Chapter 1: The Revenge of hidden desire
The lock turned with a soft click, and Sahar stepped into the smell of stale beer and regret. The living room had swallowed the night whole. Empty bottles on the coffee table, a pizza box balanced on the arm of the couch, and Sam sprawled across the cushions like he'd been dropped from a great height.
The morning sun cut through the blinds, laying pale stripes across his face. He groaned, one arm thrown over his eyes. His t-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of lean stomach. The gym shorts were still there. Charcoal, worn soft from washing.
"Rough night?" she asked, dropping her keys on the counter.
Sam made a sound that was not a word. It came from somewhere deep in his chest, a wounded animal noise that made her want to laugh.
She set her bag down and took a closer look. Messy brown hair stuck to his forehead. The pale grey eyes struggled open, bloodshot and confused. "Sahar. What time is it."
"Morning. You survived."
He let out a low groan, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Barely. The guys are animals."
"Your guys, not mine. I was working."
Sam shifted, trying to sit up, and immediately abandoned the effort. He fell back into the cushions with a thud. "I think I'm dying."
Sahar felt the plan click together in her chest. She'd thought about it all shift, through the long stretches of corridor, through the charting, through the way her body kept pulsing with that restless ache. The joke. The erection. Her revenge for every morning spent telling him to keep it down. And tonight, Camila and the girls were coming over. Tonight, the joke would land.
She softened her voice, the nurse's tone sliding into place. "You need water. Electrolytes. Let me get you something."
She moved to the kitchen, poured a glass, dropped in a fizzing tablet. The sound of it dissolving filled the quiet. She came back and handed it to him, watching him take a sip, then another. His throat worked, the muscles of his neck straining.
Slowly, the color started to come back to his face. He looked up at her, trying to force some normalcy into his voice. "Thanks. I owe you."
"You owe me a lot more than that," she said, and let the words hang there. He didn't catch the weight.
The evening was already taking shape in her head. Camila coming over, the other girls, the tequila flowing. Sam would sit there like a hostage, trying to be polite, and the beer would work its way into his system. And then his body would betray him, and the joke would land, and he'd finally, finally understand what it had been like for her. She went to her room to change, the ache between her legs humming under her scrubs. Months of listening to his muffled groans through the wall, the sounds of him taking care of himself in the dark. Months of fingering her own cunt while the clock ticked toward her shift, never quite satisfied. Her hand strayed to her scrubs as she closed the door, pressing against the fabric, the seam of her trousers wet with a restless wanting.
Tonight she'd put him on display, and he'd never know he was the punchline until it was too late.