Two Crazy, One Wild

by Shaye Marlow

  The goat, she set down only after closing the door. He ran into the living room, probably to pee somewhere.

  Back in the kitchen, she stopped and looked at Rory. Her lips twitched. “Want some help with your ear?”

  With the saddest expression I’d seen on anyone outside a three-year-old with a skinned knee, Rory nodded.

  “Sit,” Frances said, then went and got the first aid kit. Five minutes later, she had the wound cleaned and smeared with antibiotic, and I moved in to help her tape a piece of gauze over it. She patted my brother’s shoulder.

  He moaned.

  “Why don’t you go on to bed?” I suggested. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

  Doing an excellent impression of a ninety-year-old man, Rory pushed slowly to his feet, limped to the stairs, and began the painful-looking process of climbing them.

  Frances leaned toward me, speaking quietly. “Did he hurt anything besides his ear?”

  “Other than his pride?” I whispered back, then shook my head.

  Rory disappeared, his door latch clicked, and all was silence.

  Frances retrieved the mop and broom, and went to lean them in the corner.

  I opened the fridge, watching for movement. The two ermines who’d gone deeper into the fridge were still unaccounted for, but I suspected they’d gone out the back. I reached in and retrieved the milk and eggs.

  Frances accepted them from me on her way back into the kitchen. She paused to smile up at me. “Thank you.”

  I was struck dumb. For several seconds, all I could do was stare down into her eyes. They weren’t greenish anymore, but a soft gray, like rabbit fur. “I want a pumpkin pancake,” I blurted.

  “You wanna help?” she asked. My lips were beginning to shape an automatic ‘no’ when she added, “You can get the frying pan. It needs butter in it, and the heat up high.”

  I did what she asked. While she added the last ingredients, I cleaned up the broken jar of jalapenos. Then we both stood over the pan as she poured in the batter, and watched little bubbles form.

  “Why do you have gorilla suits?” she asked.

  “They’re actually Bigfoot suits. And, we went through a phase.”

  “A ‘phase’, huh?” Her eyes sparkled as she glanced up at me. “Might this have had anything to do with the Bigfoot sightings last summer?”

  Hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I felt, I rubbed my neck.

  She laughed, then retrieved the first pancake from the pan and offered it to me.

  “I’ll wait,” I said, watching her scoop in more batter. As soon as she set down the measuring cup, I caught her wrist.

  “What—?” She stilled, watching me as I lifted her hand.

  I turned it over in the kitchen light, rubbing a smudge of flour away. “You have beautiful hands,” I said. I settled my palm against hers, comparing. Her fingers ended more than an inch before mine, and her hand was maybe two thirds the width. Despite being slightly scratched up from yard work, they were still smoother than mine. I didn’t let go of her wrist, instead sliding my fingers gently toward her elbow.

  Her lips parted as she gazed up at me.

  I gazed back, wondering when she’d become so important to me. “Your pancake’s burning.”

  Snatching her hand back, she flipped it. I went to gather up butter, syrup, another plate, and silverware as she made another couple pancakes.

  “C’mon.” Taking the plate from her, I led her to the bar. I divvied up the pancakes, then watched her doctor hers before smoothing butter and drizzling syrup over mine.

  I settled in to eat as I waited for her to tell me what was on her mind. There had to be something, and it had to be heavy, considering she was staring at her pancakes rather than eating them.

  She finally looked at me. “Can I just blame my dad for the stealing?”

  Watching her carefully, I decided not to answer.

  “He was distant and neglectful. I got fed and watered, and that was about it. I was attention-seeking as a kid, and not much has changed.” She glanced off to my left, her eyes unfocused.

  “I’m kind of fucked-up,” she admitted. “Stealing feels good, always has. I tell myself people won’t notice when something goes missing, and I love the excitement, the thrill. But I don’t think I’m an actual kleptomaniac, no. I can control myself, mostly.”

  “What about your sex life?” I asked.

  “What about it?” She still hadn’t touched her food.

  I leaned across, cut a piece of pancake, dragged it through her pool of syrup, and held it to her lips.

  She smiled slightly and took the bite from my fork.

  “Why do you sleep with so many men?”

  “What kind of question is that? Why do you sleep with so many women?”

  “Actually, it’s only been Lucy for the past several months. But you… How many men have you slept with in the same time?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not answering that.”

  I cut her another bite, held it to her lips.

  “Can’t it just be that I enjoy sex?” A little crease had formed between her brows, but she accepted the bite.

  “You just said you acted out as a kid. Does it bother George that you sleep with his guides?”

  Her pout became a grin. “A little,” she admitted.

  I gazed at her, thinking about what she’d said. George had been distant and neglectful, not a loving father. And her mom hadn’t been around at all. So, maybe… she was seeking some sort of deeper connection, or at least a temporary emotional high from her bed partners. That’s probably what J.D. would’ve said.

  Setting down my fork, I reached for her hand. I scooped it up, and just held it.

  Slowly, she relaxed. Her fingers stirred, meshing with mine.

  “Was that all that was bothering you?” I asked.

  She shook her head, then took a deep breath. “Zack, I want to come clean.”

  “All right.”

  “My flight instructor certificate is expired,” she admitted. “It means I shouldn’t, technically, be teaching you. But I’ll get it renewed,” she hurried to say. “And then we’ll finish up your private pilot.”

  That sucked, but… she had told me ‘no’ there at the beginning, when I’d asked if she was a flight instructor. So technically, she’d never lied.

  “That is, if you still want to learn, after swearing you won’t go after that bear. And if you still want me here, after I tell you that…” She took a deep breath, bracing herself.

  I found her behavior amusing. After all, hadn’t I already proven I could take whatever she’d throw at me?

  “…my dad’s been having me spy on you.”

  My brain shorts out sometimes. “Pardon?”

  “My dad’s been having me spy on you.”

  I slid my hand from hers to rub my forehead. One question echoed in my head: “Why?”

  “He has a feud going—used to be with Ralph, but now with Ed—and he views pretty much everyone down here on the river as his enemy.”

  “I mean, why are you spying on me?”

  “He didn’t give me any choice. He never does. But I haven’t given him anything important,” she hurried to say. Her eyes searched mine from the shadows beneath her bangs.

  Out of the blue, a terrible thought struck. “Did he… make you rescue me?” Was it possible that crazy, evil man had been orchestrating this from the very beginning?

  “No. No! I did that myself, because I didn’t want you hurt.”

  My mind was racing, trying to figure this out. “So, what does he want info for? What’s he planning?”

  “He always wants info. It’s his stock-in-trade,” she replied. “And as to what he’s planning… I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Hopefully nothing.”

  “And what do you mean, he didn’t give you a choice? Did he threaten you?”

  “Not me,” she said. “He threatened… a pet of mine.”

  My hands tightened into fists on the table. “George
is such a bastard.”

  “Yes.” Hesitantly, she reached across, and gently ran her fingers over my knuckles.

  I caught her hand. “Is there anything else?”

  She shook her head. “Just that I’m sorry.”

  I nodded, then had to grin at her relieved expression. “See, that’s how you do it.”

  “What?”

  “Accept an apology,” I teased.

  Her lips twitched, but concern had made her eyes huge and dark. “Are we okay, then? I mean, really okay?”

  “Are you going to stop spying?”

  If she’d had both hands, she probably would’ve been wringing them. “I can’t,” she said, sounding pained. “He has too much leverage. But I can continue stringing him along, giving him only enough to keep him happy. Little things,” she clarified, her eyes pleading with me to understand.

  I studied her, thinking that when she knew me better, when she trusted me enough to give me details, I’d help her with this. I’d free her from her father, if it was the last thing I did. “That’ll work,” I finally said.

  She squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”

  “There’s another way you could thank me,” I said, leaning across the table. Ever since she’d said ‘come clean’, half my brain had been busy planning our next encounter.

  My face met her palm. “No,” she said. “I want you to sleep in your bed.”

  I sputtered. “What? Why?” I wasn’t the one who’d been harboring secrets.

  “You haven’t done anything wrong,” she hurried to say. “I just… have plans for the morning.” Her smile, when it bloomed, was wicked.

  The promise in that expression was what made it possible for me to climb the stairs and crawl into my own cold, lonely, and unkempt bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ZACK

  My ears pricked as I heard a soft, muffled moan. I looked at Rory. Rory shook his head, denying he’d made the sound.

  A gasp had us both turning on our bar stools. We stared at Frances’s door, where the sounds were originating.

  “You think she has somebody in there?” Rory asked.

  I forced my teeth to unclench. “I don’t think so.” Unless she’d been able to wrassle up a bed partner between three a.m. and now… Had I been wrong to assume her ‘plans’ for the morning would include me?

  “You mean she’s making all that noise all by herself?”

  I shrugged, and crossed my leg at the knee, giving my erection somewhere to go. “I don’t hear any thumping or squeaking.”

  No, just the moans, the gasps. Heat flooded my nether regions as I imagined Frances lying back on the bed, touching herself. She’d be in that little nighty she’d paraded around in the other morning, and those thick pink socks—for some reason my mind insisted on the socks—the body underneath it warm and curvy, but it was her eyes that would hold my attention. They were almost lavender when she was up to something, when she was teasing me.

  “No, but what about the sex swing?” Rory asked. “Or they could be doing some sort of tantric sex thing, where they’re just grinding. Or slithering. Like snakes in a basket,” he added.

  My mind had painted another man into my dirty mental portrait, and my heart began to race, hating the way he climbed on the bed, taking my place and Frances’s invitation.

  “She could be hurt,” I suggested.

  We listened to increasingly loud panting, followed by a long moan that made my cock so hard it hurt.

  Rory shook his head.

  “She could be dreaming,” I tried.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” filtered through the wood of the door. “Oh god! Mmmmm.”

  “I suppose,” Rory said dubiously.

  “Who would it be?” I asked, terrorized by the thought. “Who could she possibly have in there with her?”

  “Who couldn’t she have in there with her?” Rory asked. “Have you seen the woman? She just—phew. Damn. You know? That body screams sex. And those tits,” Rory said, cupping his hands in front of his chest.

  I whacked him on the back of the head.

  Rubbing his skull, he continued. “She’s probably got every man on the river panting after her. It could be a fishing guide. Or a guest from next door—”

  I raised my hand again, and he shut up. The man in my mental image was suddenly wearing a pair of hip waders, and nothing else. I glared at Frances’s door, wishing I could burn it down with my mind. The noises were getting louder, making my cock throb painfully.

  “I only hear her,” I pointed out.

  “Her lover could be one of those strong, silent types. Or a mute. Or a mime. Or another woman,” Rory said, his expression brightening.

  I couldn’t hold myself back any longer. I was off the stool and across the room in a flash. But, once at her door, I hesitated.

  Her sounds were reaching a crescendo. Those smoky moans, those little cries. The thought of her with someone else was simply too much for me to bear. I was compelled. Had to know. I couldn’t not find out.

  Glancing back at Rory, I knocked on the door. There was a cry of such delighted pleasure, it made my spine tingle… but, no answer. I knocked again, harder. She cried out again, louder. I tried the knob, then pounded on the door. She was hyperventilating—either orgasming, or someone was killing her. If I’d reached down and rubbed myself through my pants, I could’ve cum right there.

  “Frances!” I barked, fingers clenching on the doorframe. Inside the bedroom, she moaned softly.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I might as well paint that door red. I backed up and turned, ready to drive my shoulder into it, to break it down. Again.

  Luckily, the door opened… and there she was. Frances gripped the doorframe, leaned on it, a big, sated smile on her flushed face. The goat streaked by her legs, either freaked out by the goings-on, or desperately happy to see Rory.

  “Good morning,” Frances said, her voice mellow and husky. Then she brushed by me, and I smelled sex.

  I shoved the door open in her wake, glaring at her bed. It was rumpled, but empty. Then I glared at the swing, the closed window, under her bed, and finally behind the door. There was no one around, no hip waders to be smelt, no man whose ass to kick.

  I emerged from her bedroom as she emerged from the bathroom. She was glowing, that smile still on her gorgeous lips, her eyes the color of wet pansies. She gave me a slow wink, and then brushed on by. Again.

  I turned to watch her, noting the long T-shirt and the teasing flash of smooth, bare buttocks below it.

  Rory’d been playing with Puck, but when Frances swished past, his head turned and mouth gaped. I followed her to the kitchen, having violent thoughts about him seeing her ass. And then, what did she do? She opened the fridge, and bent to look inside, of course. And flashed both of us... everything. ‘Flashed’ implied speed, though, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. She loitered in front of the fridge, cocked her hip, and thought long and hard about the contents.

  My blood was pumping, and I was just as long and hard as her perusal. Beyond the roaring in my ears, my voice sounded guttural. “Rory. Go to your room.”

  “But,” he started, his eyes glued to her ass. My ass.

  I stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “Go upstairs,” I said. “Now.”

  He met my eyes, and in them, I saw his brain working. His expression flickered as he thought about telling me no, the different ways he could tell me no, and then the potential consequences of those ways. I cracked my knuckles, assuring him of those consequences.

  He heaved a sigh. “Fine.” He made it to the base of the stairs before he turned back. “For how long?”

  I turned back to Frances, caught her grin. “Until the screams stop,” I said.

  Rory snorted, then started up. Puck followed.

  “Enjoy yourself this morning?” I asked.

  “Oh, immensely,” she said. “More than sex, even. The only thing that could have made it better is my vibrator.”

  “
More than…” I stared.

  “I have this vibrator, see, that fills both holes, and tickles the clit. I fucking love that thing,” she said with a sigh.

  If I’d ever in my life been in danger of bursting a blood vessel in my brain, this was the moment. I rocked forward a step. “Both holes?” I rasped.

  “Oh, yeah. There’s nothing like anal stimulation. And having both holes crammed full at the same time…” She closed her eyes and shuddered delicately, drawing my attention to her hardened nipples.

  “In fact, I’ve had some fantasies about you and Rory. I was trying to decide which—” She gasped as I cornered her against the counter.

  I growled, the idea of her with my brother intolerable. “Is he gone?”

  “What, Rory?” She glanced past me. “Yeah, he’s g—”

  I ripped her shirt right up the center. Just grabbed either side of the hem, and pulled. It parted, she gasped, and when I finished off the neckline, it slid off her shoulders.

  She was naked under there, from her breasts still flushed with heat, down to her waxed pussy. Her mouth opened, but I didn’t give her the chance to speak. I just grabbed her, tucked her under my arm like a football, and hustled her across the kitchen. It was indelicate, and the sound she made was affronted. I enjoyed it.

  I swept the jumble of bottles and dirty dishes aside, and threw her up onto the counter. I swung her around so she was lying on the bar, then boosted myself up so I was on my hands and knees over her.

  “On the counter, Zack?” But she was laughing, her legs opening for me. She delved her hands up into my T-shirt as I yanked my waistband down.

  A shot rang out. Glass shattered.

  I rolled with Frances off the counter as a second shot fractured one of the living room windows. Flattening myself atop her on the kitchen floor, I curled a hand over her head as the gunshots continued.

  Rory came tumbling down the stairs with an erection.

  “Get down!” I yelled.

  Another shot splintered the bannister, and Rory scooped up Puck before hurdling the railing. He rolled out of sight as the barrage continued.

  I counted fifteen shots before the next didn’t come. The silence rang.