“Hey.” She sits up and stretches her arms over her head, straining the tank top against her breasts. “Where are you going?’
My mouth goes dry when her nipples pucker through the thin material. I can resist her for my best friend. Bristol and Rhyson may not be close, but she is still his sister. A pretty face and a great set of tits aren’t worth any possible static with him. I may need to sticky note that over my mirror this week, though.
“Oh, you’re up.” I lean through the window. “I just need to run inside my apartment and grab something before we head to Grady’s.”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
Shit. I mentally run through the disaster area that is my tiny apartment. I’ll be lucky if a roach doesn’t greet us at the door.
“Um, sure. Come on.”
When we cross the landing, I remind myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. I pay my rent. I’m making my own way and not breaking any laws. I have the integrity of my art, not selling out for the quick buck, but holding out for the right opportunity. It all sounds hollow when Bristol, in her lambskin leather and designer distressed jeans, blows into my one-room apartment on a cloud of expensive perfume.
“Through there.” I point to the tiny bathroom off the one room that encompasses the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The brochure called it “studio,” but hovel is probably a more accurate description.
Bristol’s sharp eyes wander over the threadbare thrift store couch and the Dollar Store dishes in the drying rack. The disarray of my narrow, unmade bed, which is flush against a wall, mocks me.
“Could you hurry up?” I ask curtly. “We need to get going.”
Her startled eyes stare back at me for a moment before she moves quickly to the bathroom. I grab my laptop and am already standing by the door when she comes out.
“There wasn’t a towel.” She holds up her dripping hands.
“Oh, sorry.” I take the few strides to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels on the counter for her.
She dries her hands and tosses the used paper towels in the trash. Instead of following me back to the door, she leans against the counter.
“I thought you were tired.” I shift from one foot to the other, back propping the door open. “Let’s go.”
“I have that same print.” She nods to the poster of Nina Simone hanging on the wall over my bed. “She was an excellent pianist, and my mother loves her.”
My shoulders, which have been tight since we pulled up in front of my du
mp apartment, relax an inch.
“Yeah?” is my only response.
Bristol nods and walks over to my turntable against the far wall, running her fingers over the dust cover.
“You use this to deejay?”
I’m standing here holding the door open for her to leave, and she’s conducting an inspection.
“Uh, yeah. “
“You’re still deejaying tomorrow at that place Jimmi was talking about?” She looks up from the turntable, apparently in no hurry to leave. “Brew?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ll use for some of the set. I prefer vinyl, but most set ups nowadays are completely digital.” I sigh and nod my head out to the hall. “Look, we better get going.”
“What’s the hurry? Rhyson’s at the studio and Grady’s at his retreat all week. Just an empty house waiting for us.”
“I’m ready to go. I have better things to do than give a perfect stranger a grand tour of my place when I need to be working.”
Hurt strikes through her eyes so quickly, I almost miss it. She lowers her lashes and walks toward me without addressing my rudeness. She’s squeezing past me in the doorway when my conscience reprimands me. I grab her elbow to stop her from leaving, tucking her into the doorway, too.
“Hey.” My hand slides down her arm to take her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know why I did that.”
She looks up at me, her back against one side of the doorframe, mine against the other. With her coming where she’s from, and me coming from where I’m from, there should be a vast ocean separating us, filled with our differences and all the reasons we should never meet on shore. But there’s only this wedge of charged space between our bodies that seems to be shrinking by the second. What should be foreign feels familiar. When I assume I know something, she surprises me.