by Teagan Kade
It’s catchy.
She’s correct on the climax account. David’s the only man I’ve ever been with. He was big on the in-and-out. He never went down on me, never bought me a vibrator. I’ve tried it myself, of course, but I can never get there, this mystery ‘orgasm’ everyone talks about as elusive to me as the Loch Ness Monster.
I had feelings for Carter once. Who wouldn’t? He was perfection. Every line of his body, every curve, looked like it was meant to be there. We’d be by the Whites’ pool and I’d take him in—his muscular thighs, narrow waist and sculpted arms, an ass that was round in all the right ways and hard in the best.
As soon as they hit puberty, both the White brothers worked out every damn day in the home gym, but it was Carter who put in the hours, honing and sweating, not for female attention, but because he thought it would make him a better athlete. David played sports too back then, but he was smartening up, slowly drawn towards the family business and the approval of his father.
And then there were the god-given gifts Carter received that didn’t require a gym—his flawless facial features, the cutting angle of his jaw and inhibition-melting cobalt of his eyes. I wanted him so bad, wanted so desperately to run my fingers down that rippled abdomen and see if he could solve the mystery of my missing orgasm.
Maybe you still can. Maybe he can.
I banish the thought. It’s not right. It hasn’t even been a week.
As if reading my mind, June says, “Don’t you dare defend that asshole. He cheated on you, Wren, who knows how many times. And don’t tell me he didn’t hit you, because I remember that day.”
The day she’s referring to I’ve tried to scour from my memory—the sting of the slap, my feeble retaliation doing nothing, and June’s shocked expression when I showed up on her doorstop, a bag of frozen peas against my cheek.
“That was one time,” I say, and I realize, unbelievably, I’m defending him.
“One time, yes, but what about the emotional abuse. You told me yourself you were thinking of leaving him, couldn’t take the way he spoke to you, treated you. You owe him nothing, nadda, not a fucking thing.”
I’m inspired by her outrage. I’ve never been able to summon that kind of spark. I guess that’s why she’s one of the most well-paid attorneys in New York. She was a dominatrix once, a fact she’s never disclosed to her husband, or perhaps he’s worked it out. “Can we change the subject?”
“You want to talk about Idris Elba in Second Coming? His package probably needs its own zip code.”
I tut-tut in the mirror. “Is sex all you think about?”
“You’ll understand once you find the big O, but you’re sure as shit not going to find it here on the set of Grease, are you?”
I shove her playfully. “When are you going home?”
“I’m due back in New York tonight. All of Tim’s in-laws are staying for the week, I’ve got a big case, new furniture coming…” She sees my expression. “But… I can stay here if you need me, however long it takes.”
I sit up, June drawn with me. I place my hands on her shoulders, the two of us locked together. “No, you’ve been great. I can’t thank you enough for coming, but I think I’ll be alright. I’m flying back late tomorrow myself anyhow.”
“You’re going back to work?”
I shake my head. “The foundation told me to take as long as I need, but I’m still working unofficially. I don’t want to let the kids down. Besides, it’s keeping me busy.”
“Your dad?” June queries.
“He left right after the funeral, went back to his latest trophy wife in Miami.”
“Do you know where Carter is staying?”
I debate whether to tell her. “He texted me, said he was staying at his old cabin. Said to call if I needed anything.”
“The cabin in the sticks? Near that town, what was its name?”
“Oatville. Yes, I presume so.”
“Did you reply back saying ‘Yes, one extra-large order of vagina miner, please’?”
I shove her again. “You’re out of control.”
“And you should go see him. What else are you going to do? Mope around here watching Arrow reruns?”
“I could think of worse people to spend the night with than Canada’s own Stephen Amell,” I retort.
“Good call, but if you need to get out… You can talk to him, you know. Don’t sleep with him, fine, but you could do with the company. He probably has some interesting prison stories to tell if nothing else.
I bet.
She lets go of my shoulders. “Now, let’s do something about those panda eyes.”
I order room service, but even getting a BLT down is a struggle. I leave it on the plate half-abandoned, pacing around the room.
I’ve got my cell in my hand. It’s off, but it somehow still feels hot, like I’m holding a coal fresh from the fire pit.
I switch it on and enter my message bank, opening up the last message Carter sent. The address of the cabin is there. I read each letter one by one.
To go, or not to go.
I can’t decide.
What else are you going to do? You’re leaving tomorrow. All this will be a million miles away.
Certain there’s no harm in it, a quick visit, I order a taxi.
I put on a slim, Whistles Devona dress in textured blue before realizing it looks way too formal, stripping it off before picking out a casual top and jeans… before changing those again until I’ve damn near been through my entire suitcase.
“Screw it,” I tell myself in the mirror, holding my necklace pendant, his pendant, before heading downstairs to meet the taxi.
The driver checks the address on the screen of my cell. “That’s quite a ride, lady.”
I smile and get in. “It’s fine. My husband’s paying.”
The journey out of Vancouver brings back warm memories. I watch the urban scene fall away in the windows to be replaced with the juniper green of the countryside. There’s not a great deal out here where Carter’s cabin is. I remember he asked David and me to come over once after he bought it, seemed proud as punch of the fact his nearest neighbor was ten miles away. “It’s not really my thing,” David told him, running his hand over the logs that made up the walls. “In fact, Wren and I are moving to New York.”
There was obvious surprise on Carter’s face at that. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from me, so I did, looking out the window while my cheeks flushed hot and burgundy. A month later he tore the ACL in his left knee while the Canucks were playing the Blackhawks. It was a bad injury, putting him out for the season when he’d only just started. I’ve only watched the footage of the collision once. It was enough.
From there, things went downhill. I stopped paying attention after a while, didn’t want to know, scared of where someone I once cared for might end up at the bottom of the spiral.
It’s just past nightfall when we arrive. There’s an amber glow inside the cabin, indigo smoke rising from the chimney.
At least he’s home, I think.
The car idles, the driver turning. “You sure this is the right address, miss? I don’t want to hear about how some psycho chopped you up in the papers tomorrow.”
I reassure him, pay, and step out into the cold, wrapping my arms around myself as I take the stairs to the door.
I take a deep breath, here we go, and knock.
I can hear the taxi turning, driving away, the dirt and gravel crunching under its tires.
The door opens and there stands Carter with a wooden spoon in his hand, jeans… and that’s about it.
My eyes immediately drop to his chest. Jesus, Mary and Joseph it’s what dreams are made of. If anything, he’s more cut, more ripped than I remember. He’s got tattoos running up one of his arms, looks every bit the kind of guy you’d do your utmost to keep away from your mother.
“Wren,” he says, take-me-now eyes wide with surprise.
I swallow the lump in my throat and summon my voice that has s
eemingly lodged somewhere in my stomach. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
Something smells amazing beyond the door.
He stands back. “Ah, come in. I was just getting dinner ready. You hungry?”
It was a long drive. ‘Hangry’ would be a better term, though looking over this half-naked, six-foot slab of perfection, dinner isn’t what’s going to sate my appetite.
Wren! My internal commentator shouts.
Easy, Mr. Party Pooper. A girl can dream.
I step in, Carter closing the door behind me. The cabin looks precisely as I remember it, right down to the elk’s head on the wall and the bearskin rug. It smells of leather and pine and testosterone—a not entirely unpleasant mix. “Since when do you cook?”
He heads over to the stove, turning the element down and stirring. “I worked in the prison kitchen, learned a few things.”
I walk over. “So this is prison food?”
He laughs. “No, this is premium, slow-braised lamb shank with Carter’s secret herbs and spices.”
I breathe in. “So you did know I was coming.”
“I never said there was enough for two,” he smiles. I notice a grander tattoo on his back, too complex to take it in at once.
He puts the lid back on the pot, turning to face me. “Are you okay?”
I cross my arms, not really sure why. I shouldn’t feel vulnerable here, but I’m nervous, fidgety. “I’m leaving tomorrow, thought I’d come and say goodbye in person.”
“You’re going back to New York?”
“I can’t exactly stay here. I’ve got to sort out David’s will, the house, work…”
“You should take some time off.”
I shake my head. “No, I like to be busy.”
“Fair enough,” he nods.
The fire crackles in the corner. I hate to think how many poor women have been seduced here, tempted by this woodsy Adonis. “How was it?” I ask. “Prison, that is.”
I mentally scold myself for asking such a question, but he doesn’t seem fazed.
He picks up a bottle of wine from the bench. “How long do you have?”
Dinner is wonderful. It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal like this. I never remember Carter being able to cook anything other than Pop-Tarts, but it seems a lot has changed.
A lot.
I finish my glass of wine and place it down. “That was delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, any time.” He smiles. “How’s the job going?”
I lean back. This furniture’s well made, built to stand the test of time. “Good. Actually, I was hoping to ask you about this one kid, David.”
“Unfortunate name.” Carter starts to refill my glass. “So you came here on business?”
Shoot.
“No, of course not.” God knows why, but I’m blushing. I swallow hard and continue. “All this poor kid wants is a lesson from an ice hockey great, but do you think anyone wants to do it? All these players are like ‘yeah, sure,’ and invariably when I come to cash in, their schedule has changed or they have other commitments. I mean, come on.”
“The team’s changed quite a bit since I went inside,” Carter says, filling his own glass. “I don’t know many players in the Canucks at the moment, but I’ll ask, if you like—anything I can do to help.”
I lick my lips, the bitter tannins of the wine still fresh. “Actually, I was sort of hoping you might be able to help?”
He registers, pointing to himself. “You want me to give this kid a lesson?”
“He’s coming to Vancouver with his mom in a day or two to see relatives. It would be the perfect opportunity, a half-hour of your time, max.”
Carter leans back, arms wide, all those juicy mini muscles flexing and pulling in very right ways. “I haven’t played hockey in years, Wren. I don’t know if you noticed, but I was sort of in jail. I doubt that would fare well with this kid’s mother.”
“She just wants her boy to be happy.”
“What’s he got, the kid?”
“A rare form of cancer.”
He exhales, cheeks puffed out. “Okay,” he agrees. “But only for you. I said I’ll do anything to help, and I’m a man of my word.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “Seriously, Carter. He’s going to be over the moon.”
“If I can even remember how to take a slapshot.”
I bring my glass to my mouth, let the edge of it press against my lower lip. “I’m sure it will all come back, like riding a bike.”
“Says the girl who didn’t learn to ride a bike until she was seventeen.”
I blush again, the wine not helping. I’m halfway to a human beet here.
I check my watch. “Anyhow, I should really be going. My flight’s tomorrow.”
He stands, starting to clear the table. “You don’t want dessert? It’s a long haul back to the city.”
I don’t know why, but this invitation sounds oddly sexual.
Only because you are a pervert.
“No… thanks,” I reply, standing.
“You can stay the night if you’d like.” He realizes his mistake. “I mean, I don’t mean… Fuck, you know.”
I hang my head, suddenly transformed into a sheepish schoolgirl. “No, I understand, and thank you, for the offer, but I should really get back.”
He fumbles in his pocket for his cell. “I’ll call a taxi, or I can drive you myself?”
“A taxi will be fine.” I smile.
He holds the cell, but he’s looking at me, trying to figure something out. “You’re not wearing anything purple.”
“Oh, that,” I laugh. “The whole purple thing died out a while back.”
“I liked it,” he says, smiling. “It was… you.”
“So was living off Nutella sandwiches and buying those damn Kinder Surprise treasure eggs all the time from that weird tobacco shop down the road.”
Carter laughs, bringing his hands together, his biceps flexing. “You were still buying those things in college. It was the toys, not the chocolate, wasn’t it?”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for plastic junk.”
“That guy was selling them illegally you know.”
“They were illegal?”
“Sure are. Something about them being a choking hazard.”
My eyes drop to Carter’s crotch, to something else that could be a choking hazard.
And there you do diving back into the gutter again.
“You had a whole shelf of them, of contraband,” Carter continues. “What a badass you were back then.”
Why do I feel like I’m standing here naked? “They’re in a box now. David wasn’t keen on displaying them in our designer apartment.”
There’s an awkward silence before Carter speaks. “But you still eat Nutella sandwiches, right?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t had one in years. It’s just like the purple thing. It was childish.”
“Says who? It always thought it brought out the color in…” He smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets, the waistband of his jeans dropping in the process and, praise Him, the trail to the forbidden land on display. “Forget it.”
I smile back, this whole tiny conversation way off the awkward meter.
Why? I ask myself.
And I don’t know. I really don’t.
He holds up his cell. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch as he heads into the back of the cabin, the way his butt is bundled into those jeans even better than I remember it.
I scald myself. Not happening, Wren. Never in a million years. If there was ever a ship that has sailed, that’s it—The SS Carter White.
Carter
Wren and I are at Queen Elizabeth park. We’ve got one of those red and white rugs, champagne, strawberries, even the woven god-damn basket. The sky’s cerulean. Children play ahead of us with a kite.
I hold her cheek, the bubbles from the champagne continuing to pop on the surface of my tongue. I nev
er knew something could be so soft. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her. I don’t need lines or fancy Shakespearian sonnets. Not now.
Something pulls at her, tugs her from my hand.
Panic fills her face. The sky turns sour, the children gone.
“Wren!” I shout, as she’s dragged further.
I try to move, but I’m glued into place. I’m paralyzed.
“Wren!” I call, harder still.
Something is laughing.
“Carter,” she shouts back, reaching for me.
The color that was so profuse only moments ago is swallowed up into an inky, all-consuming black.
She’s gone.
I’m alone.
I reach out my hand, my fingers brushing the cinder blocks that make up the wall of my cell.
“No!”
I sit up covered in a heavy sweat.
It’s one-twenty-five AM.
I look beside myself, but there’s no Wren. She took a taxi back to Vancouver hours ago.
It’s raining hard outside, drops chiming against the window pane.
I rub my face.
Something’s not right.
I stand and move to the window.
The rain’s so thick it’s hard to make anything out, but further up the road that leads down to the cabin I see angular, man-made lines, chrome—things that do not belong.
I stand and open the wardrobe, taking out the double-barreled shotgun I keep inside.
Slowly, I make my way into the main room of the cabin. Back against the wall, I peer through the front window.
There are two men outside approaching the house. One of them has a crowbar in his hand.
I draw in a breath.
Fuck.
I spin forwards and kick the door open, stepping out into the rain with the shotgun raised.
The men stop, the rain continuing to drum around us. It stings my eyes, runs down my chest in rivulets.
“Drop it,” I shout.
The two men exchange a look before the one on the left drops the crowbar.
“Hands, in the air, now.”
They lift their hands slowly skywards.
I come down the stairs and approach them keeping the shotgun level, moving in a wide circle around them. They’re wearing wife beaters, now translucent.
