The Corner House: A Reverse Harem

by Daisy Jane

“Best friend,” Bodhi nudges Bastian and he rolls eyes playfully. “We live together too.”

  Bodhi’s sandy hair is styled into another man bun and apparently, I’m into man buns. I lick my lips. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I was heading out the door and I got a migraine,” I say casually, with a shrug to downplay it. “I didn’t have your phone number.”

  “Those treats you made,” Bastian rubs his belly. Do you call washboard abs a belly? “Very fucking good.”

  Bodhi nods. “Those were Bakerina’s Vegan Peanut Butter Blondies,” he rubs his washboard, too. “I’ve had them before. Very fucking good. Oh god,” he shakes his head, jaw dropped, gaze off into the distance. “Oh, just thinking about them I want to go eat more.”

  I smile, shyly, hoping my cheeks aren’t going red at a simple compliment.

  “Hey, Brynn, I like your hair,” Bodhi motions to the back of his own head, and Brynn touches the top of one of her braids.

  “Thanks,” she says, in a voice I haven’t heard in a long time. Her single voice, the one she used when she first started dating Bryan. You know, in the beginning of the relationship when you try to bridle your regular emotional reactions and pretend everything’s all good? That voice.

  “Can you braid mine like that?” he asks, making Bastian roll his eyes and cross his arms over his chest.

  “Bro, we don’t have time for that. Those kinds of braids take forever,” Bastian groans, and something tells me this isn’t the first time Bodhi’s wanted to do something like this when they were together. I smile at their playful and somewhat intimate relationship. They were clearly themselves with and around one another and I had that with Brynn, so I knew how special it was.

  I wonder if they are that close with Eli, too?

  “It won’t take long,” Brynn says, standing up, patting her chair. “Come sit. You’re clean, right?” she says, motioning a palm over her head.

  “Always,” Bodhi says somewhat indignantly. The mere suggestion he wasn’t freshly clean seemed to offend him and that got me going even more. Good hygiene is definitely a quality, the girls and I had learned, that needed to be stated. Kayla had a boyfriend who didn’t shower the entire time they were on vacation and when she finally confronted him because he stunk so bad, his reply? “You didn’t say I had to smell good.”

  So. Yeah, that’s where we’re at. Implicitly stating hygiene matters.

  “Those are the headaches you were talking about before, right? You had one?” Bastian says, closing the few feet between us with ease. He smells so good that it warms my chest before making my heart thrum wildly against my ribs. He’s so close. Immediately my nipples are aware of Bastian, as they push against the thin fabric of my peasant blouse.

  “Yeah,” I say, pulling my sunglasses from the top of my head and folding them up, somewhat nervously. I don’t think it’s as much him as it is his body that makes me nervous. A wave of heat rides up and down my spine and I tug nervously at the ends of my tangled, awful, un-styled “day after migraine” hair. I can’t wear a ponytail because my head is so frickin sensitive, and I can’t style it because I’m so tired. It’s a perfect storm of bad hair.

  “I’m fine now, just, yeah last night wasn’t great. I’m glad you guys liked the bars though.” I turn on one heel so I partially face Bodhi, who sits in Brynn’s chair, the beginnings of a Dutch braid going on one side. “And yes, that was a Bakerina recipe.”

  He raises a victorious, closed-fist to the air, congratulating himself.

  “Yes, Bodhi,” Bastian chides playfully, “we all know you are very smart.”

  “I am,” Bodhi nods, and Brynn tugs him by the braid.

  “Quit moving,” she yanks and Bodhi winces with lighthearted energy. I would never have guessed these two muscled and tattoo would be so sweet and genuine. I know it’s judgmental of me to be surprised but still, I am.

  I smooth my hands down my hair and turn back to Bastian, whose hands are stuffed in the pockets of his black jeans. He’s wearing a short-sleeved navy blue fitted button up, that stretches thin around his thick biceps. All of his beautiful ink on his arms are exposed, and that Clark Kent hair is styled as such. I have the strongest urge in my life to fan myself, but I don’t.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Bastian dips to meet my eyes, as he stands much taller than me. With those black boots he’s wearing he feels even taller. Inhumanely large over me. Like a superhero would.

  I laugh nervously. So nervous under his intimate gaze. “Man, isn’t that the polite way of saying I look like crap?” My hands smooth over my breast-length hair, then go to my sides. Suddenly I don’t know what to do with my body. The only natural thing feels like getting on my toes and wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his throat and tasting his warm, stubbled skin.

  “Um,” Bastian clears his throat, and worry that I’ve passive-aggressively made him feel bad crosses my mind. “I really don’t see how that could be possible. Like, for real, I cannot see there being any situation where you look like crap.” He blows out a breath and steps back with one foot, making a show of looking me up and down. “No, there’s no way. Not possible.”

  If my heart had a heart of its own, that heart would be having a heart attack.

  He leans in and I’m seriously afraid there’s a chance Bastian will hear my heart raging inside me. “Even with an unshaved and dislocated leg,” he whispered in that masculine ripple that vibrated in my panties.

  There’s no way of stopping my cheeks from flaring with embarrassment. Brightening with need. My breath feels extra warm when I exhale a gentle, highly controlled laugh.

  “I knew there was no way you didn’t notice that,” I said, shaking my head. I’m thankful they had me over last week. At least now of the three times I’ve been around this man, one of them had a version of me that wasn’t hairy-legged and mop-headed.

  He leans back, putting a bit more space between us and God do I need it. Him so close a moment ago, I didn’t know if I could actually breathe. So, I held my breath and with how weak I already felt, it wasn’t helping. My whole body felt like putty for this man to mold. The closer he got, the more my body formed to him, whatever he wanted.

  He could’ve taken me by the neck and stolen my mouth, in front of them. I would’ve let him.

  I would’ve let him do a lot more.

  “Rain check?” I ask, my chest warm and fuzzy with what I hate but have to describe as extreme horniness. There’s no eloquent bow to put on it. My body was on fire for his, and Bodhi’s and Eli’s for that matter, and there wasn’t even any part of me left that wanted to hold back.

  “Fuck yeah,” Bastian replies, further making me go red. “Tonight?”

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. Then I step into him, invading his space, absorbing some of his testosterone-filled heat. “Will Bodhi and Eli be there?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says quickly, drifting close to me so that we’re less than three inches apart. “They won’t be around.” His words sink my heart into my belly and I place my hand on it, feeling the weight of them.

  If I want this, I have to ask. He’s obviously not going to just know I want to have sex with all three of them. How could he know that? And furthermore, would I want him to assume that? This is a pretty unusual request, I’d think, so hopefully he wouldn’t jump straight to “this girl wants a gang bang.”

  “How’s six sound? Dinner?” he leans in a bit more and his cologne makes my brain fog. “They’ll be there for that but they’ll leave after.”

  A glint of hope appears. If I want this, I need to put on my big girl panties and ask for it. They’d be there tonight. I would summon the courage and ask then. And if they said no, I would definitely run out of the house in humiliation and be the most upstanding citizen in Oakcreek as to avoid run-ins with law enforcement, I would never get a tattoo and I wouldn’t… well, partake in whatever thing Eli did for a living. I would draw a nice bubble of humiliation around me and live in it forever.

 
Still, it was worth the risk.

  Chapter 9

  “Holy shit,” Brynn whisper-screamed, eyes wide and shining.

  I nodded; mouth open in a frozen, speechless state.

  “You were kind of flirty and seductive, by the way,” she adds, dancing her brows up and doing a little elbows-back shimmy.

  “I was?” I ask, remembering myself to be one moment away from a damn heart attack from how fast my heart was moving. How hot my skin felt and how hard to was to take a breath.

  She flicks her hands over her imaginary hair, mimicking me smoothing my ends. “Rain check?” she pushes her lips out by moving her nose down, and I laugh too hard too fast, grabbing my head in reaction.

  “God,” I say, massaging my temples, pulling my eyes shut, “don’t tell me I made that face. That’s awful.”

  “Don’t bring God into this, Sloane. It’s your burnin’ loins making you duck face.”

  I cringe a million cringes in one. “I did not do duck face,” I laugh, though secretly nervous I may have looked how I felt. Horny.

  Brynn snorts, pressing the back of her hand to the underside of her nose. “You didn’t,” she gasps, laughing way too hard, “but you’re so embarrassed right now.”

  She paces to me and takes me by the shoulders, forcing seriousness into her smile. “How are you going to ask those guys for what you want if you can’t even take some teasing about the way you flirt?” she asks, just the hint of humor leftover in her tone. She blinks, those big eyes putting pressure on me.

  “I don’t know,” I admit, “but I will. I will.” My resolve to taste, I mean, take what I want—it surprises me.

  Yet, Brynn nods in solidarity, zero hesitation or questioning in her response. “Yeah, you will.” She says in agreement, before going back to her station. I’d already toned and conditioned my client—she liked to dry her own hair at home so she always left the salon with wet hair. I didn’t blame her. Brynn can’t even blow dry my hair the exact way I like it and we are guinea pigs for each other all the time.

  When I get back to my place, I want to take a nice hot bath and Tylenol, relax before my date with Bastian at the corner house tonight. But I have to climb my way out of denial, at least so I can make a plan to get myself out of this mess I’m starting officially in.

  My computer comes to life and I wait for it to completely turn on as I make a single cup of black coffee. My belly is nervous but I don’t know why. I know what I’m going to find. My expenses spreadsheet will be more red than green, if there’s any green at all.

  Clicking my way into my spreadsheet, I input the three-monthly bills that vary: my cell phone, my electricity and my gas. My rent and internet bill never change. After that, I input my monthly numbers from my copy of the salon ledger. Inputting them after the month has passed makes them all feel a lot smaller and less significant. There are so few now.

  When it’s all said and done, I’m worse off than I thought. Missing the wedding I had booked took away my ability to pay rent for the next month. Three weeks ago, I’d gotten a great gig doing bridesmaid hair for a big wedding but the day before? Migraine. One so epic that my mom drove to my place and took me to the ER where I got an IV of Benadryl and steroids. It wasn’t fun.

  And I lost a shit load of money, too.

  I do not want to fail at adulting. I do not want to live with my parents. But finding two roommates before rent is due? Unlikely. Sighing, I lean back against the computer chair. Within moments I come to a wonderful conclusion: this is Tomorrow Sloane’s problem. The Sloane in the future that carries the burdens of today. Today is for a date with Bastian Cute and his two moan-worthy roommates. Today was about me waking the fuck up and asking for exactly what I want. No more waiting for it to find me.

  Because it got lost on the way, clearly.

  After a hot bath and two Tylenol, I slip into a smocked bodice sundress, canary yellow with thick white stripes. Using my big barrel curling iron, I style my hair into controlled but loose waves, giving my lashes one pass with mascara and my lips some much needed Chapstick. Natural vibes (but shaved smooth everywhere) felt right.

  As soon as I got back from the salon, before I tortured myself with my bills spreadsheet, I popped some dates, coconut, cacao and almonds into my food processor and rolled some vegan bliss balls to take to the guys tonight. One or two after dinner, one with coffee in the morning—there wasn’t a situation when bliss balls weren’t good and I didn’t even have to find a vegan recipe. It’s one of my normal recipes that just happens to be vegan.

  Slinging my purse across my chest, I grab the glass dish of bliss balls and head out, not knowing exactly what to expect but prepared to swallow my nerves and ask for everything.

  The corner house comes into my sights and I try to distract myself. Remember that time you made bliss balls but didn’t put the lid on the processor and cacao power and coconut flakes went all over the kitchen ceiling? Stepping onto the porch I shake the memory free from my head, remembering how hard it was to clean the ceiling. Why did I distract myself with a stressful memory? Are my armpits sweating? Wait--when did I last eat, is there anything in my teeth? My mouth turns dry, something drier even than a dessert on the damn sun. I swallow, my tongue peeling painfully from the roof of my mouth.

  Then the front door opens. It’s Bastian, wearing athletic pants low on his hips, a fitted but worn white t-shirt covering his torso. His tattoos look vibrant against the natural sunlight flooding over him, and as he shoves his fingers through his hair, I feel my lady parts doing a shimmy. If they were people, they’d be a chorus line of women in short dresses with their boobs pushed to the sky.

  Heat pooled in the base of my spine and spiderwebbed through the lower half of me, warming my panties. It’s been like five seconds and I’m already internally fangirling (and wet) so I really don’t know how this will go. Honestly and oh my god, is my heart beating super loud right now?

  “Sloane, come on in,” Bastian smiles warmly, pulling the door open. The sunlight illuminates the wood flooring and natural stone fireplace against the back wall inside. Their floor plan is pretty open; a smaller foyer leading to an open kitchen, living and dining space, with a patio and pool off the back. The rooms were upstairs, I guessed, and I hoped that at some point very soon, I’d know for sure.

  “You look great,” he compliments me and I feel it in my nipples, hard and extra sensitive. I swear I feel his voice in them, growing perk with each word as if they’re under his command.

  “You do, too,” I say honestly, not realizing until after I said it that it’s a little weird, since he’s basically in the man version of sweats. He looks down at his pants and tugs on them a bit before looking up at me.

  “My workout ran late,” he says with a hint of frustration in his tone. “I still have to hop in the shower.”

  I’d like to hop on you in the shower, I don't say. I follow him to the kitchen where Bodhi is there, his back to me, EarPods tucked in his (pierced) ears, the wall of a body swaying to an unheard beat.

  “Don’t startle him,” Bastian says, taking a swig of a protein mix in a blender bottle. “He’s holding a knife.”

  My eyes grow wide. “What?”

  “Kidding,” Bastian says, the metal mixing ball sliding around inside the bottle as he tilts it back, finishing the drink. I drape a hand across my chest, my hair suddenly feeling like a curtain around me, trapping in my body heat. And God is my body heated.

  Bodhi has a shirt on this time and somehow, it’s even sexier than him topless. Seeing those barbells through his nipples pressed against his own fitted and fatigued white t-shirt made them more enticing than bare skinned. He popped his earbuds out the moment he turned and saw me standing there with Bastian, a tray of bliss balls nervously in front of me.

  “Hey Sloane, how’s your head?” he asks with concern, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. His hair is braided still, with no strays or flyaways. Men. It’s really not fair.

  “Better,” I say,
feeling the nervous rambling building on my tongue but unable to stop the flow once it starts. It’s like holding your pee when you’re drinking. Once you break the dam, you’re peeing every two seconds. This is like that only with diarrhea mouth. I dab the corner of my mouth with my tongue. “Even though I don’t feel like the most wonderful ever, I still feel good because I have never gotten a migraine back-to-back, so I know I’m in “safe” days right now.” I smooth my fingers through the ends of my hair after I slide the bliss balls onto the island. “So while my head is sore and my brain is kind of slow, I’m just happy to know it won’t be really bad again for a while. Hopefully.” I lick my lips and smile, all of Bodhi and Bastian’s attention making me… weak. Could be headache hangover.

  Could be muscle, ink and superhero vibes too.

  “How long has this been going on?” Bastian asks as he pulls a bottle of San Pellegrino from the fridge, twisted the cap with his mit of a hand, pouring me a glass.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. My mouth is so dry around these guys. All the moisture is somewhere else in my body… “They’ve been consistent and bad for about a year now. Six months before they got bad, I was getting migraines but not like this. I could at least work through them.”

  Bodhi leans down across the island, still focused on me intently. His knuckles curl under his chin as he listens and I see how that each of his digits is completely inked, too. Tribal bands around one finger, the other nearly dark, his middle finger adorned with an unreadable cursive word. Across his other knuckles is a word, each finger supplying one letter to the message. LIVE.

  Bastian gives a playful hip bump to Bodhi to step aside, and he washes his protein drink out into the sink before adding soap and hitting it with the sponge. “How often do you miss work?”

  I swallow hard. I left my bills spreadsheet to come here and forget about those things. But I guess I can’t live in denial, even for a night.

  “I tried at first to come back as soon as I could, sometimes even the same day if the headache hit in the morning. But it made me sicker, longer,” I pull out a barstool—the same one I sat on when I was here last week—and slide onto it. “Now I try to limit it to a day and a half per headache. The day it hits and half of the bad hangover day.”