Camila's Pov
The bass from Nicki Minaj's Chun-Li thumps through the steam-clogged bathroom. I'm lost in the hot water hitting my skin at "chicken-scald" levels, the only way I feel alive.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
My eyes snap open. The alarm.
Dammit!
I shove wet strands away from my face and start rinsing faster, like the clock might somehow rewind if I hurry. Adrian and I had this stupid bet that I'd be ready by 7:30 p.m. on the dot.
I snort. Delusional? Absolutely. But I love a challenge.
I tilt my head back, aggressively rinsing out the shampoo, fingers combing through my hair to make sure no stubborn foam clings to the roots. Water runs down my neck, slides across my shoulders, tracing slow paths along my skin before pooling at my feet.
For a moment I just stand there, letting the heat hit my back.
Mmmmm... another kind of therapy. Tempting. But let's not forget the time.
