Page 9

Chapter Nine

Gabriel

“No, no, no! This can’t happen,” I say, barreling down the stairs and to the kitchen to wash my hands. Because the soap in the bathroom upstairs isn’t enough. I need the one from the kitchen too.

“I said I was sorry!” Storm calls after me.

“Sorry doesn’t fix what I just saw. Nothing will ever fix that!” I turn the water as hot as it will go, pumping soap into my hand before scrubbing them. I didn’t touch him or anything he touched, but I just need to wash my hands.

“Oh, come on, Gabe. All men jerk off.”

I whip my head toward him, glaring. “I don’t!”

He grins. “Bullshit.”

“No.” I shake my head, turning back to the sink and using my nails to scrape my skin. “I do not do that. It makes too much of a mess.”

“Your dick never gets hard?”

“No!” I shout, squirting more soap into my hand to wash them again. They’re shaking and red, but I need to be clean. Clean, clean, clean. I have to be clean. Clean of the germs and clean of the lie.

Because my dick does get hard. Not often. Mostly when I wake up in the morning, or if there is an indecent scene in a movie. Just the body’s natural reaction. Nothing more. Except for a few moments ago. I was so hard when I turned away from Storm, and nothing about that makes sense. Why would my dick get hard because of him? It shouldn’t. Maybe it was fear. That happens sometimes. Men get hard when they’re scared. I wasn’t scared in the sense of my life being in danger, but all that mess, those germs…

It’s disgusting, Gabriel. Don’t ever let me catch you touching that thing again!

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my mother’s voice to get out of my head as I scrub my hands one last time. When I’m done, I shut off the water, but stay where I am.

Breathe, Gabriel, I tell myself. Just breathe.

“Are you okay?” Storm asks from behind me. He sounds like he actually cares. All sense of joking and cocky frat boy attitude is gone.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

What I found him doing was… dirty. It was dirty and he shouldn’t be doing it. Yet, I know this is something a lot of people do, and I should have considered this when asking a male to live with me. At first, I didn’t want a male roommate, but then Marta pointed out that asking a female to live with me may seem strange. After she explained why, I agreed. I’m not a predator, I’m not a creep. I don’t want to watch people in the shower. But they don’t know that about me. So, a male it was. Males are gross. I grew up with three brothers, all of which were gross. We were all scolded over it, but it seems I’m the only one who ever took the warnings seriously. Letting out a long and slow breath, I turn to face Storm.

“If you’re going to do that in this house, please make sure the door is closed.”

“Well, I was going to, but I didn’t want you walking in.”

“Why would I have done that?”

“Because you didn’t know where I was. You didn’t tell me that was my room, and I was in your house with no direction. I assumed you’d come looking. Thought I’d hear you if you got home.”

That makes zero sense. But being around people enough, I give a basic response to appease him because it’s easier than arguing. “I understand, but don’t let it happen again.”

He holds his hands up. “Swear I’ll keep the door closed from now on. You’ll never catch me doing that again.”

I nod, feeling bugs crawling on my skin as I look at his hands that had his… fluids on them just moments ago. Bugs that I can’t see but know are there. I need a shower.

Pleasure rushes through my body, every nerve on fire in a way I’ve never felt before. This feeling is… amazing. I open my eyes, looking down to find myself naked. Completely naked in my bed.

Oh no. Why am I naked, lying on my sheets? They’re dirty and it isn’t the day to wash them. I can’t wash them out of turn, but—oh, god, that feels good.

My hips move of their own accord, like I’m not in control. Up and down, back and forth. The more I do it, the better it feels. Desire builds, this urge for me to keep going is too much to ignore. It all feels too good to stop. But it’s bad. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this.

I can’t stop though, moving harder and faster until the pleasure builds so much it bursts. My eyes squeeze shut, and I groan deeply, nearly sobbing at the relief that courses through my veins.

When I open my eyes again, my face is buried in my pillow. It takes a few seconds for me to realize what happened. Pushing myself up on my hands, I look down at my pajama pants, noting the dark wet spot near my crotch.

No, not again…

This hasn’t happened to me in years , but every time it happens, it’s never a one and done. It happens a few times a week for a few months, then stops for a few years. Why is it happening now? Why now?

The fluid made it through my pants and onto my sheets, so just like in my dream, I’ll have to change them. That’s going to throw me off completely. With everything else going on in my life, changing my sheets on the wrong day is the last thing I need to deal with. I get out of bed and pull my door open to go to the bathroom so I can wash up.

“Morning.”

I freeze, looking up to see Storm lying on his bed, leaning against the headboard with a laptop on his lap. He doesn’t have a shirt on, just a light grey pair of sweatpants and a head of messy dark hair. Every time I’ve seen him, it’s been messy. I can’t tell if he does it purposely or he’s just too lazy to fix it.

He’s smiling at me, and from here I can see he’s looking at my eyes. Until his gaze travels and he’s looking down, down, and—he stops, his smile turning into a grin.

“Have a good morning, did ya?” he asks smugly.

My face burns and I snap out of whatever trance I’m in and run to the bathroom. Stripping off my clothes, I pull the sticky fabric off me and drop it into the laundry basket before jumping into the shower and scrubbing until my skin is raw.

Boys shouldn’t touch themselves, Gabriel. You save that ejaculate for your wife. That’s for making babies, and that’s it.

I push her voice away again. Though I don’t have interest in touching myself like that, I know her words are exaggerated and dramatic. But even after all these years, I can’t get them out of my damn head. I quickly rinse the soap from my body before getting out and drying off. I reach for the counter to grab my clothes, only to realize there is nothing there. In my haste to get clean, I forgot to bring clean clothes. I stare at the door, as if I could will them to hop from my drawers and float over to me like the kitchen scene in The Sword and the Stone. Not going to happen.

I pace the bathroom, chewing on my thumbnail as I try to decide what to do. I could stay in here until Storm leaves, if he’s going to leave at all. That’s the thing. I don’t know if he’s going anywhere, and I have to be at work soon. At least, I can only assume it’s soon. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so I have some time, but not enough. No, waiting for Storm to leave won’t work. So I guess the only other option is walking out there in my towel because putting on dirty clothes is definitely not an option.

As I pull the door open, I stare at my bedroom, counting how many steps it’ll take to get there. Less than ten. What’s the worst that can happen? I slip and fall because my feet are wet, my towel goes flying, and Storm sees me naked. I wipe my feet on the floor mat a few times before hurrying out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. Pretty sure I made it without being seen, so that’s good. After getting dressed, I grab my cell phone and call Marta.

“I’d like to say good morning, but if you’re calling me this early, I can assume it isn’t good,” is how she answers the phone.

“This isn’t going to work. I can’t live with someone.”

“You lived with Tara,” she says.

“That was different!”

“How so?”

“We were getting married. We were… supposed to do certain things.”

“Certain things?” she asks slowly. “What exactly is going on over there that you aren’t supposed to be doing, Gabriel?”

“I walked in on him touching himself, Marta!” I whisper-shout.

She bursts out laughing, and doesn’t even try to stop herself or hide it.

“It’s not funny,” I say into the phone. “This is crazy. He has to go.”

She laughs for another moment and then says, “He can’t. You signed a contract. He’s there for eight-nine more days.”

This is terrible. What was I thinking? How will I ever live with someone like this? Especially someone like him!

“I can’t do this, Marta. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Now stop worrying about what he’s doing in his room and go about your business. It’s nearly seven. Shouldn’t you be in the shower?”

“I already showered.”

“So early?”

“I’m… stressed.”

Not entirely true. Other than being worried about Storm, my body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time. I guess I must have gotten a good sleep or something.

“Well, continue on with what you need to do then. I’m sure you’re dressed already, because you won’t walk around naked. Go make breakfast. Ignore him. Act like he isn’t there. And remind yourself that you need the money.”

I need the money. I need the money.

She’s right. I do need the money. I already put it into my budget for the next three months and the ease I felt over it was lovely. But is it worth the stress it’s putting on my heart? I mean, if I walk in on him again, I may actually have a heart attack.

“Gabriel?”

“Yeah, okay. See you soon.”

She ends the call and I stand in place for a moment. I’ll be fine. This will be fine. I can handle having a roommate. Really, he’s not much different from Tara. If anyone should see me naked, it should be a guy, right? I mean, we have the same thing. Only his is a lot nicer than mine.

Wait… what? What am I saying? It wasn’t nice. It was… disturbing. Seeing him touch himself like that isn’t something I want to think about, never mind re-live.

I double check myself in the mirror and straighten my tie before going back into the bathroom to brush my teeth, fix my hair, and clean up. I spray the shower, wipe the counters and the sink, run the brush on the toilet, and bring the laundry basket into my room so I can put the sheets in it.

The spot on my bed that was there earlier is now gone. Did I make it up? Was it there at all? Can I risk not taking the sheets off and sleeping in that ?

No, absolutely not. I tear the sheets off the bed and toss them into the basket before remaking the bed with the next sheets in the rotation. Not having them on my bed for a full week is going to bother me, but I’ve had to do it before, so I know I can get through it. It’ll all be fine.

Ignoring Storm, I head for the stairs, laundry basket tucked to my side.

“Laundry day?” he asks, getting up from his bed and following me down the stairs.

“Yes,” I bite out.

“Am I allowed to use the washer?”

I stop at the bottom, closing my eyes and taking a breath. I’d already gone through this in my head. I’ve run through every scenario possible. Him asking about the stove, the dishwasher, the washer, the TV. If he’s living here, he can use the appliances here.

“As long as you clean up after yourself, yes,” I answer, keeping my gaze ahead of me.

“How do you clean up after a machine that cleans ?”

I look up at him, finding him much closer than I thought he’d be.

“Are you messing with me?”

“Nah, man. I’m serious. I don’t do my own laundry.”

“How—” I shake my head, blowing out a breath. “Never mind. Follow me.”

I don’t want to spend time with this guy, but if we’re going to be living together, it’s inevitable. And if I want him to do things the right way, I’ll have to show him. That’s the only way he’ll learn. I’ll just treat him like a pet. Like a puppy. Or like a grown dog, rather, because he won’t be as easy to train as a puppy, I’m sure. He’s like the mutt at the pound that people keep returning because he humps the pillows and pees on the floor. He better not actually pee on my floor or I will kick him out.

I head into the downstairs bathroom, opening up the fan door to show him the washer and dryer.

“Listen carefully. First, you’ll separate your clothes by color—lights and darks. No mixing. Whites always get hot water, darks get cold, and delicates need the gentle cycle, if you have any. For detergent—one capful. Exactly. Any more, and it’ll leave residue, which is unacceptable. As for the fabric softener, half a cap, and pour it into the designated compartment, not directly on the clothes. Because these are the same color, they can go together.”

“They’re grey. Is that white or dark?”

Questions. I like when people ask questions.

“Good question,” I say. “Grey is neutral, but we’re not going to guess here. If it's mostly light, it goes with the whites; if it's dark enough to potentially bleed color, it goes with the darks. It's about preserving the integrity of both loads. So, since these are light grey, we put them with the whites. But remember to always assess carefully. I don’t want to see color transfer because of laziness. If your white t-shirts start looking grey, I’ll know why.”

He nods, watching as I continue with the laundry, pouring in the detergent and then the softener into the compartment.

“When the cycle’s done, you remove your clothes immediately —we don’t let them sit or wrinkle. Shake each piece before putting it in the dryer. The lint trap needs to be cleaned every time. Pull it out, discard the lint, and put it back properly. Then set the appropriate drying cycle. And once you’re finished, wipe down the inside of the machine. We don’t leave any mess behind—ever.”

“Seems simple enough. But one more question.”

I close the lid and set the machine to the right setting, then press start. I turn to face him.

“Ask.”

“How do you know what the appropriate dryer cycle is?”

"Also a good question. The fabric dictates the drying cycle. Delicates and lightweight fabrics get low heat, and thick materials like towels or jeans go on high heat. You also need to consider shrinkage. Some fabrics, especially cotton, will shrink if you’re not careful, so those go on a lower setting, too. And never forget to check the care labels—they’re there for a reason. We don’t wing it with laundry. Some items are dry-clean only, though I have a feeling you don’t have any of those.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He huffs out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh, you going to be mad at me if I have to ask for a refresher on some of these things?”

“Not at all,” I answer. “I appreciate you wanting to learn.”

“This is your house,” he says.

“But you live here too.”

It comes out quickly, without me thinking. And though it is the truth, I’m not sure I quite feel that way. But I don’t want him to feel like he doesn’t live here. Maybe if he feels like this is his house, and is comfortable, he will have more respect for it. It’ll make things easier for me.

“Well, I’ll do my best to respect your wishes. I even put the toilet seat down when I used the bathroom this morning.”

See, he’s learning already.

I put my hand on his arm, giving him a little squeeze. “I really appreciate that.”

He glances down at my hand, where I’m touching him, and I quickly pull away.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask if you were okay with touch.”

His gaze comes back to me and he shrugs. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m good with it. Like it, actually.”

I nod slowly, then gesture toward the hall. I can’t get out of the bathroom without moving by him, and with him not having a shirt, I don’t feel comfortable doing that. His arm was okay to touch, but if I keep thinking about it I’ll have to go wash my hands. Actually, after touching those dirty clothes, I should wash them anyway. So that’s what I do. Then I get to work on making breakfast.

“Did you eat?”

“I did not,” he answers.

“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”

He chuckles. “I don’t know. I may get used to it.”

“Well, I make breakfast every morning, so I don’t mind.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll give you money for the food.”

I nod, then double up on what I’m making. It doesn’t take me long to get it all together and finished. He’s sitting at the table, fiddling with his phone when I put the plate down in front of him.

“On Mondays, we eat omelets.”

He raises a brow and slowly looks up at me. “You have a scheduled menu?”

“Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“Uh… no.” He huffs out another laugh, this one more shocked. “Not at all. Usually I eat breakfast at lunchtime.”

“Then why wouldn’t you just eat lunch?” I cut into my omelet and scoop up the piece. It’s stuffed with onions, peppers, and mushrooms.

“Because I like breakfast food?”

“Then you should wake up and have breakfast at breakfast time. Because what about lunch?”

He looks at me like he’s wondering if I’m joking or not.

“Is there a rule somewhere that says breakfast is at a certain time, lunch is at a certain time, etcetera?”

“Well, I suppose not. It’s just commonly eaten in the morning. You know, when you break your fast.”

“You’ll realize I don’t do a lot of common things, Gabe.”

“Gabriel.”

“Right, sorry.” He gives a nervous laugh, then busies himself with breakfast.

Okay, so he’s not terrible when he’s willing to listen to me and learn. But will this last forever, or is he just appeasing me? He still could go through my underwear drawer when I’m not here, and he did say he sometimes leaves the toilet seat up.