Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(13)

The later I get home, the less likely it is that anyone will be awake, looking to talk or hang out. I rummage around in my bag, checking for the master key to the athletic facility that I found last year. It was lying on the floor outside the locker room, so I tried it, and it worked on the door. I found out pretty quick that it opened more than the men’s locker room; it works on all the doors in the athletic facility.

Whoever lost it never reported it, because the locks haven’t been changed. I’ve only ever used the key for after-hours locker room access. And I haven’t gotten caught.

I grab my towel and the master key and poke my head out into the hall. It’s quiet, and I know the guy who locks up never checks the locker rooms before he leaves. It should be a couple of hours before the cleaners arrive.

I pad down the hallway, still wearing my running shoes. There’s no way I’d go barefoot in the guys’ changing room. I did it once a long time ago and spent three years with plantar warts.

I knock on the door to the women’s locker room before I slide the key into the lock. I crack the door a couple of inches and call out “cleaning,” then wait to make sure I’m in the clear. The lights are still on, but it’s empty.

My heart rate kicks up a notch as I steal across the room to the sauna. I keep the light off as I step inside, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to myself. And then I inhale deeply. “It smells so fucking good in here,” I say to the empty space. Soft and feminine. Way better than ballsac and piss.

I feel my way across the room and spread my towel out on the bench seat.

Dudes are disgusting. They’re always sitting around bare-assed on the benches. Women, on the other hand, generally have some modesty. At least that’s how I spin it in my head.

Besides, even if they do sit in here naked, I’d much rather put my ass where a bare vagina has been than a set of sweaty nuts.

I stretch my arms across the bench and let my head fall back, relaxing. Or at least I’m trying to. But my head is all over the place.

I need to resubmit that assignment for Professor Sweet. It’s worth 15 percent of our final grade, and my average isn’t high enough to take a fail. But filling in the holes in that story isn’t going to be fun. And it’s probably the reason for all the fucked-up dreams I’ve been having lately. Another confirmation that the past should stay where it is, hopefully buried under a ton of other shit.

Now that I have time to reflect on it, it was a stupid thing to write about. But as Clover—Professor Sweet—said, I was lazy and looking for an easy out. At the time, it seemed to fit the criteria for a creative piece meant to explore a childhood memory, especially since it’s one that never seems to go the fuck away. Now I wish I’d picked something else. The first time my mom made me buy condoms would have been a good one, and far less difficult to write.

Whatever. I’ll add two thousand words, get the passing grade, and make it through the rest of the semester, hopefully without pissing Clover off again.





Four





From Bad to Worse





Clover





The student who works the desk had to come in and tell me, apologetically, that he needed to lock up the pool. It’s already quarter past eleven by the time I’m done in the shower, and the women’s locker room is completely empty. This isn’t the first time I’ve been the last person here. I pause as I pass the sauna. There’s no one left but me. It wouldn’t hurt to spend ten minutes in there relaxing before I head home. And if someone should come knocking, I can feign that I lost track of time.

The lights are off, so I step inside and feel around for the switch on the wall, flicking it on as I let my towel drop to my waist. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing—and for me to register that I’m not nearly as alone as I believed myself to be.

A naked, hulking man stretched out along the bench lifts his head and blinks. A very familiar man, who I’ve seen naked before.

Who is now my student.

My student.

My naked student.

I scream in both shock and surprise and feel around for the door handle. “How the hell did you get in here?” I shout.

Maverick Waters is a big man. A very big man. I hate that, despite my shock, I can still appreciate the way the thick muscles in his arms and chest flex and bunch as he shifts his position, sitting upright. His abs actually ripple as he drops his hand to shield himself. Not that it matters—I know exactly what he’s trying to hide because I’ve had my hands and mouth on it, and it’s been inside me.

I’m so busy with my internal freak out and trying to find the doorknob that seems to have magically disappeared that I lose my grip on my towel, and it hits the floor.

“Shit.” Maverick lifts one hand to cover his eyes and scrambles to wrap his own towel around his waist. It’s small, one of the ones borrowed from the gym. And it doesn’t cover much of his mammoth body.

I snatch my towel from the floor and wrap it around myself, trying not to think about the countless feet that have walked across this tile all day. The alternative is being completely naked in front of Maverick, and while that was fine in August, it certainly isn’t now. I’ll take the possibility of gross feet.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” My voice is too loud, and the only thing I seem capable of doing is speaking at an inappropriately high volume.