by Liora Blake
After that, unless I want to start vacuuming or scrubbing the grout in the bathroom, there’s nothing to do but go in the bedroom and see what I find. Clasping the media kit and tablet to my chest tightly, I linger at the threshold to gather the humility I couldn’t summon up this afternoon. Deep breath. There will be more to lose if I don’t try to fix this.
Braden is sprawled out on my bed in just his boxer briefs, an arm crooked behind his head, and reading a book clasped in his other hand. Charley is snoozing at the foot of the bed with the top of her head nudged up against Braden’s leg.
I stop short when Braden lowers the book an inch or so to peer my way because it feels like the first time in days he’s looked at me, even if I know our fight started only hours ago. Not to mention that the sight of a nearly naked Braden in my bed with his brown hair a little messy, just lounging there for the taking while reading, is apparently a masturbatory fantasy come to life for me. And one I didn’t even know I had—because my entire body believes this can be fixed with one good, long round between those sheets.
“I’m sorry,” I croak.
Braden lowers the book completely, laying it on his chest still opened. His now-free hand rests on his abs, low enough that his fingers tick just under the top edge of his boxers and I catalog the sight for later use.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier. You leaving tomorrow isn’t easy for me. Especially now.”
His face slackens. “I’m sorry. The shit about you being shallow? I don’t think that. That was just my fucking ego taking a cheap shot.”
I make my way to the bed and crawl up on it, resting on my heels and casting the tablet onto the duvet cover. Braden lifts his head to one side.
“When I came home today, Amber, all I wanted was to talk to you. About … us, I guess. Then I saw you out back—the sweatiest, sexiest, most kick-ass woman I’ve even seen—and my plan changed. I wanted to let you finish your workout, fuck you until you saw stars, then talk. Instead, we ended up here. Pissed off and hurt, the both of us.” Braden clears his throat lightly. “But I’m still here if you want to talk. About your show, about us, about what’s going on in your head. About anything.”
This was the moment I flinched earlier, when I thought it would be better if I pushed him away. Since that definitely didn’t work out, I have to stay put, no matter how hard this is. I shift my position so I’m sitting cross-legged, cutting a glance toward the tablet.
“This Cabo thing? I’m not a hundred percent sure about it. Honestly, it’s not what I want to do, it’s what I have to do.” I grab the media kit and tablet, replacing the book on his chest with them. He gives it all a cursory glare. “That’s the media kit. And there’s a promo video cued up on my tablet. Look at it, tell me what you think.”
Braden shakes his head. “You don’t want that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. Because you already know what I think.”
“You said you would talk to me about anything. I want to talk about this.” I scoot a little closer to him. “Humor me.”
He shimmies up to sit with his back against the pillow and the folder and tablet tumble off his chest and onto the bed.
“You should know by now that I’m truly shit when it comes to humoring people,” he grumbles, snatching up the folder and opening it.
I snort, waiting as he reads through the folder, then set the tablet in his reluctant hands once he’s finished. The opening track begins to play, and I blush when Braden’s head rears back a few inches at the horrific sound of bongos and maracas being played by what sounds like a passel of angry monkeys. As the video plays, Braden’s expression remains in check, betrayed only by the tiny flare of his nostrils when the sorority sisters start to thump one another with pillows. Although I can’t tell if it’s because his libido is flaring at the bouncing breasts or his dander is rising at the icky spectacle of it all.
The video ends and he hands the tablet back without a word.
“Well? Tell me.”
“I think if you do this, it will be a mistake.”
“OK. But why?”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Because you are nothing to them. If you pass on this, they’ll just find another hot blonde willing to do what they want you to do. But if you do take it, you will become just another hot blonde. They will reduce you to tits and ass.”
“I am just another hot blonde,” I state. “I have tits and ass worth camera time. And they want to pay me a lot of money.”
Braden’s eyes harden. “Do not say you are just another hot blonde. You aren’t. No one is just anything. I get that showing the results of all your hard work on your body is part of your brand and it’s why these companies pay you to endorse their products, I do. But that’s just a fraction of what you’re capable of and you shouldn’t take a gig that doesn’t allow you to be one hundred percent of who you are. Don’t fucking settle, Amber.”
“I wouldn’t be settling forever. Just this show, then I’ll be able to go back to the drawing board and find something better.”
Braden grinds his jaw tight, then loosens it as if he’s about to say something else, only to clamp it shut again.
“What?”
“I can’t watch you settle. Even if it’s for a little while. And …” Braden grabs the media folder and flips to a FAQ page, holding it up in front of me. He points to a header printed in red, bold-face letters.
“I also can’t know that you’re down there being someone else’s love interest. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t about me, but I can’t sit here and talk about this without saying that. I can’t.”
My eyes drop to the bold-face header and the details below.
Interested in falling in love while in Los Cabos? We sure hope so! Cast members won’t be at a loss for opportunity to find love, not if we have anything to say about it—and when you do meet someone, you’ll have six sun-soaked weeks to get to know them! Viewers love a good “will they or won’t they?” so we cast with potential love interests in mind. Think of us as your very own matchmakers … with the sexiest, most spontaneous, fun-lovin’ matches in mind JUST FOR YOU!
I want to roll my eyes the way I did the first time I read it, but I stifle the reaction just in case Braden then thinks I’m mocking him, instead of this FAQ that sounds like it was inspired by a website for some high-end girlfriend experience. I grab the folder and toss it onto the floor.
“I’m not interested in being anyone’s love interest but yours. Even if they use editing magic to make it look like I was interested in someone, it wouldn’t be real.”
“From my side of the screen, it would feel real. And if you think I’m evolved enough to not have that gut me, you’re wrong. I’m not. I couldn’t do it.”
His expression, paired with that last sentence, sounds a lot like Braden drawing a line in the sand. Tears threaten to pool in my eyes, but I will them away by letting my pride do the work. He may have said he knows this isn’t about him, but he went ahead and made it about him anyway.
“So you’re pulling a Laurel. You’re blackmailing me with your feelings and asking me not to take this show.”
Braden’s face turns stony. “Low blow, mountain sprite. I took my own earlier, so I’d be a fucking hypocrite if I called you out on it, but I’ll just state the obvious. No, I’m not asking you to do anything based on my feelings. I’m just telling you where I’m at. It’s called communicating.”
I start to scoot away so the physical distance between us matches the growing divide that’s come every time we open our mouths today, but he latches a hand on to one of my ankles.
“Don’t. If either of us holes up or backs away, we’re fucked. The only chance we have is to keep talking.”
I dip my head and fix my eyes on the gentle grasp of his hand to my ankle, his thumb now skimming up the back of my calf in a slow, winding pattern. Despite the size of him and the power I know he has, there’s nothing aggressive in the gesture, and I don’t feel trapped in
the way I might have expected—because no one has seen me the way Braden does. Truly and righteously seen me, every facet and from all sides. And he never acted as if he wanted a little more of this or a little less of that, he simply took note and moved on to the next thing. I draw my fingers up and down his forearm through the dark hair there, watching as gooseflesh rises under my touch.
“What am I supposed to do, then?” I ask, voice lowered. “Get a job at Cabela’s? I thought we were joking around when we talked about that.”
“Lots of people have regular jobs, Amber. They have someone who loves them, things they like to go do, places they love to visit. They’re happy. They have ordinary lives that they wouldn’t trade for anything.”
My heart sinks like a stone. What Braden just proposed—an ordinary life—was noble and simple. But I don’t want that. I’m greedy because I want everything. I want him, and what I had, and the guarantee there will be even more to come.
When I don’t reply, Braden’s hand goes still and he slowly lifts his fingers one by one. He draws his hand away and slinks down so he’s lying on his side, staring up at me. His eyes are sad. Defeated. Worst of all, accepting. Because once again, he’s seen me. He could see that the ordinary life he’d presented, the one he could so easily give me, wasn’t enough. He was making note … and moving on.
(Braden)
“This is how you talk to her when no one else is listening, And this is how you help her when the muse goes missing, You vanish so she can go drowning in a dream again.”
—JASON ISBELL, “24 FRAMES”
I wake up to Amber. Her beautiful face studying mine as I blink away the last of what was a restless night’s sleep. Once I’m fully awake, her tired eyes seem to say that she’s been at this for a while. Watching me sleep, taking in these last moments quietly so she could file them away in some special part of her memory.
Amber sneaks one hand out from under the covers and gives me an impossibly sweet, childlike wave, her fingertips curling only a little. Then she presses her fingertips gently to her mouth and skates the pads across her lips thoughtfully. A faint smile curves across her mouth.
“My heart hurts,” she whispers.
I take a rough breath. “Mine, too.”
She smiles again, somehow grateful as much as it is sad. Her hand slips back under the covers, coming to rest over my chest. She keeps it there, her open palm pressed to the place where she can feel my heartbeat, a slow and heavy thump that backs up the claim that my heart hurts, too.
Her hand starts to move, a slow descent across my chest and down my abs, until I’m in her warm grasp. Amber starts to stroke gently, still over the fabric of my boxer briefs, yet that barrier isn’t near enough to keep my cock from stirring to life completely. My poor dick has equally poor judgment, so he doesn’t understand the circumstances here. He thinks this is one hell of a way to start the day. But my head and my heart know what a mess Amber and I have found ourselves in, and even if I’m hard and hurting, that still doesn’t make this a good idea.
“Amber,” I croak, “we shouldn’t do this.”
She wiggles closer, near enough to kiss the base of my throat and up across my neck, so that the scent of her honey-muddled strawberry hair tickles just under my nose. Her bare thighs are touching mine, and her breasts are pressed to my chest.
“Why?”
“Because …” My words falter when her fingertips steal under the waist of my boxers. I suck in a harsh breath and hold it, closing my eyes as I wait for her hand to find my length. When she does, I sink into the sensation with a slow exhale, knowing that nothing in my life will ever be better than this—better than waking up next to Amber, her sweet smile for me, her body pressed to mine, and her hands on me.
“Because? Because why, Braden? Tell me why we shouldn’t enjoy this and love each other this morning.”
That’s because why, I want to say. Because we love each other. She may be saying it another way—as some flowery euphemism for sex—but the words alone, without any redefinition, spoke the truth. Because we love each other. But last night that love wasn’t enough. I couldn’t see past the choices she was about to make, and she couldn’t fathom going another way. In the end, we chose ourselves.
I open my eyes, peering down to Amber’s face tipped to mine as I try to figure out how to give her an answer—without bringing love into the mix. But her bright blue eyes are wide and wanting, nothing but openness in her gaze. My mouth finds hers before I can give her a reason why, or give myself a good reason why not.
Amber starts to work her hand over my length as we kiss, using the touch she knows I love. An easy roll of her hand, her fingers encircling the head loosely each time she slips over the tip. My hand lands on her hip and I dig my nails into her flesh until there’s a bite she can’t ignore and Amber breaks our kiss to let out a soft whimper. And the sound, the need there, is too much.
I need to stop, but I can’t, and suddenly we’re devouring each other with openmouthed kisses, tugging and yanking on the few clothes we’re wearing until we’re both bare and my body is on top of hers. We’re both breathing hard when we pause and lock eyes. I smooth a few stands of her hair back from her face, tucking them behind her ears. Amber cups my face in her hands and whispers my name.
Taking myself in hand, my eyes stay on hers. I keep the first few strokes unrushed, deliberately doing what I can to draw this moment out because when I give in to what I want and I know she loves, those hard thrusts will take us too close to the edge.
And when we both come, we’re done.
And I don’t want this to be over.
Even when I do surrender, it’s all I can think about. Amber is close, I can feel it, along with the sound of her soft cries breaking in my ear.
But I don’t want this to be over.
Amber’s voice disappears and her body goes taut. My body wants more, so I do my best to keep going, wringing everything I can from her until I can’t keep up because my own release is too much, emptying myself inside her until my entire body is shaking.
And still, I don’t want this to be over.
Amber’s arms wind around my neck, pulling me to her so roughly that my arms buckle and I nearly crush her. She wraps her body to mine and for every exhale I take, she inhales; I do the same with hers. Giving and taking, as we say goodbye.
(Braden)
“My first love was an angry painful song, I wanted one so bad I went and did everything wrong.”
—RECKLESS KELLY, “WICKED TWISTED ROAD”
When I cross paths with a black GMC truck on the access road near the Sawtooth trailhead, I notice two things in my rearview mirror.
One, there’s a nice mule deer buck loaded into the truck bed.
Two, the truck has Texas plates.
Now, let’s be honest, it isn’t this guy’s fault he’s from Texas. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to turn around to follow him and have every intention of finding him in violation of some hunting regulation—no matter how obscure or menial. Is it wrong that my shitty outlook on life since returning from his state of residence with nothing but a busted heart is what’s spurred this otherwise baseless investigation of mine? Yes. And I know that. Logically.
Too bad logic isn’t my forte these days. Instead, it’s only cynicism and hostility taking turns at the wheel. And if this poor sap dares question my motivations, I’ll be happy to pinpoint the source for him, right down to a small bungalow in the Hyde Park area of Austin.
The driver slows to a stop where the dirt road meets the main county road, signals properly, then turns right. I follow him through Hotchkiss and onto Highway 133, headed out of town. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve nearly given up this pointless pursuit, only to have him flip on his turn signal and slow his speed to hang another left.
Straight into the parking lot of the Empire Ambassador Motel.
I let out a sigh. This fucking guy. Now I really have to nail him to the wall with something, simply
because he was stupid enough to rent a room here, and this place will forever remind me of the moment when Amber texted me a picture of her in one of these shitty rooms.
He pulls into a parking space and shuts off the truck. I hover near the entrance with my truck motor running and watch as a barrel-chested guy in his early forties emerges from the driver side. His clothing is camo from head to toe, in heavier layers than I would have expected given Colorado’s temperate fall weather. But he’s from Texas, where it’s still warm enough for some people to strut around in rompers.
A teenager bounds out from the passenger side, dressed in the same gear, all except for his flat-bill hat, from which his floppy brown hair curls out from around the brim. The grin on his face tells the story. The deer in the back of this truck is his, and given that he only looks about thirteen years old, this may be his first Colorado buck with a bow. Well, it better have been with a bow. This is still archery season, and if I find a rifle or a muzzleloader in that truck that will make this easy. Taking a deer with anything other than a bow today would result in losing their future privileges, paying a serious fine, and if I really want to be a dick, they might need to come up with bail money.
I begin a slow creep through the parking lot in my truck and pull in perpendicular behind theirs, blocking them in. Scanning the deer’s carcass, I quickly spot a problem: there’s no tag on this deer.
Christ, that was almost too easy. I didn’t even have to break a sweat.
Although some people might claim otherwise, hunting regulations are not only simple, but clear-cut. Some of the most fundamental rules have to do with hunting tags. Each season, once the state draw is complete, hunters who were successful receive a physical tag in the mail. This tag must travel with the hunter, and if he or she fills the tag, three things need to happen.
First, they need to punch their tag by striking a hole through it, effectively destroying it for future use. Second, they need to sign the tag. Third, they need to attach the tag to the animal, prior to moving it anywhere. I happen to know that this deer took a twenty-mile spin around town—all without a tag.
