by Teagan Kade
It’s starting a different kind of life in my pants. But even though I’m drunk, something holds me back, refuses to let my inhabitations, and pants, drop.
We stumble into the cabin, my hand hunting across the wall for the lights.
I miss and suddenly I’m falling, both of us falling, slamming into the floorboards together, me on top of her, one hand planted beside her face in the semi-dark.
Everything becomes quiet.
“Carter,” she whispers, the laughter gone, her voice syrupy sweet. It’s not simply my name; it’s a request.
We’re so close. I feel her hot breath on my lips. I know all I have to do is lower my head to kiss her, but I can’t move. Something holds me back.
Him.
I lower myself a little, feel my hardness press against the crotch of her jeans, and I’m sure she’s wet. I picture pulling her panties away and burying my tongue inside the slick heat there, tasting her completely. It’s so clear, but it’s not going to happen.
It can’t.
“Carter,” she beckons again.
Fuck.
I roll off her, breathing hard, the room spinning.
I cup the side of her face. The corner of her mouth lifts.
My head dips down and before I know it our lips are pressed together.
She gasps against them. I start gentle, but when I feel the way her body responds, I apply more pressure. My touch grows more demanding, my hand moving up her side, her shirt and sweater bunching with it.
I groan, sliding my hand around to the back of her neck. I drink her in, devouring her as my mouth and tongue explore her sweetness.
Need shoots through my body. It’s everything I imagined and more—intoxicating.
I pull back and somehow, in that small passing of time, I realize I’ve gone too far.
“I’m so—” But I can’t even get that out.
I pull back slightly, finding the distance I need for clear thought.
“Carter,” she moans, drunk. “I want this.”
Does she? Will she feel the same way when she’s sober? I’ve come too far to lose her now.
You’re going to regret this.
Somehow, I manage to stand and stumble off to my room, muttering “good night” quickly before I close the door and press myself up against it, my cock so hard it’s practically pewter.
I wake up with a monster of a headache, a cage fight happening right between my temples.
While drugs ran aplenty inside, alcohol was a rare commodity. I haven’t felt its effects in years.
Now I remember why.
I splash water on my face, notice how bloodshot my eyes are in the mirror.
When I finally dress and manage to make my way out to the kitchen, Wren is already waiting with freshly brewed coffee.
She’s wearing a nightgown with her initials, W. W., tied neatly around her waist.
“You always did fare best the morning after,” I say, taking a seat, thankful it too is no longer spinning.
“Drinking’s a problem for you, isn’t it?” she asks, no malice there or accusation—just a simple statement of the facts.
“Look,” I begin. “I want to apologize for last night.”
She shrugs it off, gripping her mug tight. “There’s nothing to apologize for. We’re both adults, aren’t we?”
“You’re right, but still… I shouldn’t have tried to… you know.”
You can’t even verbalize it.
“It’s nothing, Carter. Seriously, we’re good.”
I take a seat. “Alright then. I’m glad we got that sorted.”
Wren seems eager to get onto the next topic. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Tasting those sweet lips again. “It’s the weekend. You tell me.”
She looks down into her coffee, as if trying to discern her fortune. “I don’t know. I suppose I should call the lawyer again, try to piece back together something of my old life. God knows what drivel the media’s drumming up about me. I’ll probably be burned at the stake when I show up in New York next.”
“Give it time. You’ll get the sympathy you deserve in good time.”
“You think so? You said it yourself. I’m guilty by association, the wife of a criminal.” She looks at me, realization crisscrossing her features. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I put my hands up. “No, you’re right. I am. A jury of my peers declared it so. Technically, I am a criminal.”
She spins her mug, still staring down into the hot liquid. “Why won’t you tell me more about what happened that night?”
“Because there’s nothing to tell.”
“I highly doubt that. What were you doing in that part of town? You can tell me. I won’t judge.”
I should tell her. It would help bring us together, prove to her I’m willing to place my trust in something other than a bottle of bourbon, but I can’t do it. I don’t know why. My lips won’t move to make the words come out. I’m Dr. Fucking Freeze.
Do it. She’ll understand.
She won’t. No one will.
I attempt to change the subject. “Your kid had talent out there tonight.”
“Yeah, he’s had it really tough—in and out of hospital since he was six. His mom had to take on two jobs and a second mortgage to pay the medical bills. It makes you appreciate the kind of environment we grew up in, doesn’t it?”
But that’s where she is wrong. Yes, we had wealth and security growing up, but when it came to emotional support and security, my family in particular was especially lacking with its ‘every man for himself, kill or be killed’ attitude. Sometimes I think my father ran our family like a business, forever pushing and prodding, trying to improve the bottom line.
Things improved…
….and then they got fucked up.
I moved out. I had no other choice. David and Wren were together. I couldn’t bear to be around them, watch him kiss her, feel her up. I was so fucking jealous it drove me away, but I still trained. I made the NHL, made it into one of the best ice hockey teams in the world, but it wasn’t enough for the old man.
The injury took even that away.
I remember the collision like it was yesterday. We were five up heading into the second quarter. It was looking good. I was in great form, the crowd at Rogers Arena gifted me with the nickname ‘Crusher’ after I sent one of the Flames’ wings through the glass in my first game.
It was a fluke, really. There was no dirty play. The opposition player smashed into me from the right, enough to take me off my feet. It was when I landed, skidding across the ice, I knew something was seriously wrong.
There wasn’t a great deal of pain per se, but the fact I knew I couldn’t move my knee told me everything I needed to know. If anything, I was filled with a deep and bitter frustration.
Watching the replay, it’s easy to see what happened, the moment my left leg went one way and my left knee the other. There’s a pop, audible even on the footage, but not like opening a soda can. No, it’s a strange, stretching sound, like firing off a rubber band. I tried to put it straight, right there on the ice, but it was no good.
The first week was hard. I told myself I just had to live through it, but I couldn’t let it go. I watched the team go on to win after win, wanted so bad to be a part of it. Five weeks in and the Stanley Cup was looking more and more likely.
I stopped training, starting spending more time at bars and clubs than the rink. Even when I was showing for training or therapy, I would come late and leave early. I avoided spending time in the locker room with my teammates. I was a power fucking forward on my way to greatness only to have it pulled from under my feet in the cruelest of ways.
I cursed my knee, slapped it with my hand at home, a bottle of gin or Johnnie in the other. Coach stopped calling. My teammates no longer came around for a joke and a laugh. I barely knew what day it was, let alone where I was or who was sleeping beside me.
My knee was busted, but I could still fuck like a pro. There was a differen
t girl every night. I didn’t even care what they looked like after a while, happy simply to have a warm place to stick my cock and forget about my worries for an hour or two. But the moment I came, the moment I let go, it would all come hurtling back—the pain, the frustration. I’d kick them out, go back to boozing, and so the cycle was born. When David came to me that night, I was ready for something, anything, to direct that attention to—something to explode at. He simply shunted me in the right direction.
Wren
This daytrip idea was all Carter, another ‘how to avoid cabin fever’ spiel following.
But I’m happy to get out, to spend time with him.
I look around, taking in the sights and smells that are already stirring up nostalgia. “Wow, Granville Island.”
“The one and only,” Carter nods.
He leads us on. “We used to come here all the time, remember?”
“When we were twelve,” I laugh. “Please don’t tell me that place selling the deep-fried toffee still exists.”
“Poor bastard had a heart attack. True story. Too much eating his own produce I’d say, but fear not. I’ve got something better lined up.”
Five minutes later Carter is handing me a paper bag. It’s warm. The logo on the bag reads ‘Lee’s Donuts.’
I hold it up. “I hate to tell you this, but we’re not short of donut shops in New York.”
He raises an eyebrow, reaching into his own bag like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Ah, but you haven’t really lived until you’ve had one of Lee’s famous honey-dipped donuts.”
My heart’s already starting to seize up. Still, I reach in and take the Frankennut out, my fingers sticky. “What I want to know is how you packed stuff like this away and still managed to look like Hercules when you were in the NHL.”
He laughs, donut in hand. “Crunches. Lots and lots of crunches. Now dig in.”
We’ve driven all this way, so I indulge him. I take a bite, and okay. It’s pretty fucking excellent. No, it’s fucking amazing. They should sell these things as cock rings. The entire female population of Vancouver would be go fellatio mad.
You dirty girl, you.
He wipes his mouth of crumbs. “And? Is that not the absolute best thing you’ve put in your mouth?”
I almost choke on the spot, my mind in full-blown filth mode.
I look down to his crotch, flirting hard. “It’s the best, but certainly not the biggest.”
He laughs again, polishing his donut off in two bites while I continue to nibble and avoid turning my fingers into human honeypots.
I lick my forefinger clean when I’m done, drawing it out, teasing Carter as he watches.
What next? Sidewalk striptease, Wren?
“Walking around the markets with an erection is going to be new,” he says, flirting back just as hard.
“Since when do you not have an erection,” I tease. I’m betting that real crusher of his is doing its best to break free of its cotton bonds right now.
“You’re going to get us arrested,” I warn.
“Worth it,” he says.
He spies another stall as we come into the markets, the many and varied smells mind-alteringly good. I’m starting to remember why I loved coming to Granville Island so much as a kid. It has a haphazard, eclectic feel far removed from the city. We saw some great gigs here when we were older, too, David on one side of me, Carter on the other, both of them too scared to make a move at the time.
Not anymore.
Carter’s already leading me over to his next find. “The split-pea soup here is amazing,” he says. “The whole team used to squeeze onto the tables here every Friday after practice for it. There’s thyme in there, slow-cooked spices... I mean, I’m no Gordan Ramsay, but I know good food.
So far I’ve had no complaints on the cooking front at the cabin. The view hasn’t been bad either.
Still, I protest. “Soups aren’t really my thing.”
He looks down at my kitten heels. “Neither was Prada once upon a time.”
He has a point. I used to hate fashion labels. My mother would cringe when I dragged her down to Zellers.
What have I become? I ask myself.
I’d ponder on it more, but damn him, this soup is amazing. I can see he’s enjoying playing this role today, the casual tour guide. I don’t mind. Any time spent with Carter is time away from the world and its many, many issues. I’ve still got to talk to the lawyer, find a way to get my things back. My life’s a mess, which is why I’m doubly grateful to have Carter in it providing much-needed respite and relaxation, even if it is to the detriment of my waistline.
The sun has well and truly set by the time we’re in the Jeep again. I watch the moon rise plum-like over the bay as we cruise beside it.
Carter points out the window. “Remember Spanish Banks?”
I look out to the beach. “We all sat on a log down there and smoked our first cigarette together.”
“And last,” laughs Carter. “You were coughing so much I thought we were going to have to call nine-one-one.”
I shake my head. “You guys were such a bad influence.”
“Speak for yourself,” he baulks. “Who was it that shoplifted a certain Justin Timberlake album from Capilano Mall? Was it worth it?”
I continue to shake my head. “It was not, but come on. He was big back then. He was dating Britney, wasn’t he?”
Carter looks across at me. “Your Timberlake file-o-pedia I am not.” He pulls right into the parking lot. “For old time’s sake.”
“You’re not going to make me smoke another cigarette, are you?” I query.
He just continues to smile. “Not at all.”
It’s cold out. The parking lot is deserted, as is the beach, the moonlight revealing only a couple or two walking their dogs down the far end. Ahead, the city of Vancouver twinkles, buildings turned into crystal, a muddled reflection of the scene mirrored in the water.
Carter pops open his door. “Come on. Let’s check it out, real quick.”
I follow Carter down to the sand, the wind blowing my hair around behind my back, my arms crossed in front of myself.
Carter stands beside me. He takes off his shoes and socks, gesturing for me to do the same.
Reluctantly, I follow suit, letting my toes run deep into the sand. It does feel nice. I can’t remember the last time I was at a beach. David hated the sand, the seagulls. Now I think about it, besides money and power, there really wasn’t much he enjoyed at all.
“You told me earlier,” says Carter, continuing to stare ahead, “you always play it safe”.
“It’s true,” I nod, thinking he’s attempting to get deep and meaningful here. “I’ve built my whole life around pleasing others, doing what they think I should do, and for what?”
Carter’s shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. “It’s a damn shame.”
“Why are you smiling?”
He unzips his jacket, taking it off and letting it fall to the sand.
“Um, what are you doing?”
He looks ahead, pulling his shirt free and reaching for his belt.
“Whoa!” I exclaim. “We’re in public here.”
“You said it yourself. You always play it safe. I think you should live, little bird. I think it’s time you started your new life, started to fly.”
Fuck me. “By getting picked up for public indecency?”
“Don’t you remember?” he says, his belt buckle coming free, his fingers undoing the buttons on his jeans. His skin’s glowing in the moonlight. He looks metallic, the hard, cut lines of his body beautifully sculpted—an action figure come to life.
“Remember what?” I query, growing increasingly apprehensive.
He points to a log behind us. “We sat there on that log and dared one another to go running out into that water naked, but all of us chickened out.”
“We were stupid teenagers.”
“It’s time,” he says, “to do something stupid.”
And with that he takes hold of his jeans and jocks in one motion and drags them down to his ankles, his anaconda of a cock flopping out for all the world to see.
Warning! Warning! Avert eyes, but I can’t. Why the hell can’t I?!
For a scary moment I imagine it erect right now, out in the water there like some kind of penis periscope. The whole of Vancouver would see it. The International Space Station would be able to see it.
He stands there proudly with his hands on his hips. “Fuck that feels good.”
He turns to me. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“I am not stripping down right now.”
Which is why even I don’t believe it when five minutes later I’m standing there freezing to death in my bra and panties, frantically looking around for the police or a fellow public bystander with smartphone in hand ready to send out the next viral video.
“This is insane,” I whisper, my words curt.
“The panties and bra,” he whispers. “Lose them.”
I’m shaking my head, shivering. “You just want to see me naked.”
“Perhaps.”
I shake my head. “What the hell am I doing? That pea soup’s made me lose my mind.”
“You’re living. Doesn’t it feel good?”
“It feels cold,” I reply. “My nipples are acorns right now.”
“Really?” he purrs, his eyes dropping.
I release my hands and reach behind myself, unable to believe I’m doing this. “We get wet and then we get out. Got it?”
He laughs. “That’s just how I like it, emphasis on the ‘wet.’”
Jesus H.
My bra falls free into my hands.
I strip off my panties as quick I can, covering myself with my hands.
Carter’s smiling. He’s ink blue under the moonlight, like somebody’s lit him up in ultraviolet. He starts to jog towards the water. “Woo!” he shouts. “Let’s fucking do this.”
Still shaking my head, still looking around, I follow after him.
I think his grand plan was to hit the water and go diving in, pulling me into his arms and potentially a kiss that would make Julia Roberts blush, but the moment we hit the water, it becomes clear he’s miscalculated.