I was happy to be alone, dammit. Happy to paint or dance or run around naked if I wanted to.
I thought of Ben’s kiss and of how awesome his warm hands felt on me and I had to wonder again, why was I here and he was there?
Oh, right because Matt wouldn’t approve.
Liar. This has nothing to do with Matt.
Ugh, I hated when that little voice inside my brain was right. I knew it was bullshit. I was here and he was there because Ben Lancaster scared the crap out of me.
As it turned out I was alone the entire day and even though my creative juices weren’t what they usually were, I was able to work on a sketch or two. And this was good. Making art calmed my mind—it helped me focus—and when I was focused I was happier than when I was not. And an unhappy Georgia wasn’t good. An unhappy Georgia could turn on a dime.
I’d chatted with Matt, assured him that I was taking my meds but I knew that wasn’t the only thing he was concerned about. I worked it. I made him ask the question he most wanted to ask. Our conversation went like this:
“G, you better be taking your meds.”
“I am. I’m taking number one and number two.” Okay, I lied. I was taking my lithium, but not the klonopin (I hated the way it made me feel and the dry mouth was gross) but he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to be worried because I was fine.
I am fine.
“I’m going to count them when I get back.”
“Knock yourself out.” Sheesh, my brother wasn’t a dummy so didn’t he know I could flush number two if I wanted to? Didn’t he know I did flush number two when I went in for my morning pee?
“So what have you been doing?”
“Nothing really.”
A pause.
“Did Ben find a place that he liked or is he still looking?”
“He found something nice in Haddonfield.”
“Oh, cool. Where is he now?”
“Right now?” I said with a grin, moving in for the kill.
“Yes.” He sounded irritated. “Right now.”
“Right now he’s lying beneath me because we’re having hot sex in your bed.”
“G,” he warned.
“Totally naked,” I continued with a grin. “Because we’re having hot sex in your bed.”
“Don’t jerk me around.” Okay, his irritation was sounding more like anger.
“Whoa, take a chill pill. What’s the matter? Heather not giving you any?”
“Heather and I broke up.”
Wait. What?
“Oh,” I said softly, while I vigorously fist pumped and did a little dance. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” he answered, his tone more than a little sarcastic. “Look, I’ll be home tomorrow sometime. I’m stopping in to see a friend or I’d be back tonight. So…just be good, okay?”
I stopped dancing. Just be good? What was I, five years old?
I frowned and saluted him. “Yes Sir, I’ll do my best, Sir.”
And then I hung up.
For several moments I stared into the emptiness of the loft, wondering why his words pissed me off so much and hating the hot prick of tears at the corners of my eyes. I was twenty-one years old, okay, nearly twenty-one years old—my birthday was in August—and my older brother still felt the need to tell me to behave. To be good.
To not fuck his million dollar hockey player.
I stalked into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, chest heaving, tight and angry. But what was I angry about? The fact that my brother still didn’t trust me? Or the fact that I wanted to fuck Ben Lancaster so badly, that just thinking about it made me hot. It made me hot and bothered and horny.
With a sound of disgust, I hopped into the shower and stood under the spray for a good, long while. I stood there for so long, enjoying the heat as it sluiced over my skin, that my mind began to wander. It began to wander toward Ben and slowly my palms and fingers slid over my stomach, seeking the place between my legs.
I leaned against the tiles and tried to stifle the moan that sat in the back of my throat, as my fingers and the erotic images of Ben pushed me on. I stroked myself. I imagined it was Ben’s fingers, and for the second day in a row I got myself off. Jesus fuck, this had to be some kind of record because I know I hadn’t masturbated like this since I was a teenager.