Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“Did your mom know the camping trips weren’t exactly as sold?”
I shrug, thinking back. “As a kid, I would’ve said absolutely not. That’s why the ‘just us guys’ secrecy was important. In hindsight, though the male bonding was important, it was more likely Dad’s attempt to give Mom a weekend away from us… and hockey.”
“She doesn’t like hockey?” Kayla asks, sounding surprised.
“I think she likes Dad and me, and hockey is what we do, so it’s what she did. Early morning drives to practices, games every weekend, travelling to tournaments… it was a lot, but she was sitting on those cold bleachers every time I glanced up there, smiling and cheering her heart out for her boys.” I smile, remembering how she always bundled up in a coat and hat, but never gloves, saying she wanted me to hear her applause, and gloves, while they would’ve made her warmer, would’ve muffled the sound of each clap. “You should’ve seen how happy she was when I got drafted. The only person who cried more was Dad.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.” I can hear the smile in Kayla’s voice and her head falls over to my shoulder.
“They still watch my games, but it’s while they’re on their own adventures. Dad’s still my number-one fan, but Mom probably does Sudoku on her phone when I’m not on the ice,” I admit.
“You don’t mind that she’s not obsessed with hockey?”
I can read between those lines as clear as day. She’s not really asking how I feel about my mother, but rather if I care about her not being a hockey person. “Couldn’t care less,” I assure her. “Nor does she give a single shit that I don’t have the attention span to arrange numbers in columns and rows. Everyone has their thing,” I say airily. “I think this could be mine—stargazing in the woods.”
“You giving up hockey for astronomy? Seems reasonable,” Riggs teases.
Kayla giggles, but given the ways she’s starting to shift and squirm, I don’t think she’s laughing at Riggs’s joke, but rather what he’s doing to her.
“What the hell, man? I’m over here spilling my guts about my childhood camping trips and you’re playing with her pussy?”
“Maybe,” he answers, unbothered.
Kayla moans. “In his defense, he just started.”
I turn over onto my side, catching Kayla’s jaw in my hand and bringing her face to mine even though it’s too dark to really see her. I let my voice go rough and low as I tell her, “Keep your eyes open while he makes you come. Keep looking up at the stars while we give you another experience to catalog in that pretty brain of yours.”
She whimpers, and I wonder if she’s let her eyes fall closed, either from blissed out pleasure or pure defiance. But trusting her to want this as much as I do, we make use of the cover of night for some outdoor nature explorations, giving Kayla another experience all her own.
We sleep late in the morning and groggily make our way to the small but efficient kitchen. After staring into the fridge at the ingredients we brought, I hold up the carton of eggs with a questioning look. “I’m not a chef, but I can scramble some eggs and throw some cheese in?”
“Sounds delicious,” Kayla answers.
“I can toast bread.” Riggs makes it sound like a humble brag and not a bare minimum of adult functionality.
“Coffee.” Kayla’s growl is cute, but she’s not kidding. She needs her caffeine in the morning. She stares at the pot, pushes a couple of buttons, and then hops up, sitting on the counter to watch Riggs and me do the rest.
Somehow, we still manage to fuck it up, burning both the toast and the eggs. I’d blame the distracting points of Kayla’s nipples, but the only thing they’re responsible for is being too tempting to resist. At least the coffee is perfect—black and hot and bitter. And we do manage to get fueled for the day, some grape jam helping the worst of the toast situation.
By mid-afternoon, Kayla’s getting fidgety, glancing around the cabin like she needs a project to manage. I could drag her back to bed, but I have an even better idea.
“Shoes on, everybody,” I declare, standing up from the couch where I’m nursing my second cup of coffee.
“What? Why?” The same questions come in unison from two directions, both Kayla and Riggs.
“We’re going on a hike,” I inform them.
Kayla laughs, shaking her head. “I’m not exactly outdoorsy, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She gestures to herself, as if her entire being says ‘indoors only’ or ‘fragile—handle with care’. To note, she is wearing a silk chemise nightie, her skin gleams from the lotion she slathered on this morning, and her painted nails perfectly match her toes. She looks like what she is—a princess.