by Julia Kent
If Mike were here he’d be surprised to see Jeremy looking at money. Brokerage accounts. Trades and markets and financial issues that Mike considered his province. The illusion that Jeremy fucked around all day on the beach in Thailand was one that was remarkably easy to maintain, and it served him well. If no one takes you seriously, then when you do delve into serious matters you get one of the most valuable treasures on earth at a very cheap price.
Privacy.
All it costs you is your reputation.
A fair trade.
Careful investments over the past ten years had made him a very wealthy man. With low expenses and travel tastes that happened to coincide with cheap parts of the world, Jeremy didn’t spend nearly as much as he earned, and when he reinvested it was in a mixture of index funds, social programs and wild risks at the fringy edge of money—like Bitcoin.
Massive risks could pay off if enough of your life was secure, allowing for a kind of freedom that gave you permission to fail.
Too bad his heart wasn’t as easy to manage as his bank balance.
Accounts were up about 5.2 percent, a gain he was happy to see, and one that was more than the average American family made in a year. This kind of wealth gave him the ability to drop $50,000 on an autism charity, to spend $25,000 to send a hundred women in Asia to boarding high school, to give freely when the whim struck him.
Whim. It had been his compass all these years, guiding him in directions unknown, yet always leading him to a conclusion that seemed to make sense in retrospect.
Was Lydia just a whim?
“Hi!” Speaking of her, Lydia bounded into the cabin, surprised by the computer. “You’re…gaming? Surfing the web?”
He shut the silver laptop quietly. “Something like that.” Funny how she didn’t even think to mention business.
“Anything interesting?”
Nothing more interesting than you. “Nope. What’s going on?”
“Dad won’t stop about the damn talent show.”
“Maybe you and I should try that marshmallow thing.”
“I’ll be the thrower, not the catcher.”
“Hold on, now…”
“Then again,” she said in that throaty voice that gave his cock a zing, “I’ve put worse things in my mouth.”
“You’re comparing my cock to snot?”
She shrugged. “You ever taste cum? It’s pretty close.” He stayed silent as she became increasingly uncomfortable. “You’ve never…tasted cum…have you?”
He laughed. “No, Lydia. I’ve had some wild adventures, but swallowing is one thing I haven’t done. Not on a man.”
“How could you swallow on a woman?” she asked rhetorically.
He answered as if it were a real question. “When a woman ejaculates.”
“Women…isn’t that a myth?”
An arched eyebrow was his reply.
“You mean…” she stumbled, clearly rattled.
“I consider this a challenge.” Pulling her into his arms, he sank into her with a long, slow kiss. They took their time, hands roaming and appreciating, tongues dancing, his mouth reveling in the warm softness of her. Those curves were abundant and strong, breasts swollen, with pert nipples at attention for his attention. Their bodies were so primed by having time together, the luxury of open-ended days an invitation to enjoy each other’s bodies as much as they explored getting to know each other.
It was divine.
She pulled away, wiping her mouth with a look of regret he wanted to take away with a few hours naked under the sheets. “Can’t. Not now. Dad and Mom want to talk to us.”
Alarm spread through him. “They do?”
“Jesus, Jeremy, you look like I told you my dad found his shotgun and is hunting you down.” Her laughter stung. She wasn’t far off.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve only been here for two days. I should be more sensitive. My family can be…overwhelming.”
“They’re wonderful, actually,” he said with a deep sense of truth.
“Even Miles?”
“Even Miles. And besides, so far all he really does is make snarky comments and drive around in that little red thing of his, helping people. He hasn’t set a single bathroom on fire since I’ve been here, either.”
Ooof. She elbowed him in the gut as she marched out, laughing.
What the hell did Pete and Sandy want to talk to him about? Following that luscious ass down the stairs and on the path to the office, he caught up to Lydia and grabbed a handful. A yelp was his reward.
“You’re so grabby!”
“Quit making me want to grab!”
“Do I grab your crotch in public?”
“Not nearly enough.” He halted. “Go ahead. You have my permission to touch me whenever you like. You called me the North Pole yesterday. Come sit on Santa’s lap anytime, my dear.”
She rolled her eyes and resumed her walk. “Men.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” With that he goosed her again, and she took off at a sprint toward the rec hall, hair flying in the wind. Even his long legs couldn’t compensate easily for her speed, and he found himself breathless when they bounded up the steps to find Pete and Sandy resting on well-worn chairs around a lovely wood stove nestled in the corner of the giant hall, the pool table empty behind them.
Breathing hard, he tried to get his bearings. Her parents seemed happy and composed, so why the summons? Curling against the edge of a loveseat, Lydia patted the seat next to her and he bent into it, knees high and hands awkward. Why did he turn into a teenager around her mom?
Because you care what she thinks.
“Don’t look so glum,” Pete said to him, pointing to a small cooler next to his chair. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.” Jeremy reached in, found one, popped the top and took a swig. Sour and sweet at once, it was dark and intense, like cherries on top of coffee.
“What is this?”
“It’s called Westvleteren. Like it? People either have the palate for it or they don’t. It’s not to everyone’s liking.”
Another taste and Jeremy weighed it out. “I like it.”
Pete’s smile widened. “I thought you might. Sour ales aren’t an acquired taste. You know right away whether you’re in the club or not.” Another smile, this one completely reaching his eyes.
“I can’t stand that stuff,” Lydia said, crinkling her nose.
“Me neither,” Sandy added.
“You got the bad genes,” Pete muttered, making Jeremy choke.
“Don’t make me waste the good stuff,” he hacked, coughing through laughter. Sandy reached over to pound him on the back as Lydia shot her dad an eye roll identical to the one she’d given Jeremy on the way there.
“We just wanted to take a few minutes before the craziness of the talent show kicks in—”
“Two days!” Sandy interjected, interrupting Pete. “In two days!”
Pete rested a calm hand on her knee. “—to ask how you’re doing and to enjoy a drink with you two.” Pete reached into the cooler and pulled out a lemon-flavored wine cooler, which Lydia grabbed with glee.
“Thanks, Dad!”
Sandy reached for a cup of tea on the end table next to her as Pete held the neck of his beer forward, initiating a toast. The rest joined in.
“To the talent show, and old traditions. And to new friends,” he added, looking pointedly at Jeremy, then Lydia.
“To no flaming cats!” Sandy added.
“MOM!”
Clink. They toasted, and as Jeremy drank deeply, gulping down half the ale in one fell swoop, he felt a warmth no alcohol or wood stove could generate.
“We have a new entrant in the talent show. Mike Davis wants to play guitar,” Pete said.
“Mike Davis?” Lydia asked. “Who’s that?”
“A guest. Been here for nearly a month. Nice guy. Sticks to himself, mostly, though he was more interactive when he first came.”
“Paid for his cab
in in cash,” Sandy said, as if this were remarkable. “The entire month.”
Lydia let out a low whistle, drinking more of her wine cooler. “You sure he’s not running from something?”
“If he were, why would he perform?” said a voice from behind them. Miles walked in, grabbed a blueberry beer from the cooler and folded his legs under him, sitting on the floor by Pete.
“Good point,” she conceded.
“Speaking of the talent show, one of the guests sent me a link to this YouTube video,” Pete said.
Miles and Lydia froze. Jeremy felt a creeping dread fill him. Pete pointedly did not look at Lydia.
“YouTube?” Lydia squeaked. Jeremy squeezed her hand, a silent show of support.
“It was…interesting,” Sandy said, eyebrows high. “I’ve never seen anything quite so explicit.”
Jeremy could feel Lydia’s breathing stop.
“Explicit?” he said calmly as Miles shot him an unreadable look.
“Have you ever seen a woman do certain…things..with her…” Pete tried to explain, looking to Sandy for help.
Oh, holy hell. What was this about?
Lydia could feel her heart exploding and imploding all at once. Mom and Dad had seen the video.
Mom and Dad had seen the video.
This was why she’d been asked to come here. And with Jeremy. Why with Jeremy? Wouldn’t they want to leave him out of it? There was no reason to think he was the guy in it—the news covered the fact that it was Michael Bournham all too well.
And why now? It had been a month. More than a month. Maybe it took that long to get on their radar screens, because Mom and Dad weren’t exactly hip to social media. She gave Miles a searching look, and he mouthed, “Not me.”
She believed him.
Then who?
Sandy pulled out her smart phone and handed it to Lydia. “You have to see for yourself.”
No. God, no. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined in which her parents learned about the video, sitting together and watching it at the same time had never played into her nightmares.
This was just too much. Lydia sat there, completely frozen, until Sandy took the phone back and watched Lydia with deep concern.
A few taps and Sandy hit play.
On a video that was, blessedly, not her and Mike.
It was a video of a woman playing “God Bless America” on a kazoo.
Except she didn’t use her mouth to play it.
Jeremy and Miles watched the video with her, faces impassive, then shocked, then intrigued, and—finally—the whole group rolled with laughter, tears streaming down faces, Lydia’s belly shaking with joy a little too hard, her chest swelling with giggles that poured out for a tiny bit longer than they should have, sheer relief driving her.
Oh, thank you, universe.
“Dad, are you asking me to—um, to do—”
Jeremy’s voice rose above the titters. “Can you do that? If so, please marry me.”
Another round of laughter.
“Can you believe someone sent that to me and asked if she could perform that skit in the show?” Pete said. “Your mother just about died.”
“Let me guess. Was it Grandma? Because I could totally see Grandma wanting to perform that.”
Pete’s turn to roll his eyes. He drained his beer and said, “No, thank God. If I had to watch Madge do that it would be an early grave for me.”
Sandy punched him in the arm but said nothing. Miles and Lydia exchanged a look of relief, while Jeremy seemed to just take them all in. Lydia wondered what he thought of them.
And whatever it was, she really hoped it involved staying.
Krysta walked in and did a double take. “Where has everyone been?”
“Where have we been?” Lydia said, gawking. “Where have you been?”
“Cooking! Caleb came back and asked for help.” Her cheeks pinked, and Sandy gave her a knowing look. “Do you have any idea the level of preparation that goes into this talent show?”
“No. None at all,” Lydia said dryly.
“Your brother had me start chopping vegetables already. Ever work on three bushels of tomatoes?” She held up hands that were bright red. “Even with the best knives, finely sharpened, it’s a ton of work.” Krysta was beaming in spite of the complaining words, and Lydia felt good. Not just because of the wine cooler, which she drained as Jeremy reached down to fish another for her.
Because so many parts of her life were coming together in the right ways.
Mike.
Damn it. Again?
Why did he haunt her so? Just when she thought she could let go…he came back in.
“Can I talk to you for a sec, Lydia?” Krysta asked, nodding her head toward the main office.
Reluctant to unwind from the warmth of Jeremy, Lydia obliged. BFFs call—you answer. The office was blessedly warm, which made it easier. Plus the wine cooler was loosening her up.
“What’s up?”
“There’s this guy here at the campground, and he reminds me an awful lot of Michael Bournham.”
“What?”
Krysta held a red hand up, as if to quell the protest. “I know it sounds weird, but hear me out. Caleb had me unloading tomatoes and this guy walked by, wearing a backpack and a baseball cap. His hair was super short, but that silver-gray Bournham’s known for.”
“Michael Bournham—at a campground?” Lydia’s peals of disbelief filled the room. “You have to be kidding me. He isn’t even the glamping type. The guy’s idea of roughing it means going to a hotel without his helicopter.”
Krysta pressed her lips together and just stared at her. Oh, boy. She wasn’t kidding.
“You seriously think he’s here? Why would he be here, Krysta? Lots of men have short silver hair and go on hikes here. Hell, you can spit and hit one.”
“Lots of men don’t look like him.”
“You’re telling me you seriously think Mike came here? That he’s ignoring everyone’s messages and texts and confounding the press by hiding at my parents’ campground under their noses?” Lydia’s voice shifted to a low, skeptical hiss. “He’d have to be out of his fucking mind to pull something like that.”
Krysta’s eyes narrowed as she blinked rapidly. “I know, I know… It’s nuts. It is. But my eyes saw what they saw.”
“What did the guy do?”
“He was just walking by at a fast clip.”
“Which area was he in?”
“Passing by the rec hall.”
A lump in her throat formed as her heart began to beat a samba dance of hope and disbelief. “Do you think…” she started, grasping at words.
A burst of laughter from the other room, led by Jeremy and her father, interrupted her words. That lump grew.
Her heart continued to hop all over the place.
A concerned look from Krysta made her try again. “Do you think he even cares?”
“Jeremy?”
Lydia shook her head, eyes starting to fill with tears. “I know Jeremy cares.” The two shared a sweet, deep look that Lydia could only have with her best friend.
“But you can’t let go of Mike.”
Nod.
Krysta shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’m not helping matters, am I?”
“You saw what you saw.” Lydia used the pads of her fingers to wipe the pooled tears out of her eyes, then sniffed.
“I hate this,” Krysta said, sighing as Caleb walked through the rec hall to say something to Sandy. Whatever answer he needed, he got, then he marched back out the front door without a glance at anyone else.
“Hate what?”
Trailing Caleb’s exit, Krysta turned back to Lydia with shiny eyes of her own.
“Unrequited love.”
“You think I love Mike?” Lydia barked, the sound meant to be dismissive—but her words turned up at the end, more a question than a dismissal.
“You think I love Caleb?” Krysta asked, reproach dripping in her tone.
Silence.
“We’re so fucked,” they said in unison.
Chapter Four
Krysta had come damn close to recognizing him earlier, and although he’d been careful not to look up as he realized who she was, he could tell from subtle, nonverbal cues that his appearance set her on high alert. Using any form of a disguise hadn’t occurred to him, because he’d planned to be long gone at the end of the month.
Never in a billion years had he imagined Lydia would come back home, bring Krysta and Jeremy and make this a nightmare.
Of his own making.
When you’re caught in a nightmare, hostage to your subconscious, the only way out is to take over the dream through conscious techniques. Mike had one option now:
Lead his own nightmare. Hence his signing up for the talent show. He hadn’t touched a guitar in, what—seven years? Longer? But a local consignment shop had one in the window and he’d found himself recalling chords with relative ease. Riffing dusted off his old skills and he’d spent the last two days deciding he had to reveal himself on his terms.
No one else’s.
Writing a song for Lydia, performing it on stage, taking ownership of what he’d done and how he felt about her was a bold—and probably stupid—move. But he only needed to hide for another day and a half.
After that it was all out in the open. Everything would be revealed.
Sitting at his fire pit, the cold night a form of penance, his thin coat aided by four layers of shirts underneath, he let the small fire die down, the coals barely casting enough light for his fingers to find their places on the blonde-wood guitar. The first few notes of old classic rock tunes and country rock floated from his fingers. How easily what he enjoyed came to him.
Why had he spent so many years driving himself to do what didn’t?
“Mike?” Pete appeared, flashlight in hand, a friendly smile on his face.
“Too loud? Is it quiet hours?” His voice rumbled in his throat, so rarely used these days. The solitude made talking gratuitous.
“No, actually, it’s beautiful. You’re good.”
“You’re being far too kind. I suck.”
“Better than me. Can’t play guitar to save my life. Or any instrument, for that matter. The musician of the family was Luke…” Pete smiled sadly. Mike knew the backstory on Luke now—the oldest, gone to Iraq, now dead—but never asked details. Prying wasn’t his style.
