Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
I gestured at the area between Thierry and Armand’s Airstream and the Reynosos’ fifth wheel, where the group had already established a spot around one of the campground’s metal fire bowls.
Trace pressed his lips together and nodded. “No problem. I’ll… well, I guess maybe I won’t head to Jake’s,” he said with a wink that made my stomach flip and my soft cock twitch.
“Join us!” I blurted. “I mean. It’s a group thing. No big deal. You can… run up to the market and pick up a steak. Or chicken. Or whatever you want. And then Thierry and Armand—they’re really nice—they’ll cook it for you. If you want. Armand is really good at grilling since he got the Blackstone.”
I clamped my lips closed to stop the inane plea.
But then I couldn’t help it and added a little more. “And sometimes I play the guitar and, uh, sing.”
“Yeah?” His face softened into a smile. “You’d be okay with me joining?”
I nodded, hopefully not desperately. “Yeah. Sure.”
He studied my face before nodding. “Okay. Text me when it’s time, and I’ll come over. Anything else I should bring? Drinks? A side?”
I shook my head. “I mean, whatever you want to drink, but no. There’ll be plenty. The Reynosos usually cook way too much. She likes to feed people.”
He stepped closer like he was going to touch me or kiss me, but then he stopped and nodded. “Okay, then. See you tonight.”
I watched him slide open the door and step out into the sunlight. Thankfully, he slid the door closed behind him. I was still bare-ass naked and with only two functioning brain cells left to rub together.
I fell back onto my bed and closed my eyes, running the encounter through my memory loop over and over and over until my dick was ready for round two.
Holy fuck.
I’d just exchanged blow jobs with Trace Bishop.
And he hadn’t run away.
I blinked my eyes open and saw my journal sitting on the nearby countertop.
There was no need to reach for it. Everything I was feeling—all the words surfing lazily on the waves in my head—settled permanently inside of me.
And there was no chance I’d forget any of it.
12
TRACE
My heart raced as I returned to my own campsite. Nerves, fear, guilt, satisfaction, excitement, hunger for more. All of my emotions tumbled together in a messy cauldron in my gut.
What the fuck had I done? I’d gotten naked with Wolfe Marian. Derek and Jude’s son. Someone I’d carefully put into a rigid box in my mind and sworn not to cross a line with.
Today, I’d flung myself so far over the line, I couldn’t even pretend to be in the same zip code with it any longer.
I should have felt remorse, maybe. Should have wished it had never happened.
But I couldn’t. Not when it had been even better than I’d imagined.
Since I didn’t have a cooler or fridge, I decided to put off the trip to the market until later. But I did hop in my rental and head away from the campground, for the sole purpose of keeping myself from returning to Wolfe’s van and begging to stay, pleading with him for all the strings.
That wasn’t happening. In fact, even considering it was a disaster.
So I drove the half hour to Montrose and found a coffee shop called Ladybird. Thankfully, they had great coffee and a hummus-and-sprout wrap that was light and delicious.
They also had Wi-Fi, so I pulled out my laptop to catch up on email and work from SERA. It was settling in a good way, anchoring me back into my real life and reminding me I had big responsibilities outside of Hush, Colorado. I spent two hours catching up on work before shooting Derek and Jude another text confirming Wolfe was safe and well.
I couldn’t help but scroll Instagram again, too, clicking through photos to suck in as much information as I could about Wolfe and his new friends.
@BGShay, the young woman I recognized from Jake’s Place, had reposted a video of someone excitedly discussing the “Who Is Fletcher Coe Drama” again.
That poor guy.
I almost scrolled away out of respect for the man’s privacy before realizing something in it rang a vague bell.
“… a Ski Aster Valley sticker on his laptop! You can clearly see it in the reflection in the window. Add that to what we know about the triangulation of the view from the window in that post—thanks @WannaBeFletcherC for that scoop, BTW!—and we know Fletcher was in Kauai, Hawaii early last summer and he’s been skiing in Aster Valley at some point. Probably.”
I blinked and watched the video again.
And again.
And a third time.
I changed the zoom on my screen so I could zero in on the screenshots from Fletcher Coe’s Instagram posts, which were flashed up as “evidence.”
By the end of my fifth viewing, my gut was roiling.