𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 ⭑ 18+

𝐱𝐢. 𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐚

𝐱𝐢
𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐭𝐮𝐛𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬
──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

I thought that by drawing myself a nice, relaxing candlelit bubble bath with a topped-off glass of wine I could calm my mind enough to enjoy it.

Instead, my mind is filled with the image of Derek's hand hovering over my upper thigh.

The gooseflesh left in the wake of his touch as the pads of his fingers lightly danced over my skin.

Then without warning, like a comically large switch pulls inside my head, imaginary flashes of my mother sitting gingerly on Cady's couch splotch my vision. Twiddling her thumbs as she waits for her daughter to finish whatever she's been doing in the bathroom for the past eight minutes.

I still haven't talked to her yet.

I'm sure that if my mother truly wants to contact me she'll find a way. She has a knack for slithering and writhing back to places where she's not welcome.

My sister may have a sliver of kindness left for her after everything she's done (though I have no idea how, especially after her speech at our last dinner together)—I do not.

Upon instinct I tuck my chin over my drawn-in knees, arms tightly locked around each leg. Sounds of hundreds of minuscule popping bubbles hiss quietly through the fairly vast space.

I would fully submerge myself, but I'm not in the mood to deal with my hair at the moment.

My thoughts are too muddled to have another thing to worry about, even if it's a small task such as managing my hair.

A shrilling ringtone jolts my soul back into my body.

Water slushing, I reach over the tub to the edge of the granite countertop where my phone continues to blare. I stare dumbfounded at the screen for a second or two before my thumb slowly swipes across the screen.

"Hello?" I ask hesitantly.

"Hey," Derek's voice says through the other end. Considering the time, he doesn't sound groggy. Far from it. He's wide awake. "Can I stop by?"

All I can manage is a choppy stutter. "I—well,"

"Good. I'm already on my way." My posture immediately straightens from a leisurely slouch, upsetting peaceful bath once more.

"But I didn't say—,"

He cuts me off.

"I need to talk to you about something."

Forehead creasing, I glance at the time again, hoping against hope for it to turn back. It remains stubbornly unchanged. Twelve-forty-seven in the morning.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow when we're on set? In person?"

"No." He says evenly, carrying a hint of sternness.