Reckless

by Teagan Kade

  I wipe away a tear, don’t even know when I started crying. “No, no, it’s fine, and thank you.”

  “Stay with Carter for now, Wren. You’ll be safe there.”

  Will I? I can barely keep my emotions in check. God knows what my hormones will do if given the chance.

  “Wren,” she continues, when I don’t answer. “Do you want me to come up there? Because I will. Fuck Tim’s parents. I’m here for you.”

  I smile, brushing away another tear with the cuff of my cardigan. “No, you’ve got guests, the party, and, like you said, I’m safe here. I’ll be fine.”

  I hear one of the twins crying in the background.

  “Shit. I’ve got to go. Batman’s had a run-in with the corner of the kitchen counter.”

  “Go,” I tell her, attempting to sound more confident. “We’ll talk soon.”

  “You’ll get through this, Wren. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  The line goes dead.

  For a moment, I stand there breathing out clouds of fog into the crisp, woodland air.

  It’s all a dream, I tell myself. Time to wake up now.

  But it’s not.

  I take another breath and dial the next number.

  *

  Twenty minutes of being bounced around operators and I’m still nowhere. No one can provide a straight answer on anything. ‘We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation’ is all anyone seems to know how to say.

  I head inside dejected, my cheeks tight with dried tears, but I tell myself I’m stronger than this.

  Do not let him screw you over like this, or destroy your life more than he already has.

  I won’t.

  Fuck him. Fuck David.

  I hold my cheeks, slapping them a little before stepping inside, about to call out to Carter when I see his bedroom door is open.

  It’s déjà vu.

  He’s buck naked, a towel between his legs.

  I freeze up like a god-damn popsicle, my feet glued to the floor.

  Prison has done wonders for his thighs and butt. They’re so firm and tight you could hammer nails with it.

  He tosses the towel onto the bed, turning to close the door and in the process spotting me standing in the hallway like some kind of stalker-statue.

  Now it’s his turn to freeze.

  As much as I try to resist, my eyes drop down into the danger zone, and yep, there it is. And holy shit, but it somehow seems bigger, even flaccid like that, swinging between his legs like the freakin’ hand of Big Ben, the head of it ripe and round as a plum.

  That’s not a penis, I think. That’s a weapon of mass destruction.

  He looks down, as if he too has noticed that ‘Yeah, that’s quite an appendage’ before reaching back for the towel and closing the door.

  “Sorry!” I call out, my voice breaking. “I thought you would have finished your bath by now.”

  “I decided to tidy up first,” comes his muffled voice.

  “Oh.” I mutter back, adding, “cool.”

  The fuck, Wren? ‘Cool’? What’s next? Cowabunga?

  I breathe out and turn, pacing around the lounge room, my face on fire.

  Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he returns, pulling on a shirt and in the process allowing me a perfect view of the Promised Land.

  He puts his arms out. “Better?”

  Not really.

  “Yes,” I mutter, still blushing hard.

  He takes a seat on the couch. “How’d it go?”

  I swallow the frog in my throat, shaking my head and frantically trying to scrub the image of his supercock from my head. “Not very well. It doesn’t look like I’ll be headed back to New York any time soon.”

  Carter claps his hands together. “It’s sorted then. You’ll stay here, until you sort this out, until we sort it out—as long as it takes.”

  “Thanks, Carter,” I reply, for what seems like the tenth time today.

  He stands, winking. “Looks like I better get used to closing doors around here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CARTER

  First thing the following morning, I call into town for shotgun shells. After all, what’s the point of having an unloaded gun lying around? Bluffing is all well and good, but if those goons come back it’s going to be with a more than a crowbar and threats.

  I’m not sure whether the guy at the gun shop recognizes me, but he’s happy to take my money. Back in the Jeep, I keep an eye on my mirrors for the Sheriff, but clearly he’s too busy down at the local strip joint to be doing the community any service today.

  Wren’s curled up by the fire when I get in, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  I place the shopping down. “How do you feel about s’mores?”

  She turns to face me, smiling. There’s something about her in this environment that’s irresistible. “I haven’t had a s’more in years.”

  “When was the last time you went camping?”

  She turns back to the fire. “David wasn’t big on the outdoors.”

  I take a seat beside her. “I remember. He was always worried the drop bears were going to get him.”

  “And you and your father kept the lie going.”

  “Until he was like ten. I think he still believed in Santa, too.”

  “It’s nice here,” she says. “It’s quiet.”

  “Not all the time. The local wildlife can get pretty loud when they want to.”

  “The drop bears, you mean? What was it they sounded like?”

  “A cat being strangled.”

  “Right,” she laughs. “Hey, you never did tell me what you’re planning to do now you’re out?”

  “Grow a beard and brood. I thought we cleared that up?”

  She turns, raising an eyebrow at me. “You’re an idiot, but seriously. Tell me. Come on.”

  I take a seat at the table. “An old teammate of mine owns the ice rink now, offered me a job driving the Zamboni.”

  “The what?” Genuine puzzlement.

  “You don’t know what a Zamboni is?”

  “Is it any relation to a trombone?”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “I have to say, your lack of knowledge when it comes to the sporting world is still the most endearing thing ever. But no. It’s a machine, to clean the ice.”

  She turns back to the fire. I’d do anything to get under that blanket, let the fire warm our bodies. “A steady job—That’s good, but what do you want to do long term?”

  “Easy. You’re starting to sound like my father.”

  “Sorry. I just think you have potential, that’s all.”

  “You can have all the potential you want, but as soon as someone reads ‘penitentiary’ on your resume, they’re walking the other way.”

  “What about playing again? How’s your knee?”

  I pat it. “Never been better, but my skating days are over.”

  “Why?” she questions.

  It’s a good point. I’m in far better physical shape than I before I went inside. Working out was about all you could do to pass the time given the prison library consisted only of 1970s National Geographics.

  “You’re looking…” Her eyes run over me. “Healthy, so why not get out there? It doesn’t have to be serious, but I think it would be good for you, to skate again.”

  “You think so, do you, Coach?”

  She pretends to blow a whistle. I’m wishing it was my cock instead. “It’s an order.”

  “You’re thinking of the military, little bird.”

  My pet name for her just slips out, but she doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, she’s smiling more than usual, and I’m loving it. Seeing her face light up like that makes me happier than anything else.

  “Promise me,” she says.

  “Or what?” I push back.

  “Or I’ll make you get down and give me twenty.”

  Lashes of my tongue, I want to add. I’ll get down, pry those beautiful legs apart, and lick
until you’re tugging at my hair, begging me for my cock.

  Thankfully, I manage to hold myself back. “Whatever you say, Coach. Speaking of the ice, I’ve got to head to the rink this afternoon. You’ll be okay here?”

  She looks around. “I’ve got a blanket, a fire, a bear-skin rug. What more could a girl ask for?”

  I’ve got an idea, but again I hold my tongue. “I’ll make some calls of my own today, see what I can find out about your situation.”

  “Thanks.” She smiles.

  “Any time.” I smile back.

  *

  Outside the rink, cell to my ear, it soon becomes clear any contacts I had before I went inside have since dried up or withered away entirely. I can dig no deeper than a cursory Google search.

  And it is bad. David went too far this time. Dad hasn’t called, and maybe he never will, because this will cut him deep, his golden boy screwing the company like this.

  It’s Mom who’s going to wind up the collateral damage here.

  And Wren.

  I don’t like leaving her alone at the cabin, but I’ve got no choice. I have to work.

  The last of the kids’ session is clearing out as I head in, Steve handing me the keys to the place. “She’s all yours, buddy.”

  He goes to walk away, but I take his arm, pulling him back. “Hey, Steve, I was hoping to ask you something.”

  “Shoot,” he says with a smile.

  “You think I could get out there a little, before I start up the Zamboni?”

  He looks confused. “To skate?”

  “It’s stupid, I know, but I’ve been thinking about it.”

  Steve shrugs, places his hand on my shoulder. “Buddy, as long as that ice is clean come morning, you can host a damn orgy here for all I care.”

  “Thanks, Steve.”

  He walks away, switching off the front lights as he goes. “Have fun.”

  I get my old training bag from the Jeep.

  I lace up my old skates. It’s a strange feeling. Once they were part of my feet. Now they feel like strangers.

  But the moment those blades touch the ice, from the very first push, it all comes back.

  Like riding a fucking bike.

  I skate into the center of the rink, my stick trailing along the ice, the slick sccchhhit of it is music to my ears.

  I drop a puck onto the ice. It sits there waiting, an inky marker.

  I draw my stick back high into the air, hunkering down on my legs for force.

  Do it.

  My stick collects the ice a good ten inches back from the puck, enough to provide the necessary flex to send the puck absolutely belting into the goal.

  It’s fire and fucking brimstone, baby.

  I’m back.

  *

  Later, I come through the door of the cabin elated.

  Wren’s waiting at the table with two cups of coffee. She pushes a mug towards me. “It’s the best substitute for Gatorade I could find.”

  I take it. “Thanks.” I notice she’s been crying, her eyes heavy. “Everything okay?”

  I see her cell, a news site pulled up with the headline ‘White Group Shares Drop on Scandal.’

  I place the coffee down. “You didn’t.”

  She shrugs her shoulders, looking at her cell. “My finger slipped, and before you know it…”

  “Oh, I’ve used that line before, but seriously, Wren? Looking at that shit ain’t going to do you any favors. It’s poison.”

  She’s shaking her head. “I know, I know, but I thought maybe there would be some sympathy out there.”

  “You thought someone would start you up a GoFundMe page, start a vigil?”

  Too harsh, bro.

  I shift closer. “This is going to be hard to hear, but as far as everyone out there is concerned, you are guilty by association.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. I am the wronged party.”

  I put my hands up. “You’re preaching to the fucking choir, but like I said.” I tap her cell for emphasis. “This is all the public’s got to go on, and boy do they love drama. Take it from someone who spent his share of time in the limelight.”

  “I guess you would know.”

  “You would be right.”

  She attempts a smile, using her fingers for air quotes. “How was ‘training’?”

  “Fun.”

  She’s in her PJs, the top two buttons undone and no bra beneath. She’s becoming increasingly relaxed around here, which is great, but I don’t know how long my cock’s going to hold out before it starts punching holes through the wall. “So you got back on the ice?”

  I shift again to hide my erection. “I did. Like you said, it all came back.”

  “You didn’t glide out there and fall flat on your face, did you?”

  I look at her sideways. “I suppose skating’s one of those things you never forget.”

  “I never did skate enough to remember. I was too busy dreaming up ways to piss Dad off.”

  It’s true. Wren’s mother got sick real fast, died less than a year after she was diagnosed. She took it hard, acting out, especially when her Dad found a new woman not six months later. I don’t think she’s ever truly forgiven him for it.

  “You should come down,” I say, keeping the invitation open.

  “To the rink?”

  “Yeah. Take it from me, cabin fever is alive and well. Hang around here long enough and you’ll be Jack Nicholson running around with an axe.”

  “I suppose I better come down then, lest I turn into a psychopath.”

  There’s another pause. I hadn’t realized how close we were, my legs almost inside hers, the space between us closing, closing…

  This is it, I think, starting to lean in, my cock bucking against my pants desperate to be released.

  I see worlds in her eyes, wonders waiting to be explored, but as I begin to tilt my head, she pulls back, clearing her throat and standing. She stumbles on her chair, bending over at the waist to pick it up from the floor.

  Her ass is right here rounded out in flannel, two peachy globes begging for my hands… or cock.

  Down, boy.

  She stands, muttering, red-faced once more. “I, um, I’m going to hit the hay. Are you sure you want to keep sleeping on the couch?”

  I’d rather sleep with you. “My cell mattress was half an inch thick. I think I’ll survive.”

  “Tomorrow,” she says, “at the rink.”

  “At the rink,” I repeat.

  She’s backing away slowly, shoulder bumping into the doorframe. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” I reply. I watch her go, her door closing and with it yet another chance at the one thing in this world that’s seems always just outside my grasp.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WREN

  Carter puts away the goals and skates over, coming to a sharp stop, a wave of ice showering the glass.

  He steps out and places his stick down.

  I wriggle my nose, not sure why Carter loves this place so much. It smells like someone put dirty socks in the margarita machine. “How does it feel?”

  His hands clasp the edge of the bench, a hand-span between us. He nods. “It feels good. Scratch that. It feels fantastic.”

  The cheeky smile I remember from our childhood plays on his face. It’s nice to see it again. “What about your knee?”

  He makes a fist and taps his kneecap. “No problems. In fact, I think the increased exercise will be good for it.”

  “You never exercised in…”

  “Inside? They don’t have ice rinks in state penitentiaries, and the exercise ‘yard’ was the size of a tennis court. With everyone crammed in there you could barely move let alone perform any kind of sport.”

  I glance at his arms, very conscious of the ball of heat that’s swelling between my legs. “But you must have done something to get,” I have no idea how to phrase this, so I go with, “ripped.”

  He laughs, looking at his guns in turn. “These? Cardio
was out, the free weights were taken by the skinheads, but I still had my body, so I’d spend my cell time doing crunches, push-ups, dips, lunges, bear walks…”

  “It shows.” I gulp, worried I’ve said too much.

  “Thanks,” he replies, adding a small smile, but the whole Mr. Universe thing isn’t doing my stamina any favors out there on the ice.”

  I doubt Carter’s ever had a problem with stamina…

  “I was actually thinking about hiking up to St. Mark’s,” he continues, “to get my cardio up a bit for training. You in? I mean, you look fit enough.”

  ‘Fit enough’—Maybe I’m reading a little too much into that. “I haven’t been hiking since I was in Girl Guides.”

  He rocks on the bench, the muscles in his arms coiling, the definition in them bold. “It takes about five hours to get to the summit and back. David and…” he trails off. “It’s a great view from the summit.”

  “Sure,” I offer, not really certain what I’m signing up for, but keen to spend more time with Carter, to get to know this man I’ve lost for so long.

  Carter stops rocking, looks at me. “Did my brother hurt you?”

  It comes completely out of the blue. I take a moment to collect myself before answering, unsure how much to divulge exactly what happened between us. “If you’re talking about the affair, it was a shock, yes, but I’m coming to terms with it.”

  “I’m not talking about the affair. Physically, did he hurt you?”

  I instinctively reach up to my arm, rubbing it where David pulled me that night, the hard slap that followed driving me to my knees.

  Yes. “What does it matter? He’s gone.”

  Carter sits up straight, suddenly seems tense. “If he was here. If he hurt you…”

  “You’d what?” I laugh, the trill of it out of place. “It’s not doing anyone any good dwelling on it, Carter, least of all you. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, he messed up my life in ways I never saw coming, and I suppose it’s my fault, but—”

  “It’s not your fault. Don’t ever think that.”

  “I could have been more… forthcoming, with…”

  “Sex?”

  The lump in my throat’s grown to a full on pomegranate now. “Yes.”

  Why are you even having this conversation?

  “Did he satisfy you? Sexually?” Carter’s swallows a bit himself, unsure of this new line of questioning.