Just a Number(4)

“Good plan,” Alan replies through the door, and Amy takes a deep breath and holds it.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go and make coffee. You hungry?” We simultaneously breathe a sigh of relief upon hearing this.

“Uh, yeah. That sounds great,” I respond, and then we hear the sounds of Alan’s footsteps retreat toward the stairs.

Even though the threat is gone, Amy remains numb from almost being caught. I leap off the bed with the bed sheet wrapped around my waist. It slips a little as I open the door. There’s a bit of a draft as I inadvertently flash Amy a partial view of my right ass cheek. I hear her inhale a shaky breath right before I fix the sheet.

“Okay, the coast is clear.” I turn around and see Amy gawking at me. “That was close.” A nervous laugh escapes my lips as I scratch my scruffy jawline.

Amy nods, forcing her eyes back to mine. “Yeah. Close.” Her voice is low and hoarse, and I can’t help but think she isn’t just referring to getting caught by her dad. “So, what do we do?” she asks. “I mean, it seems like he doesn’t know I’m here yet, so how do I get past him?”

This whole situation is more than a little fucked up, and I can’t believe we’re actually trying to come up with a plan to sneak her out of her own home in the morning so she can traipse through the front door like she’s just arrived for Thanksgiving weekend.

It makes me feel like even more of a creepy schmuck.

“I guess I could climb out the window,” she suggests, only to be met with a sharp glare from me.

“You most certainly will not be climbing out the window,” I command in a tone much harsher than intended. “Jesus, the last time you did that, you broke your damn arm.”

She was fifteen and had just been grounded. Pissed off with the world, she tried to run away, but when she got out onto the ledge, she slipped on some ice and fell. This inevitably led to a much longer sentence—even though she had probably been punished enough.

“I’ll go downstairs,” I offer, bending over to pick up my clothes. “I’ll stand by the kitchen and keep your father distracted. When the time is right, I’ll wave you down—just, keep to the wall and watch out for that one step. If he catches us, we’re dead.”

She smiles up at me. “You make it sound like we actually did something wrong here.”

“We did enough to give your father reason to jump to conclusions.”

Clutching my jeans and T-shirt in my hands, I look down at Amy expectantly. Not that I can blame her, but it takes her a little longer than normal to realize that she should probably get dressed also.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” She stands up and rifles through her bag for a fresh pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, then she heads over to the dresser in the corner, keeping her back to me, and she quickly pulls them on.

I’ll admit, I let my eyes linger a little before pulling my own clothes on, and I swear, I catch her sneak a peek through the mirror on top of her dresser.

“So,” I say, turning away from her. “The tattoo’s new.”

Something falls from her dresser to the floor as she curses. “Uh, yeah… About that.” Dressed, I turn to find her pulling her shirt down over the waist of her jeans. “You’re not going to tell my dad about it, are you?”

Smiling, I shake my head. “It’ll be our little secret…one of them, anyway.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, I’ll go down first.” She quickly runs a brush through her hair and throws it up into a ponytail. “You stay up here and watch for my signal.”

She nods once in understanding as we walk toward the door, and before I open it quietly, I look down at her, my eyes only briefly glancing down at the very slight view of her cleavage in the v-neck top she’d chosen. Her cheeks pink up, and guilt forms like a lead rock in my gut. I can’t believe I’m leering at a girl I watched grow up. I really am abhorrent.

Before I take my first step down the stairs, I turn around. There’s less than a foot between us, and her eyes hold a glimmer of lust as they lock on mine. “Amelia,” I breathe softly, using her given name unexpectedly and loving the way it feels rolling off my tongue. It also makes me feel like less of a creep to forego the nickname she’s been going by since childhood.

She swallows thickly, her head bobbing up and down. “Y-yes?”

Her lips are full, and I’m unexplainably drawn to them. I want to kiss her—this time awake so I can remember what it’s like. I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.

“For what it’s worth, I’m terribly sorry for what happened this morning.” While I believe the conviction in my words, even I can’t tell if I’m sorry about what happened, or if I’m sorry because of the connection we so obviously share: her dad.