't like falling in the toilet—well, I don't like piss in the shower!” I walk to the list and write under her name, NO PISSING IN THE SHOWER in big angry letters.
“I didn't-didn't pee in the shower!” she shouts at me. “I peed first with the shower going so you wouldn't hear! What’s wrong with you? You’re a pervert!” She turns and storms to the room.
She peed how?
Oh no!
I know I’m a psycho when it comes to this. My brother made me a psycho.
Shit!
She peed first with the shower and not the tap, which means she’s extra sensitive about peeing and me hearing.
I’m an asshole. Again.
I lose all the annoyance in me and make the walk of shame to her door, knocking and praying she doesn't fling it open and toss something in my face. Or worse, spray me with mace.
“Natalie! I’m sorry!” I mutter into the crease between the door and the frame.
“Go away!” She sounds like she might be crying.
I hate myself. “Nat, seriously. I’m super sorry. I have a thing with showers and pee, and my brother peed on me all the time when we were little or when we were in hockey. He knew it was a quirk for me. I hate being spit on and pissed on. He was a sick bastard and it makes me crazy. I’m sorry.”
I lean against the door, hovering there like a creep, but I don't want this to be a thing—me yelling and her yelling and us fighting. I don't have a girlfriend because I don't like drama. And this one is entirely all my fault.
Shit!
I have only one thing I can do to make this better.
Chapter Eight
The hot crazy scale
Natalie
He’s an asshole.
Firstly, he tells me I’m not his type. He clearly screws everything that moves, but I’m not his type? How hideous am I that I’m not his type? His type is girl. And maybe even that's flexible.
And I don't know what I hate more, the fact I care that he won’t have sex with me or that he won’t.
Never mind, the fact I care is akin to ripping my own stomach out. I know I’m not hideous. I know there’s nothing wrong with me, not that he can see. The weird shit is on the inside. Outside I’m pretty typical.
And then he accuses me of shower peeing?
Me?
Of the two of us, how is it that I’m more likely to be a shower pisser? He screws nurses and puck fucks and jerks off on their clothes, but I pee in the shower? And somehow some piss in the shower is worse than that?
I don't think so!
I went to a private school.
We had showers at school every day.
It’s a golden rule you don't pee in the shower.
I’m not an animal.
God, what he must think of me to assume that.
My self-esteem takes a menial hit as I imagine how disgusting and nasty I come off that he assumes I shower pee and he won’t have sex with me. Is it the fact he thinks I shower pee?
WHY DO I CARE?
The whole thing has me pacing my room for a moment until I hear him at my door.
I pause, about to tell him to go Clinton himself but when he speaks I’m stunned, “Natalie, I’m sorry.” He’s leaning and breathing like a freak into the crease of my door. I back up, sort of scared and weirded out, but at the same time completely taken aback by the apology. He doesn't come across as someone who apologizes. He’s a meathead and doesn’t have the common sense to know that one apologizes when they accuse girls they don't know of shower peeing.
“Go away.” I can’t help but laugh a little bit at how he sounds in my doorframe. I know he doesn't mean to. I can tell he isn’t the sort of guy who ever wants to come off as creepy.
“Nat, seriously. I’m super sorry. I have a thing with showers and pee and my brother peed on me all the time when we were little or when we were in hockey. He knew it was a quirk for me. I hate being spit on and pissed on. He was a sick bastard and it makes me crazy. I’m sorry.” He breathes into the doorframe even louder.
I should be completely scared. But I’m not. He doesn't scare me at all.
But that doesn't stop me from being pissed off. The more I think about the fact he was listening to see if I shower peed, the angrier I get. He might not be creepy or want to seem creepy, but he’s rude and that I won’t tolerate.
Gripping my towel, and irritated on a whole new level, I storm to the door, ripping it open. “Why did you listen to me showering? We just met, that's super creepy. You’re all like we can be roomies, and I don't like girls like you, you’re super not my type. And then you listen to me shower, hoping to hear me pee first? Why didn't you just add the peeing to the list before you insulted me with the ewwww, I’d never fuck someone like you, Nate-Dog?” I try really hard to do his voice.
He’s holding his breath for a moment before he deflates his irritation, embarrassment, and maybe there’s even a little humor. “Sorry, that’s just not how I sound.”
“Explain the listening.” I look up and seethe.
“Okay!” He backs up, maybe scared of how pissed I am. “All the girls I know turn on the tap to pee. It’s kind of funny. I was on the couch, about to play The Last of Us and you got in the bathroom. I could hear you breathing in there. I didn't need to listen. I assumed you would do the whole tap-water-peeing thing, and I would chuckle because all girls do it. But you just started the shower. I assumed—”
“So you weren’t listening at the door, mouth breathing like a pervert?”
“No.” His lips press into an angry line and his eyes lower to the very definition of unimpressed. “I don't mouth breathe. If I wanted to listen to girls peeing I could just ask any of the girls throwing themselves at me to do it.”
“Oh my God, you are such a disgusting narcissist.”
His eyes gain back that confident eye swagger as they lower to my towel. His lip toys with a grin. “For the record, I didn’t me
an it like I don't find you attractive, Banks. I do. So if that’s what you’re really pissed about—”
“This has nothing to do with that.” It’s my turn to be unimpressed. “Gross. Do me the courtesy of at least looking me in the eyes when you leer and mutter dirty hockey player bullshit. Do girls actually fall for that knuckle-dragging meathead bullshit?” I lower my voice to mimic his again, “I would fuck you, Banks. I fuck hard, rawr! I lift the heavy stuff, I put it down!”
His dark eyes flicker to mine, but they lose none of the confidence or seduction. “I would fuck you, Banks, every way including sideways. I just don't dig chicks that tense up when they get touched. I don't like stiff girls.” He smiles sexy-like as he bends forward and leans in to speak, “But maybe what you need is a stiff—”
“Oh grow up.” I turn and slam the door in his face, leaning against it and smiling indignantly. Do I feel like I won because the loathsome dirtbag would screw my brains out? There’s something not awesome about that.
I have some serious self-esteem issues that need to be worked out. I need to add that to the list of things to do this week.
The fact I find him attractive or want his sexual approval, gross hickey and all, is disturbing.
I don't think I should go out there until I am fully past the “Brady is a sexy beast,” which may never happen. The way he was standing over me, looking so cocky is still playing on repeat in my brain.
He’s too hot to be a roommate, disgusting and all.
Staying in my room, my new haven, isn’t hard. I have my laptop and my phone and the entire world is in both. But for whatever reason I am staring at the door. I guess it’s the remorse of calling him a knuckle-dragging meathead. I can’t believe I got so mean so fast. He wounded my pride and so I wounded his back. We don't even know each other which makes this even worse.
We both just attacked.
My dad always says two wrongs don't make a right and now I see why. I don't feel good about being a dick, not at all.
The smell of cookies wafts in under the door. I lift my nose like Toucan Sam and inhale as my eyes flutter. Is he baking to torture me?
How about the fact he can bake? What the hell?
I look at the door and think about going out there to apologize but a knock stops me from getting up. “Nat?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
Oh, how I want him to come in. I have a vision of how it’ll be. Him in nothing but an apron with the plate of cookies and that smarmy smile. He’s sexy in all the right ways, the dirty stinky ways. “Yup.” I shake my head at myself.
Dirty stinky?
He enters with a plate of cookies, but he isn’t in an apron. He offers a weird smile. It’s the first time I’ve found him even slightly off-putting. “You want a cook—I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that I would fuck—anyway, I’m sorry. I got mad—”
“No!” I cut him off. “I’m sorry. I’m the one who was mean. You just retaliated. I acted like a jerk.”
“No, I started it with the shower peeing.” He holds the cookies out, keeping a distance from me. Maybe because I called him a pervert and knuckle-dragging meathead.
I take the peace offering and give him a grin. “I’m the one who should be ashamed and making you cookies.”
He takes a bite of one and shakes his head. “I think we both know how those cookies would taste.”
The cookie melts in my mouth, making me close my eyes and moan. “Oh my God, this is good.” When I open my eyes he looks angry again. I don't know what to say.
“My mom made the dough. She’s a great cook.” He looks confused and leaves the room, closing the door again.
I finish off a second cookie and contemplate sneaking out there for a third.
There’s no noise coming from the living room which makes me wonder if he’s gone to bed. I get up slowly, creeping to the door and cracking it open. He’s gone. The controller for the Xbox catches my eye, sucking me in like an evil vortex. I turn the Xbox One on and load his game, The Last of Us, one of my faves. He’s three quarters of the way through the game.
As the game loads I realize I need more snacks. There are no cookies on the counter, but my eyes draw to the cupboard I filled with gummy candy and chips earlier. Getting up I hurry and grab something, not really sure if I recall where’s he’s left off in the game. The last quarter is bad, but I don't remember how bad.
I hurry back as it loads at David, the boss. I sigh, hating this part of the game. There are few games that get my heart pounding like this one does. The scene clears and I see I am Ellie. This is the deer hunt.
I sit back and start for the deer that I have to wound. I vaguely recall the secret to this section was having a good bow, which Brady does.
I’m munching and playing, kicking ass on the hordes until David, the other dude who’s helping Ellie, shouts that it’s time to move.
“This is where I always die.” Brady comes out of the bathroom in a towel and sits next to me.
It takes all my willpower to not look. In fact, I focus hard on the clickers, killing them with precision.
“Holy shit, you’re really good at this.”
I nod and continue to kill the clickers, David and me. He takes some heavy shots while I gather supplies to make the Molotovs to kill the bloater we’re about to face.
The bloater scene comes and Brady tries to give me advice, making me laugh. When I get the bad guy down and the game takes over, I sigh, grabbing some chips. “That’s intense.”
“Where did you learn to play video games like this?”
“Like what?” I look at the TV and then him.
“You’re better than I am and you’re a girl.” He clearly doesn't like that fact.
“I played a lot.” My cheeks flush as I force my eyes to remain on his. I want quite badly to ogle him the way he did me, but I also don't want him to think I want him. I don't. God help me to not want him. He’s like the apple and I’m Eve and Sami is the damned snake.
“What’s a lot? Because I feel like I’ve played a lot.”
“What?” Oh, we’re still talking video games. “I’ve played every night for a few hours and then on weekends and holidays maybe more like all day. For the last four years. Plus, I played Xbox and PlayStation regularly as a kid. Sami has always had the best, before it even came out in America.”
“That's a lot.” He cocks a dark eyebrow.
“My parents both work, my dad two jobs. So I was home alone a lot. Four years ago my friends all went away for college and Sami moved to Manhattan, and I wasn't allowed to go with her. So I played.”
“You weren’t allowed to go with her?”
“No.” I shake my head and pause the game, needing a stretch and a yawn. I lean back and move around so I’m not too tense from sitting for so long.
“Did the president call your house and tell you not to go?” he mocks.
“Shut up. My parents are intense. I told you. My mom is a ball-busting, rule-making leader. And I figure they were paying for school since I have never worked, so yeah. I let them tell me how it was going to go. I could have moved out and not gotten an education.”
“But to stay home that much longer?”
“I still did things.” I roll my eyes and start the game again. “At least I can beat a silly zombie game.”
He laughs and pulls back. “Oh, you wanna get mean about it?” He gets up and hurries into his room, coming back out in sweats and still no shirt. He’s not even holding a shirt, and I’m not even trying not to look. I’m ogling. My lips part when I take it all in. I swear the angels are singing.
He’s fit in the way Men’s Health Magazine requires cover models to be. There are just so many places to look. I don't know where to first. Everything is like God himself carved it. I actually hate that he let some gross PF, that is such a terrible term, touch him. He’s perfect. Tall, thick, muscled, tanned—what the hell? Is he human? Maybe he’s a cyborg.
Fortunately, he
doesn't notice it as he messes with the Xbox and then comes and sits next to me. Of course I’m suddenly much warmer than before because I’m more aware of him.
“We can test your strengths at a real game.” He starts up his remote and gives me a cocky grin. I gulp and look back at the TV. I CANNOT look at him. He needs to put a shirt on. He’s so hot. Like I’m sweating from him sitting here.
“I’m going to spank you, Banks. We’ll rename it the Spank Ban—”
“No.” I shake my head. “Don't finish that statement.” Even with the Spank Banks comment I don't have the heart to tell him this isn’t my first time being forced into NHL 16. William and his friends play it too.
Brady laughs. “This one is way more of a skilled game, and I know it’s not fair that I know the game so much better than you, but I sense that you might catch on quickly since you have mad controller skills. “You ready to get rocked?” He winks.
“Yup.”
This is the moment I decide not to hold back. I was contemplating it since he was being nice, but he’s smarmy and I hate that I loved his cookies and I find his shirtlessness attractive. I hate it even more that I like his cockiness. I think he’s doing the shirtless thing to mess with me.
I remind myself I am stronger than this. I grew up next to the hottest of the hot who never wore shirts if they got the chance to take it off. I was lucky they wore shorts. Sometimes they didn't.
But he’s cocky and confident and I want to crush that.
I crack my neck with a couple of stretches and nod. “Okay. Let’s play.”
He starts the game.
And I let him have it.
From the moment we pick our teams and the puck drops, I work him like an intern. Like I’m going to get worked tomorrow.
His tongue sticks out the side of his mouth when he’s concentrating. I don't even put my best foot forward, just the one that I need to beat him.
Then I toy with him, act like he might stand a chance but nope! Here comes Natalie Banks, kicking some NHL ass!
