Chapter 2: The T-Shirt Trap
The sunlight had thickened, sloping lower through the windows and pooling like liquid amber on the floorboards. The shower had stopped running, and the apartment settled into a post-tickle, post-espressio calm. Indira had pulled on a pair of soft, gray sweatpants but had forgone a top, her skin still humming from the earlier assault. Margot emerged from the steam-wreathed bathroom wrapped in a towel, her curls dripping dark water spots onto her shoulders before she discarded the towel and pulled on an oversized, faded Rye Coalition t-shirt that barely grazed the tops of her thighs.
“I feel brand new,” she declared, collapsing onto her stomach on the sun-warmed patch of floor between the yoga mats. She folded her arms under her chin, the hem of the shirt riding up to expose the full, freckled curve of her ass. “Also, I’m a puddle. A happy, clean puddle.”
Indira mirrored her position, lying on her own stomach a few feet away. She’d snagged one of Leo’s old band shirts—a thin, worn-out black thing with a cracked screen print. On her, it was equally oversized, and as she settled, the fabric gathered, revealing the dip of her lower back and the twin arches of her bare ass. “A puddle with terrible taste in music,” Indira murmured, her voice muffled by her arms.
“My taste is impeccable. You’re just jealous.”
Leo watched them from the couch, a sketchbook open but ignored on his lap. The sight was familiar, domestic, and quietly beautiful in a way he never voiced but always felt. The golden light gilded Margot’s riotous curls and traced the elegant line of Indira’s spine where it vanished under the stolen shirt.
“You two look like you’ve been tossed there by a gentle giant,” he said, closing the sketchbook. “All that pottery and yoga, Indira. Your back is probably a knot factory. And Margot, you hunch over that tablet like a gargoyle. I can feel the tension from here.”
Margot turned her head, cheek pressed to the floor. “Are you offering what I think you’re offering?”
“I have hands. You have backs. The math is simple.” He slid off the couch and knelt between them on the warm wood. “No funny business.”
“Says the king of funny business,” Indira said, but she let out a soft, anticipating sigh.
He started with Indira, because she was closer. His thumbs found the taut muscles framing her spine, working in slow, firm circles. She groaned, a deep, visceral sound of relief, her body melting into the floor. “Christ, Leo. Right there. How are you this good at this?”
“Hidden depths,” he said, his fingers skating lower, to the small of her back where the shirt had ridden up completely. His skin was warm and slightly calloused from the string and tools of his pranks. He worked the heel of his hand against a stubborn knot near her hip bone, and she whimpered, a sharp, pleasant sound.
“Okay, swap,” Margot demanded, wriggling. “I’m dying over here. I think my shoulder blade is actually fused to my rib.”
Leo switched positions, his knees bumping against Indira’s side. He started on Margot, and her reaction was immediate and loud. “Oh, fuck, yes. Yes. That’s the spot. Don’t stop. I’ll give you my firstborn.”
“Not interested in progeny,” Leo said evenly, but he smiled. She was putty under his hands, her giggles subsiding into low, gratified hums. He kneaded the strong curve of her shoulder, then trailed his hands down the length of her spine, his fingers slipping under the band of her shirt to press into the muscular swell of her lower back.
This was the moment. They were both boneless, sighing, utterly disarmed. Their ankles were bare, clean, and close together.
The coil of twine was still on the side table where he’d dropped it earlier. He reached for it without breaking rhythm in his massage on Margot.
“You’re a god, Leo,” Margot slurred, her eyes closed. “A benevolent, handsy god.”
“Benevolent is pushing it,” Indira murmured, her face still buried.
In one fluid, practiced motion, Leo looped the twine around Margot’s right ankle and Indira’s left, pulling it tight in a swift, secure knot. He did it again, a second loop for good measure.
He felt both of them go still.
“What was that?” Indira asked, her voice lazy but alert.
“A new technique. Connective tissue release,” Leo said, his tone deadpan. He pulled his hands away from Margot’s back.
Before either could process the lie, he grabbed the back of Margot’s oversized shirt and yanked it upwards. The worn fabric slid over her head with a soft woosh, trapping her arms inside the bunched cotton, blinding her. He did the same to Indira, his movement a quick, efficient blur. The black shirt came up, ensnaring her arms and shrouding her face in darkness.
For a second, there was perfect, stunned silence on the sun-drenched floor.
Then came the simultaneous shrieks.
“You bastard!” Margot yelped, her voice muffled by the fabric. She tried to push up, but with her arms pinned and her ankle tied to Indira’s, she only succeeded in flopping onto her side, dragging Indira with her.
Indira cursed, a low, fluent stream that contrasted with her usual calm. She struggled, her bare back arching, the shirt riding up around her neck and arms. “Leo, I swear to god—!”
He was already on his feet, phone in hand. The camera shutter clicked—a sharp, digital sound in the warm room.
The image was priceless. They were topless, tangled, blinded by their own shirts. Margot’s red curls exploded from the neck hole of the bunched gray fabric. Indira’s long, dark hair was splayed across the wood like spilled ink. Their legs scrambled, connected, working against each other.
“Say cheese!” Leo called, circling them for another angle.
“I’ll kill you!” Margot laughed even as she threatened, trying to sit up. She tugged Indira’s leg, and Indira flailed an arm, trying to find purchase. They were like a four-limbed, topless, drunken creature trying to stand for the first time.
“This is… undignified,” Indira gasped, but she was laughing too, a breathless, helpless sound.
“It’s art,” Leo corrected, snapping another photo as Margot, with a mighty heave, managed to get her knees under her. Indira, pulled along, rose unsteadily beside her. They stood, wobbling, shirts still pulled over their heads, arms trapped, ankles bound. The late afternoon light painted their bare breasts and torsos in glorious, shifting gold.
“Okay, very funny,” Margot said, her voice directing itself roughly towards where she thought Leo was. “Now untie us.”
“Or what?” Leo taunted, taking a step back. “You’ll stumble menacingly in my direction?”
They tried. It was a lurching, shuffling, two-step of doomed coordination. Margot went left, Indira instinctively tried to balance right, and they nearly toppled again, grabbing at each other’s shirt-covered shoulders for support.
“You’re dead, Leo! Dead!” Margot yelled, laughing so hard she snorted.
Indira, slightly more composed, stopped struggling. She turned her shrouded head. “Margot. On three. One step forward. Small.”
“I can’t see!”
“Just do it.”
They managed a single, unified, wobbling step towards the sound of Leo’s voice. He retreated easily, the shutter clicking again.
“Beautiful. The determination. The raw, stumbling sisterhood.”
He let them take two more pathetic, conjoined steps before he darted in, his fingers finding the knot at their ankles. A quick tug, and the twine fell loose. He then gently pulled the tangled shirts off their heads.
They stood there, blinking in the sudden light, breathing heavily, completely bare from the waist up. Their hair was wild, their faces flushed with laughter and exertion. Margot’s freckles stood out like specks of cinnamon across her chest. A faint, smudged line of charcoal still graced Indira’s temple from the studio, a mark Leo’s shirt had smeared.
For a long moment, they just looked at him, chests rising and falling.
Then Margot launched herself at him. It was a naked flying tackle, but slowed by her laughter and his readiness. He caught her, staggering back, her arms wrapping around his neck. Indira walked over, slower, a serene smile playing on her lips despite the chaos. She plucked the phone from Leo’s hand.
“Hey,” he protested, holding a squirming, giggling Margot.
Indira scrolled through the photos, her eyebrow arching. “These are actually pretty good. The composition is interesting. The lighting is sublime.” She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. “I’m keeping them. For blackmail.”
“That’s my phone!”
“It’s our phone now,” Margot said, finally slipping from his grasp. She snatched it from Indira’s hand and darted towards the bedroom, her bare feet slapping on the floor, her laugh echoing. “Gonna set the best one as your wallpaper!”
Leo made a half-hearted move to follow, but Indira placed a calm hand on his chest. Her skin was warm. “Let her. You won.” Her thumb brushed over his sternum, a faint, teasing pressure. “For now.”
She turned and walked towards the kitchen, completely unselfconscious, the sway of her hips a silent promise of retribution. Leo watched her go, then looked at the empty hallway where Margot had disappeared. The sun was almost gone, leaving the room in a soft, blue twilight. The game was perpetual, the score eternally tied, and the world outside their sun-drenched walls felt very, very far away.