Page 43 of False Start

She turns her back to the water; it’s the only way she can stand in the shower and stick her cast out of range of the spray. Tilting her head back so that the water cascades down her hair, she closes her eyes and goes somewhere else.

I take the moment to squirt shampoo in my hand, and when she pulls her head from the water, I lather and massage her scalp. I hear a whimper when my fingers graze the scar, but I don’t stop. I work through her hair and rinse the suds fully before I coat her ends in an excessive amount of conditioner.

Once I’m done, she opens her eyes. She’s still in her underwear, though at this point, the sheer fabric is wet enough that it’s a joke of an attempt to cover up. I loop my finger through the strap on her hip and pull, snapping it against her skin. She uses her free hand to lower her panties on one side, and then moves to the other.

It takes her far too long to get it free from her hips, but I don’t help.

I watch.

I really enjoy watching her.

Doing a jiggle of her hips, she forces the wet fabric all the way down to her ankles, where I bend down to pick them up off the shower floor. She steps out of them, her eyes stuck on me. “You’re getting wet.”

I bite my cheek to hold back the smile, because I don’t think she even recognizes the double entendre.

“Yeah,” I say, looking up at her as I toss the panties behind me. “Are you?”

She hides her face from me like she realizes what she’s said, biting the smile back. I stand and grip her chin, forcing her to look my way.

Her tongue slides over her bottom lip before she bites it again.

“Are you?” I ask one more time.

It’s one small nod, and she hasn’t blinked in ages, a little deer in headlights, and it makes me wonder if she’s ever been with a woman before.

It wouldn’t matter either way.

“If you tell me I can touch you,” I warn her, stepping into the shower, boots and all, “everything changes.”

That small jerk of a nod again.

“I like routine, structure, things a certain way. Are you going to be a part of that?” It’s like my brain is warning her off before my mouth can save us from destroying this before it starts.

But I have to know.

I slip my shirt over my head, leaving my sports bra on.

“And you’ll take care of me.” She doesn’t ask; she parrots the same words I granted her as she tilts her chin to the side.

“Yeah. I’ll take care of you, princess.”

19

HARVEY

It’s a terrible idea letting this mess of a girl into my life, allowing her chaos to disrupt the very delicate structure I built for myself in order to survive. I see through all her bullshit, because I’m the same way. Two faces on the same coin, just slightly altered from twists of fate. I had to grow up too soon, and someone tried to keep Nia from doing it at all.

Not intentionally maybe, but parental neglect sometimes comes in the form of doingtoomuchjust the same as it can be not doingenough.

Where my brain goes off at the speed of light with tumultuous thoughts any time I’mnotin control, for her, it’s the opposite. It’s the need to decide, the need to perform according to expectations, that’s drowning her. She’s desperate for someone to relieve her of the burden.

Nia’s putty in my hands as I run the loofa over her body, and I don’t bother to not look. My eyes explore every inch of her just the same as the soap. I scrub her legs, her feet, and then I move up to her arms. She stops breathing when the loofa touches her stomach.

I don’t move.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” Her dark eyes burn into mine.