Chapter 9: Naked splas
The front door slammed, rattling the framed movie poster hanging crookedly in the hall. Chad’s heavy gym bag hit the floor with a thud, followed by the sharp clatter of keys tossed onto the side table. The smell hit Mike first – stale sweat, synthetic fabric, and the sharp tang of pre-workout powder. Mike didn’t look up from his phone, pretending to scroll. His knuckles were white where they gripped the device.
"Yo," Chad grunted, stretching his arms overhead, muscles rippling under a damp, grey tank top. He dropped onto the worn couch opposite Mike, the springs groaning in protest, immediately reaching for the remote. "Survivor marathon still on?" he asked, flipping channels without waiting for an answer.
Lisa emerged from the kitchen like a summoned spirit. Mike’s breath hitched. She wore only a sheer lavender lace bra and a matching thong. Nothing else. Her skin glowed faintly in the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds. She padded barefoot across the rug, ignoring Mike completely, her focus entirely on Chad.
"Hey, superstar," she chirped, her voice bright, overly familiar. She leaned down, one hand braced on the couch arm beside Chad’s head, and planted a firm, wet kiss directly on his lips. It wasn't a peck. It lingered. Chad didn’t pull away; a lazy smirk touched his mouth as he kept his eyes on the TV, his free hand coming up to pat her bare hip.
Mike felt the room contract. The air thickened, turning viscous. His throat tightened. He stared fixedly at his phone screen, a meaningless blur of colors and text. The scent of Chad’s sweat mixed nauseatingly with the lingering, artificial sandalwood from Lisa’s skin.
"You stink," Lisa declared playfully, wrinkling her nose but staying close, her hip pressed against his shoulder. "Go wash off the gym grime." She gave his damp hair a ruffle. "I'll bring you a fresh towel."
Chad finally tore his eyes from the screen, looking up at her with amusement. "Yeah? What kind of service is this?" His gaze drifted over her scantily clad form, lingering deliberately. "Full service towel delivery?"
Lisa giggled, a high, tinkling sound that scraped against Mike’s nerves. She swatted Chad’s shoulder. "Just don't flood the bathroom like last time, you big splasher." The word landed with deliberate weight. Splasher. Mike flinched, the image of Lisa stepping naked into Chad’s steam-filled bathroom flashing behind his eyes. Bone dry for you.
"Me?" Chad feigned offense, grinning. "You're the one who gets wild with the handheld sprayer." He gave her thigh a light, proprietary squeeze just above the lace band of her thong. Lisa didn’t move away. She just smiled down at him, a secret shared between them.
"Go," she ordered, her tone suddenly firm, yet still intimate. "Shower. Now. Towel’s coming." She straightened up, her body a taut line of lavender lace against the cluttered living room backdrop.
Chad sighed dramatically, hauling himself off the couch with another groan of protesting springs. He stretched again, his tank top riding up, exposing the waistband of his shorts and the defined V-line beneath. He gave Lisa another lingering look, a slow, appreciative sweep from head to toe, then ambled towards the hallway bathroom, dropping his sweaty tank on the floor as he went.
The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, the silence in the living room became deafening. Mike could hear the pipes groan as Chad turned on the water. He risked a glance at Lisa. She was standing where Chad had left her, looking towards the hallway, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Her hand rested lightly on her hip, fingers brushing the lace. She seemed utterly oblivious to Mike’s presence, or perhaps simply indifferent.
The shower started properly now, the sound of rushing water a steady, accusatory hiss.
Lisa turned, finally acknowledging Mike. She walked towards the linen closet tucked by the hallway entrance. Her movements were unhurried, purposeful. She pulled out a large, fluffy white towel, shaking it out with a soft snap. She folded it neatly over her arm, the pristine white a stark contrast against her bare skin and dark lace.
She caught Mike watching her. Her expression didn’t change. No guilt. No explanation. Just that calm, almost challenging neutrality. "Be right back," she said casually, as if announcing she was grabbing the mail. "Try not to change the channel before Survivor starts again." She nodded towards the TV Chad had left blaring.
Then she walked down the hall. Towards the sound of the running shower. Towards Chad. Her bare feet were silent on the wooden floor. She stopped outside the bathroom door. Steam was already beginning to curl out from under it.
Mike sat frozen on the couch. His phone lay heavy and forgotten in his lap. The cheerful inanity of the TV show mocked him. The smell of Chad’s sweat clung to the air. The image of Lisa’s lavender lace burned into his retinas. The rhythmic rush of water from the shower filled the apartment, a relentless, pounding counterpoint to the sudden, hollow silence in his own chest.
He didn’t turn to look. Didn’t need to. The soft click of the bathroom door handle turning was louder than any shout. It was the sound of a lock sliding home. Then, faintly, muffled by wood and water, a ripple of laughter – Chad’s deep chuckle mingling with Lisa’s lighter giggle. The water sound changed, splashing harder against the tiles.
Mike stared straight ahead. At the blank, flickering screen of the television. At the empty space on the couch where Chad had been. At nothing at all. The steam from the hallway drifted into the living room, warm and damp, carrying the faint, cloying scent of Chad’s sandalwood body wash. Mike didn’t move. The splashing grew louder.
The splashing grew louder. It wasn't just water hitting tile anymore; it was wet skin slapping against wet skin, rhythmic and obscene. Mike flinched with each impact, the sound echoing the hollow thudding in his own chest. He gripped his phone tighter, the plastic casing biting into his palm.
The cheap reality show host’s voice droned on, meaningless words about alliances and betrayal. Steam thickened the air, carrying the cheap, cloying sweetness of Chad’s body wash mixed with something warmer, muskier. Mike’s stomach churned. He stared at the empty couch cushion, dented from Chad’s weight, the fabric still damp with sweat.
A sharp gasp cut through the water’s rush. Lisa’s. High-pitched, breathless. Then Chad’s low rumble, muffled but unmistakably triumphant. Mike squeezed his eyes shut. The images flooded in unbidden: Lisa’s lavender lace discarded on the wet floor, her skin slick, Chad’s hands gripping her hips under the spray. Bone dry for you. The phrase echoed, mocking him.
Silence fell abruptly. Just the drumming water. Mike opened his eyes, straining to hear. His knuckles were bone-white. Then Lisa’s voice, clear and bright, sliced through the steam. "I have a surprise for you!"
Chad’s answering chuckle was thick, satisfied. "Yeah? What kinda surprise?" Water splashed harder. Mike leaned forward infinitesimally, every muscle taut.
"Your tits look amazing," Chad’s voice came through, rough with appreciation. A pause, filled only by water hitting flesh. "And then… I didn’t know you shaved your pussy." The words landed like physical blows. Crude. Possessive. Mike felt the blood drain from his face.
A soft, knowing laugh from Lisa. Playful. Complicit. "Now you know," she purred. The water sound shifted, bodies moving closer. "Care if I join you in the shower?" The question hung in the humid air, dripping with implication. It wasn’t a question at all.
Mike listened with intent, frozen. Every nerve screamed. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Then came the wet, hungry sound of mouths meeting, a low groan from Chad, a sigh from Lisa. The splashing intensified, chaotic now, frantic. Bodies colliding against the tiles. Mike could almost feel the steam condensing on his own skin, smell the mingled sweat and soap and sex.
He couldn’t breathe. The fluffy white towel Lisa had carried lay discarded in his mind’s eye. Useless. The TV’s flickering light painted grotesque shadows on the wall. The couch fabric scratched his thighs. He was a ghost in his own living room, invisible, unwanted. The sounds from the bathroom built to a frantic crescendo – gasps, choked moans, the slap of flesh accelerating.
A final, guttural cry from Chad tore through the apartment, raw and triumphant. Lisa’s answering whimper was high, almost pained. Then, abrupt, heavy silence. Just the relentless hiss of the shower spray hitting empty tiles. Mike sat perfectly still. The steam curled around him, warm and suffocating. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The water kept running. And running.
The shower’s relentless hiss finally choked off. Silence slammed down, thick and heavy as the steam still curling into the living room. Mike hadn’t moved. His phone lay cold in his lap. The dent in the couch cushion where Chad had sat seemed to mock him, a permanent impression.
Footsteps padded down the hall, soft on the wooden floor. Mike kept his gaze fixed on the silent television screen, its blank reflection a dark mirror. He didn’t want to see. Didn’t need to.
Lisa appeared in the hallway archway. Water droplets glistened on her shoulders and collarbones. A single, oversized white towel was wrapped tightly around her torso, tucked securely above her breasts. Her damp hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her skin held a deep, flushed pink, radiating heat Mike could almost feel from across the room. She smelled overwhelmingly of Chad’s cheap sandalwood body wash and something else, warmer, muskier, primal.
She leaned against the doorframe, one hand gripping the towel’s edge. Her eyes, bright and strangely clear, scanned the room before landing on Mike. A flicker of something – not quite guilt, not quite defiance – passed over her face. She pushed damp strands of hair behind her ear.
"Hey," she said, her voice husky, quieter than usual. It cut through the thick air.
Mike didn't respond. He couldn't find his voice. His jaw felt wired shut. He stared at the damp patch darkening the terrycloth towel just below her navel.
She shifted her weight, the towel shifting minutely. "So," she started, clearing her throat slightly. "That...happened." She gestured vaguely back towards the bathroom with her thumb. "The shower thing."
Mike remained stone-still. The image of her lavender lace discarded on wet tiles burned behind his eyes. Bone dry for you.
"He got... enthusiastic," Lisa continued, a small, almost apologetic shrug lifting her bare shoulders. "You know Chad. Hands everywhere." She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second before meeting Mike’s again. "We did say no intentional private parts touching." She emphasized the word 'intentional' with a slight tilt of her head. "Guess that created a bit of a gray area." Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "Things got slippery."
Mike felt a cold fury solidify in his chest. Gray area. Slippery. Her casualness was a knife twist. He saw Chad’s triumphant grin, heard Lisa’s breathless gasp echoing in the sudden quiet.
She pushed off the doorframe, taking a step into the living room. The towel clung precariously. "Anyway," she sighed, sounding almost weary now, the brightness fading. "I need to get dressed." She paused, looking directly at Mike. Her expression softened, became almost pleading. "Come into the bedroom? While I get ready?" She glanced towards their shared bedroom door. "I need to tell you... what happened. Properly."