I press a hand to the wall and lower my head, turning the water to hot. I block an image of Nell. Won’t go there. Can’t.
Searching my brain, I dredge up an image of an old girlfriend—a pretty blonde with big tits, long legs, and a viselike cunt. I grasp my dick and stroke, hating the surge of pleasure, the sick knowledge that I’m aroused by a girl I’ve known her whole life. A girl who used to call me uncle.
I am one messed-up motherfucker.
I shut my eyes and stroke faster. My blood heats. Pressure tightens my groin. I force images into my head—the blonde sprawled out in front of me, her legs around my hips, her body arching every time she takes the heavy thrust of my cock. Driving into her…deeper…harder…
The wave builds. My lungs burn. Right at the edge, the instant before the world splinters, the blonde disappears, and it’s Nell in front of me, gray eyes wide, naked tits bouncing, her cunt pulsing around my dick…
“Fuck.” I come hard, shooting on the shower wall, a groan vibrating to my bones.
Before the sensations ebb, blistering shame encroaches. Messed-up is too good a word for what I am.
After blasting myself with another spray of freezing water, I dry off and pull on a pair of boxer briefs.
Have I ever looked at her the wrong way before? I shouldn’t have shown her my bullet scars. Sure as hell shouldn’t have touched her thigh. I shouldn’t even look at her again.
My reaction isn’t because I haven’t had sex in the past year. Just the opposite. As soon as I was physically and mentally able to even consider it, I’d fucked plenty of women for the release, because I could, and because I didn’t have to think.
I’d also stopped months ago when the women’s curiosity about my imprisonment got to be too much. Though I found another outlet in fighting, I never intended to be celibate forever. I just haven’t been looking to get laid.
So whatever the fuck this is, I need to end it now.
I return to the bedroom and pull a suit and tie out of the closet. A knock comes at the door. Before I can respond, the knob turns and the door opens.
“Since we’re running late, I…” Nell’s voice trails off. Her gaze slips to my chest and across my abdomen.
My shoulders tense. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I…um, brought you your coffee.” Nell indicates the cup she’s holding and sets it on the dresser. “Sorry. The door wasn’t locked.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to open it.”
She blinks, surprise and hurt rising to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I…”
A tremor breaks her voice before she leaves, shutting the door behind her. A second later, her footsteps echo on the stairs leading up to her room.
Smothering regret, I dress and grab my briefcase. I need to put her at a distance. Better to make her hate me than to let this sudden, sick feeling for her go any further. Even in my own mind.
Henry is in the kitchen, reading the paper. The sight of him intensifies my self-disgust.
At the very least, I’ll get myself out of here, find another place to stay. I’ll need to figure out how the hell to explain my sudden departure to my oldest friend without letting on that I’m lusting after his teenaged daughter.
“Do you have plans for Saturday night?” He straightens and reaches for his mug.
“Saturday?” Taking a breath, I try to focus on the question. “No. Why?”
“There’s a jazz concert over at the college I thought I’d go to.” He turns a page of the paper. “I can get an extra ticket, if you’re interested.”
“Sounds good.” My spine stiffens at the sound of Nell entering the kitchen behind me.
“See you later, Dad.” She pauses by Henry’s chair and gives him a quick squeeze around the shoulders before hurrying out the door.
When I go to the car, she’s in the passenger seat, her arms crossed tightly around her body and her face set—exactly the way she looked the first time I drove her to school.
“Sorry for snapping at you.” I start the car and back out of the driveway.
She shrugs. “I shouldn’t have walked into your room like that.”
Since it’s the truth, I don’t contradict her. When we get to school, she hurries out of the SUV faster than she did the first day I drove her.
Forcing myself to focus on what I have to get done that day, I walk to the art classroom.
“Morning, Darius.” Hannah hands me a stapled packet of papers. “I meant to give this to you yesterday. The Student Art Competition is coming up in December. It’s judged by a panel of artists from the community, and the grand prize is a five-thousand-dollar scholarship.”
“Impressive.” I scan the papers, which lists the rules and deadlines.
“It’s a pretty big deal. Students aren’t required to enter, but they should. I was hoping you would encourage some of our more promising photographers to enter.”
“I’d be happy to.” I set the packet in my briefcase, sensing exactly who she’s talking about.
“Even for those who don’t place, they get exposure and critiques from professional artists.” Hannah crosses the room to open the door when the bell rings. “That kind of networking is invaluable.”
Students stream into the classroom. I watch Nell warily, but she doesn’t look at me or even glance in my direction. Her shoulders are stiff, her movements sharp.
Good. Keep her at a distance.
After homeroom announcements, we get started with first period. Hannah supervises the kids taking photos outside, and I stay in the classroom to help with darkroom processes.
When it’s Nell and Simon’s turn, she walks in alone. Every muscle in my body tenses.
“Where’s your partner?” I hold the darkroom door open. “I figured he was late to class.”
“He’s absent today.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder, her expression set. “I want to make an eight-by-ten print from my macro roll.”
“Okay.” I close the door, staying several feet away from her. “Go ahead and get started. Let me know if you have questions.”
“I took this photo of a bee, but the contrast is off.” She clips a sheet of negatives to the light table and peers at them through a loupe. “It’s the only one that came out in focus, though.”
“You can fix the contrast.” I approach to set up the enlarger. “Is it too dark or too light?”
“Too dark.”
“Go ahead and set it up in the cartridge.”
She takes the metal plate and slips the negative into place. She’s gotten used to the process and conducts each step with both confidence and a touch of excitement, knowing she’s about to discover if her vision translated the way she intended.
I catch her scent—shampoo and soap—and step back. “What filter are you going to use?”
“Three, I think.” She studies the filters and puts one over the lens, then slides the cartridge between the bellows. A crease of concentration appears between her eyes, and she captures her bottom lip between her teeth. She sometimes does that right before taking a photo too, like she’s picturing it first in her mind.
She wouldn’t make a good war photographer. She doesn’t have the split-second impulse and drive. She’s too focused and deliberate. She needs to think before she does something, instead of just reacting.