After taking leave of Mrs. Tokarski, I snuck through the back door and tip-toed into the kitchen, ears pricked for sounds of Christie's presence.
Where was she?
As the pounding of my heart in my ears receded, I heard the muted roar of running water.
Christie was in the bathroom, filling the tub.
She was taking a bath.
To wash off my cum.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I treaded lightly down the hallway. When she shut the water off, I winced at every floor creak.
I placed her shoulder bag in front of the closed bathroom door, then skittered to my room.
I, too, yearned to clean myself, but from the brief time we'd lived together, I knew Christie could soak in the tub for hours even when
not
defiled by stepbrother semen. If I wanted to shower before our parents returned, I'd have to use the master bath.
Once in my room, I dug through my duffel bag and pulled out fresh underwear, a light blue button-down shirt, and olive chinos. I'd packed these clothes because Therese insisted everyone dress nicely for holiday meals. Yeah, she could be a pain, but I tried to keep her happy. She was the best thing to happen to Dad after my mom died. Grief flattened him for a long time. Then Therese entered his life and inspired him to live again. So, although I drew the line at church attendance, I usually tried to accommodate her annoying wishes.
As I turned to leave my bedroom, the bathroom door squeaked open.
I hid behind my wall and froze, listening to ruffling sounds as Christie rooted through her bag. Then she closed the door again.
From the other side of my bedroom wall, digital taps told me she was texting someone.
Oh, God. Who was she texting? What was she saying?
I moved closer to the wall, trying to decipher the taps as if they were Morse code. Was she ratting me out to Therese?
I pressed my ear to the wall.
The taps stopped, replaced by sploshes, as Christie stepped into the bathwater and lowered herself into the tub. These sounds gave rise to vivid mental images. I saw her sitting naked in the water, knees drawn up, holding her phone against her thighs. More texting. More sloshing. An almost imperceptible thump suggested she'd set her phone on the floor. Then, fumbling scrapes made it obvious she was reaching for the bar of soap in the niche on her side of the wall. I felt the vibrations of her soap-fumbling on my side, and, as my gaze slid down, I realized her unseen hand was mere inches from my crotch.
And that I was getting hard again.
God damn it.
I clutched my clothes to my chest and marched across the house to the master bedroom.
Therese had the en suite bath remodeled when she moved in. Its shower featured nozzles and dials I didn't recognize or understand, but my needs right now were simple. I thrashed out of my t-shirt, peeled off my boxers, stepped through the pebble glass door, yanked the handle labeled
C
, and blasted myself with a merciless ice-cold spray that mortified the fuck out of my flesh.
Minutes later, I emerged with a clean body and a clearer head.
Christie, I now reasoned, would not tell Therese what happened. She was too wholesome. I doubted she'd tell
anyone
she gave her stepbrother an accidental foot-job, but no way would she tell her mother. Therese would skip fainting and go directly to dropping dead.
However, I further reasoned, my continued presence would make Christie uncomfortable. I didn't want that. So, as I dried and dressed, I concocted an excuse for going home early. I'd say the head chef at the restaurant I worked at called. He begged me to help him cater a holiday event. He offered top dollar, and I couldn't refuse. In reality, our head chef never catered, but they didn't know that. Perfect.
I wanted to wash my clothes, but decided I'd best skedaddle while Christie was in the tub. Therese could finish the hens. All she had to do was stuff them and cook them.
I was heading for my room to pack when I passed the kitchen and saw the cream puff stuff I'd left on the island. Shit. I'd forgotten about that. Should I throw it away? I hated wasting food. They wouldn't take long to finish. And Christie would likely soak for at least another hour. Fuck it, I'd finish them.
While the cream puffs baked, I retreated to my room. Christie was no longer texting, but still sloshing. I stared at the wall between us as I packed, wondering if I should speak to her. It would probably be bad form to apologize from behind a wall while she was bare-ass in the bathroom. Maybe I'd text her when I got home.
No. Email. This situation called for a thoughtful, carefully worded email.
Mind made up, I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder. Christie's sloshes grew louder as I left my room. When I passed the bathroom door, I was surprised to hear the
glug-glug-glug
of draining water. Damn, that was fast.
It was okay, though. She'd be a while longer drying, dressing, brushing her hair, putting on make-up. I had plenty of time.
I pulled the pastries from the oven and slit holes in them. They needed to cool before I added the filling, so in the meantime, I slipped outside and threw my duffel bag in my back seat. While I was out there, I popped the hood and checked my fluids for the long drive home. My old beater was conking out a lot lately. I'd been putting off a trip to the mechanic. I was a chef, but I wasn't exactly rolling in dough, as my dad-joke-telling dad always loved to say about me.
The fluids looked fine. I closed the hood and headed inside.
When I walked into the kitchen, Christie was standing at the counter making coffee.
I screamed.
Not full volume. Just a quick
ah!
But high-pitched and girly enough to be embarrassing.
She graced me with a casual glance and continued scooping coffee grounds.
Her hair was wrapped in a fluffy white bath towel, her body in a white university t-shirt and pink gym shorts. She stood balanced on one leg in her habitual flamingo pose, left foot hiked up high on her right inner thigh. My noisy entrance hadn't even caused her the slightest wobble.
"Your phone dinged," she said in an off-hand tone, sliding the filter into place and giving the brew button a playful tap.
With a friendly smile, she dropped her foot to the floor, spun on its heel, and padded out of the kitchen while the coffeemaker sputtered to life.
I stared at the space she'd occupied, mentally rewinding her every movement and facial expression. Had there been strain in her voice? A note of sarcasm? Mockery? Anger?
Dazed, I pulled the cream filling from the refrigerator. My mind was elsewhere as I transferred it to a piping bag. Was it possible she didn't remember the incident? Could she have been so traumatized, she blocked it out entirely?
Ding!
I jerked at the sound of a text alert, then scanned the counter, looking for my phone.
Ding!
My eyes fell on the dishtowel I'd wrapped it in after dropping it in the dough.
Ding!
I lifted the phone slowly, sick with certainty Christie ratted me out after all, and the messages were from Therese.
As I wiped dough from the screen, a series of rapid-fire dings came through, reverberating with righteous condemnation in my guilt-ridden head.
