by L.H. Cosway
Startled eyes flew to mine, growing wider as I dumped the box’s insides into the bag. She then watched me as I did it again with another box. Finally, as I did it a third time, the stiffness of her shoulders seemed to lessen as an easy smile, tinged with what looked like wonder, tugged at her lips.
“Why,” I asked, keeping my tone conversational, “do you like being someplace no one is allowed to talk?”
Josey shrugged, giving me a self-deprecating grin. “Because then I can’t say anything stupid.”
I shook my head at her. “I haven’t heard you say anything stupid.”
She barked a surprised sounding laugh, like a HA! and then ripped into another box. “You’re very kind, Will.” Josey waited a moment, and then added under her breath, “You’re a liar, but you’re very kind.”
Seven
@RugbyMom1973 to @WillthebrickhouseMoore: You are a disgusting disgrace! Go home to the USA with the rest of the perverts!
WILL
It happened two weeks later.
Actually, it happened two weeks and one day later, on a Tuesday. The fifteen days that preceded it had been great. In just the short time we’d lived together, things were much better than before. So much better. Josey and I had fallen into an easy, comfortable rhythm.
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays Josey had class in the mornings, and interned at an animal shelter until the late afternoons, but she was usually home in the evenings. On those days, I made dinner for both of us and we ate together on the new kitchen table. I’d donated the old one along with the sofa, as Josey seemed to avoid both after I’d told her about the Gallaghers.
At first she’d protested my making dinner, but stopped when I explained that I had to cook anyway as I had to feed myself. Cooking for two instead of one—especially since my portions were already relatively huge—was no big deal.
We finally came to a compromise when she agreed to let me cook if I agreed to let her clean the kitchen. It was a perfect arrangement.
It was also how I learned Josey was deceptively messy. I say deceptive because her messiness was incredibly clean. Rocky’s chew toys littered the floor, but the tile was always swept and the carpet was always vacuumed, free of dog hair.
She left cooking magazines all over the couch, but I noticed she’d dusted and polished the coffee table and shelves in the living room twice during the first week.
When I saw how spotless the shared living space was, I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me and peeked my head into her bathroom, Rocky dancing around my feet as I entered the space. The counters were covered in woman products, but the marble surface and sink were free of water spots, and the glass of the shower had been wiped clean.
I glanced at Rocky. He glanced at me. Bemused, I chuckled to myself, about to turn back to the door, and that’s when I spotted it.
A dildo.
A big, Pyrex dildo.
With ridges.
In the shower.
I froze, blinked, and I stared at it, my brain sluggish. Oddly, I had to remind myself to breathe. Likely because I was . . .
I was—
I was shocked.
I shook myself, tearing my eyes from it and rubbing my chest where an odd kind of pang was spreading mild warmth up my neck.
But why was I shocked?
Why should I be surprised?
Despite my never seeing her that way, Josey was a woman and women have needs.
Don’t they?
I hadn’t grown up around women—any women. My mother died when she had my youngest brother. My grandmother died before I was born. I had no sisters. We lived on a farm, way out in BFN Oklahoma.
Girls—women—and their bodies were sacred lands of the unknown to us Moore boys.
Unbidden—completely unbidden—an image of Josey flashed through my mind’s eye. Her full lips parted, her big eyes closed, causing her thick black lashes to catch droplets of water before they dripped over her sharp cheekbones. Her head would be lolled back as shower spray melted bubbles of slippery soap, sliding down her bare skin as they dissolved. Her legs would be parted, and maybe one hand would be braced against the wall of the shower while the other moved in a steady rhythm.
Holding that huge, glass dildo.
I swallowed a sudden rush of saliva and, unable to help myself, I leaned closer to the sex toy, examining it and comparing its size against my own.
I was bigger.
But not by much.
And for some reason, this realization made me instantly hard.
Crap.
Of course I knew Josey was a woman, but until this moment, I’d never really thought of her that way. Not even the tampon-mountain drove the point home. Up until this point, she was someone I liked as a person, someone who made me laugh, who was smart and compassionate, someone around whom I felt completely comfortable. A good—no, a great companion.
She was still all of those things, except—
Except now I’ve pictured her naked.
The sound of our front door shutting broke me out of my stupor. Rocky jumped to attention, barking excitedly as he leapt for the hallway.
I flinched, hesitating only a split second before I also spurred into movement, turning immediately for the bathroom exit. For the first time in a very, very long time, I felt a rush of embarrassed heat flood my face, making the top of my ears burn and my throat cinch tight.
I shouldn’t have been in her bathroom. I should have held my ground and confessed to what I’d done and apologize.
Instead, I darted soundlessly to my room and quietly shut the door, hastily flipping off my light and holding my breath.
And then I cursed my seditious instinct to hide.
But she was home a half hour early. She’d taken me by surprise. Usually, I’d be lying in bed reading by now. I’d been on my way to my room when I’d walked by her bathroom.
Hopefully, she hadn’t heard me. Hopefully, she’d believe I was already in bed. Hopefully, she’d think I was asleep.
I strained to listen, but my heart hammered between my ears. Closing my eyes in the darkness, I forced myself to relax, willing my breathing and pulse to slow. Eventually, it worked.
But I would still have to tell her, I would still have to confess.
Do you, though? A voice in my brain that sounded suspiciously like Josey’s asked the question. Who are you trying to make feel better? Yourself or Josey? If yourself, then telling her would be selfish and it would definitely make her uncomfortable. Let it go.
Then I heard the real Josey. She was whispering to Rocky, something indistinguishable at first, but then she drew closer to my door.
“Shhh, stop it. Don’t wake up Will,” she was saying, clearly trying to get the little dog to stop his excited barking. “If you quiet down, I’ll give you a treat. Is that what you want? Yep, thought so, tiny manipulator.”
More footsteps and whispered conversation, further away this time, and I finally exhaled. Rubbing my hand over my face, I walked further into my room. Slowly, careful to be as soundless as possible, I removed my shirt, placed my cell phone on my nightstand, and then took off my pants and boxers. The darkness precluded me from aiming correctly for the hamper, so I left my clothes in a pile on the floor and climbed into bed. I would pick them up tomorrow.
I breathed in, I breathed out. Resting my head on the pillow, I opened my eyes. After a moment, I huffed a laugh at myself.
My grandfather had always said I had an overactive imagination. He never allowed exaggerations in the house, only complete honesty, no matter how brutal or boring.
Now, surrounded by night, I imagined Josey as she was likely to be right this minute, forcing myself to be brutal about the truth of her.
I liked her, but I’d never been physically attracted to her. Like Bryan had said, she was like a little sister, and it was not okay to think about a little sister naked.
So I pictured her dark hair pulled into a disheveled ponytail, tired circles under her eyes, her baggy s
crubs stinking of wet dog—and maybe dog piss—her sharp, odd features, hoping it would replace the earlier lurid slideshow.
It worked.
She was Josey.
Just Josey.
Cute, funny, sunny Josey.
I breathed in. I breathed out.
My chest eased. The earlier discomfort in my throat diminished until it was virtually gone. My mind wandered to other things: practice tomorrow, the laundry I needed to do, the next scheduled payment I would be sending to Oklahoma, to the farm, to my family, the upcoming trip to Australia.
I was almost asleep when I heard the unmistakable sound of Josey’s shower being turned on.
My eyes flew open. Unconsciously, I strained my ears. Seconds turned to minutes, and I was just on the precipice of relaxing again when I heard a new sound.
The noises were indistinct at first—a soft moan, a sigh, a truncated whimper—but there was no mistaking their meaning.
Groaning, I covered my head with a pillow and tried to picture her again—baggy scrubs, dog piss, tired circles.
It didn’t work.
The brutal truth at this moment was: Josey naked, in the shower, wet, hot, skin flushed, using her big dildo.
Josey Kavanagh, unfortunately, was inescapably a woman.
“How are . . . things?”
My eyes cut to Ronan Fitzpatrick. He watched me while he used the bottom half of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck.
“Good,” I said. “How are you?”
Ignoring my question, Ronan set his hands on his hips and looked out over the stadium. “Everything okay?”
I studied my team captain. This was our last practice before our game on Saturday and I’d played well. I knew he wasn’t asking me about tackles or line-outs.
“Everything is good.”
His attention came back to me. “The papers have been brutal.”
I nodded, though I didn’t know what the papers were printing about me lately. Weeks had passed since the first story broke, at least a month. I hadn’t read any articles since the first, though there was a self-destructive part of me that wanted to. So far, I’d managed to keep it tamped down.
Taking a swallow of my sports drink, I found it wasn’t cold enough. It needed more ice. I moved to the refreshments table.
Ronan followed, keeping his voice low. “I spoke to Coach about it yesterday. With each of the stories crazier than the last, they have legal doing some fancy maneuvering, threatening libel for the worst offenders. That should quiet them down a bit.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Also, Annie needs to get you on the line. You need to stop putting her off. She has a few prospects, wants to talk them over with you first,” Ronan continued as I filled a cup with ice and poured the sports drink over it.
I glanced at him, not liking the sound of the word prospects. “You mean models.”
“No, actually. A musician.”
I must’ve made a face because Ronan hit my shoulder. “Get the fuck off it, Will. She’s a nice girl, and your new bad reputation will do wonders for hers.”
I glared at my shoulder, then at my captain.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s a symbiotic thing. She needs to dirty up her image, you need to stabilize yours. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone wins,” I muttered, shaking my head as I studied my drink. I hoped he was right. I hoped she—the musician—would get something valuable out of helping me, something she needed.
Ironically, this musician wasn’t the only one looking to capitalize on my new image. Since the story broke, my agent had been approached by an infamously wholesome sportswear brand, wanting me to be the face—or rather, groin and torso—of a new, edgy underwear line.
Their tagline? Will you watch?
. . . Get it?
“So, uh”—Ronan turned his attention to the field where the last of our teammates were running drills—“how are things with your new roommate?”
I made no outward sign, but at the mention of my roommate, my pulse jumped.
“Josey,” I bit out, and then gulped the rest of my drink.
“What?”
Setting the drained cup on the table, I reached for another bottle of Sport-aid. “Her name is Josey.”
“Oh, right. How is Josey working out?”
I debated how best to answer as I mentally flipped through memories of our encounters from the last several weeks.
She played with her dog in the living room. There were chew toys everywhere. I couldn’t walk five feet without stepping on something that squeaked, had been viciously decapitated, or was soaked with drool.
She had classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights, which meant I didn’t see her at all on those days. It also meant I took Rocky for a walk, and played with him, and gave him dinner. I also might’ve let him sit at the dinner table.
What?
Every time I entered a room he was waiting for me in the play position, rump in the air, tail wagging. I couldn’t help being charmed, even if he was barely the size of my forearm.
Josey read cooking magazines that she stole from some doctor’s office—the label read Dr. Khan—but she rarely cooked anything more complicated than macaroni and cheese.
She told me about her day unprompted—not that I’d get a chance to ask, she was speaking as soon as she walked in the door—from the moment she woke up until the moment we saw each other, a litany of small observations, hilarious anecdotes, and sad tales of animals she couldn’t save. She was interesting and insightful and open and expressive. I’d counted eleven different kinds of smiles.
She liked romantic comedies and horror movies, and she giggled at both during our Sunday night movie nights. During which, she also painted her toenails. She seemed to be going through the light spectrum in order: ROYGBIV. Also, her second toe was longer than her big toe.
She sung in the shower, mostly pop music. She also masturbated in the shower, and she came with soft moans and whimpers. She’d done it four times—that I knew of—since she’d moved in. Usually late at night on Tuesdays or Thursdays. And she had no idea that I could hear everything—every sigh, every slap of skin against skin, every song—from my bedroom.
My initial impression, that she reminded me of my brother or felt like a little sister or a puppy, had been annihilated in all aspects except for one. Despite hearing her late-night activities in the shower, despite being plagued by my resultant overactive imagination, picturing her naked and touching herself and—against my will—enjoying the fantasy, despite noticing that Josey wasn’t striking so much as stunning, that her lips were the color of plums and plums were my favorite, despite all of that, I was still more comfortable in her company than I was with virtually anyone else.
She’d made me laugh more since I’d known her than I had during the whole of my years in Ireland. She was kind, and good, and honest. She made every room seem brighter, every joke funnier, and every meal taste better. And I hadn’t been tempted—not once—to seek out a couple. She filled my apartment with her own brand of sunshine. I liked watching her.
I knew, without a doubt, if she moved out, I’d immediately seek out another couple. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
In short, she’d eradicated the emptiness, but she’d made the space bigger, fuller, brighter than before. Her leaving would create too large of a chasm, one that I’d feel both acutely and chronically.
But none of that was Ronan’s business.
So, I said, “Great,” because it was the truth.
His attention flickered over me, as though seeking to ascertain the veracity of my answer. Eventually, seemingly satisfied, he nodded. “Good. That’s good. So, what’s the plan for Australia? Do you need to bring her?”
I tilted my head to the side, thinking over his question. I’d forgotten about the trip, with everything else going on. Regardless, I couldn’t stop my first thought at his question.
Josey should definitely come.
Come t
o Australia.
Not come come.
My neck heated, and I had to clear my throat before I could speak. “Yes. I’d like her to co—uh, accompany me.”
Ronan squinted at some action behind me. “Okay, sounds good. Don’t forget to follow up with Annie.” He pointed at me distractedly and then jogged off toward the field.
Meanwhile, I lowered the cup of ice I’d been holding and pressed it against my groin, forcing a slow exhale as I pushed the memory of Josey’s sounds while coming last night from my mind.
It’s been a while, that’s all this is.
I gritted my teeth.
Josey was my friend, I respected her, and we had very clear boundaries. She was my employee, I was her boss. Nothing—no amount of attraction or wet dreams—would ever induce me to willingly cross that line.
Go home. Wait until she’s asleep. Take matters into your own hands, quietly.
I closed my eyes and gathered a steadying breath, sending a quick prayer of thanks upwards that my drills were already over.
After practice, I took a much-needed cold shower. And then I took a few minutes to look up the general schedule for universities in Dublin; the week of our Australian trip coincided with most campus’s spring break. I ignored the sensation of lightness in my chest, chalking it up to being hungry.
As I left the club I battled paparazzi, and I pushed through a crowd of photographers—most shouting lewd questions—as I entered our building. I couldn’t believe they were still interested in this story.
I was tired. But I was also looking forward to dinner and possibly talking to Josey about the trip.
Her new paid position seemed to be going well. Maybe if they let her take time off, she would agree to come—go, she would agree to go—along. The trick would be getting a word in edgewise while she regaled me with her daily adventures, but I had a plan for that.
I’d stopped by Butlers on my way home and picked her up some chocolates. Try as she might, she couldn’t talk with her mouth full.
Clutching the box of chocolates to my chest and wearing a small grin, I braced myself for impact as I opened our door. However, neither she nor Rocky met me. The apartment was silent.