Misadventures of a Curvy Girl

by Sierra Simone

  However, talking to him may come sooner than I planned. I get downstairs to find both men waiting for me in the kitchen, which is not normal.

  “I made breakfast,” Ben says, pulling out a chair for me and presenting me with a mug of coffee and then a plate of irresistible farm food. Fried mushrooms, eggs, and bacon, with a thick slab of toast, butter melting on top.

  “Thanks!” I take the plate, and I’m about to demolish the toast when I notice them looking at me.

  I’ve never liked being watched while I’m eating. It makes me immediately and terribly self-conscious, as if I’m doing something wrong by it. As if I should have refused the food or asked for raw kale and sunflower seeds instead.

  But there’s nothing about Caleb or Ben that looks anything other than their normal handsome and slightly-obsessed-with-me selves right now. Caleb has his usual bearded grin as he sits next to me, and Ben his usual hungry gaze as he sits on the other side.

  Relax, Ireland. They aren’t Brian and your sister. They’re not judging you.

  It’s still hard to take that first bite, but Ben’s look of masculine pride as I moan around his meal is worth it. They love to take care of me—I’m in danger of being downright spoiled. They wash my hair in the shower, they launder my clothes, and they pack my bags. They plug my phone and laptop into chargers if I forget to at night, and they put jars and vases full of fresh sunflowers in every room simply because they know sunflowers make me smile. They give me the second-best spot on the couch—Greta-dog gets the first-best—and then, of course, there are the hours and hours of mind-blowing sex.

  So it’s not unusual for them to pamper me with a delicious meal, but it is unusual for them not to be working right now. For them to be here watching me eat instead of out in the fields or in town, or even working on restoring the tavern now that some of the insurance money has trickled in.

  I glance between them, wondering if I should stop eating.

  “Move in with us,” Caleb blurts out, and Ben groans.

  “We were going to wait until after she ate,” he says irritably. “Remember?”

  I swallow and look at them both. They are deadly earnest, sitting on the literal edges of their seats with green and brown eyes trained on me.

  “You aren’t serious,” I say weakly.

  “We’ve never been more serious about anything,” Ben says after giving Caleb a let-me-handle-this look. “We’re in love with you.”

  My mouth drops open.

  Caleb laughs. “Peach, it can’t be that much of a surprise. We can’t keep our hands off you, we call you constantly when you’re away, and we never let you out of our sight when you’re here. Of course we’re in love with you.”

  “I just—I—” I’m stammering and also trying to keep my chin from quivering. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

  Both boys blink at me with such sweet surprise that I have to rub at my nose to fight off the sudden about-to-cry sting there. And then before I can do or say anything else, I’m being yanked into a fierce embrace between the two of them, and even on their knees around me they’re still tall enough that I feel completely surrounded.

  I bury my face into Caleb’s neck, rubbing against his soft beard.

  “We’ve been in love since the moment we met you,” he says softly.

  Ben is moving my hair aside to kiss the nape of my neck with firm, warm lips.

  “We’ve known you were ours since day one,” Caleb continues. “Please say yes, Ireland. Please say you love us back. Move in with us.”

  My heart’s so full it feels like it will burst.

  How can this be real? How can this be true?

  And how is it that I’ve never wanted anything as much as to be with these two men for the rest of forever?

  “I love you back,” I mumble against Caleb’s skin. “I think I’ve been in love with the both of you since the first day too.”

  I’m rewarded for this admission, squeezed and kissed and loved on. Petted and stroked until I feel all spoiled again.

  “You haven’t answered us about moving in,” Ben says. “Why? Is it work? Family?”

  I can work remotely, and I would probably pay money to not see my sister, so it’s not either of those things. But I’m not really sure what it is either. Some kind of lingering insecurity, maybe? This stubborn doubt that I don’t really belong with them because of my body?

  I hate these gross thoughts. I banish them to the back of my mind and try to focus on what I know instead—Caleb and Ben love me and I love them, and there’s no practical reason keeping me from moving in other than that it’s fast and this relationship is still so new. Well, that and one person in our bed can’t seem to stay there for the whole night.

  Maybe this is my chance to be brave…and to nudge Ben into bravery along with me.

  “I’ll say yes,” I decide, “if Ben can sleep the whole night with us.”

  Behind me, Ben’s body goes still and stonelike. “Pardon?” he asks, as if he didn’t hear correctly.

  “I think you heard me,” I reply gently. “If we can find a way for you to sleep through the night with us, I’ll move in.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ben

  Ireland is looking at me over her shoulder, her blue eyes clear and serious, and Caleb’s looking at me the same way. All concern and desire. It makes my chest tighten, and I stand up to get some space while I think.

  “I didn’t think anyone cared much one way or the other,” I say, going over to the counter and bracing my hands against it. I take a few deep breaths, trying to organize my thoughts, which are currently in a defensive swirl. “It’s not like we fuck any less because I sleep alone.”

  “It’s not about fucking,” Ireland says, and I hear her stand up and walk over to me. She slides her hands around my waist and leans her head against my back, molding her curves to me.

  It feels so good. Good enough that I realize how tense my body is, as if I’m fortifying myself against some kind of danger.

  I inhale, forcing myself to remember that I’m here, not in Marjah listening to the sporadic crackle of bullets and the distant thuds of mortar shells. I’m here at the farm with the two people I love. Two people I’m trying to love better than I have been.

  “I have trouble sleeping,” I admit, and even that admission is harder than it should be. I don’t know why, when Ireland’s arguably seen the worst of my baggage already, but I can’t stand that I’m not able to do something as normal as sleep with the people I love—or hell, sleep properly at all. It makes me feel juvenile and antisocial and abnormal, and I hate it.

  But Ireland deserves the truth, and I made promises to her that I plan on keeping.

  I take a deep breath and keep going. “It’s hard to get to sleep, and I have nightmares when I do. Bad nightmares that leave me sweaty and thrashing and kicking. The TV and lights help sometimes but not always. I want to sleep with you two—God, I want to so much—but I’m terrified of hurting you while I’m dreaming—and on top of that, it’s not fair to make your sleep worse just so I can share a bed with you. You deserve rest.”

  “And you don’t?” Ireland murmurs.

  I make an impatient noise. “Not if it makes it harder for you to sleep!”

  “I can handle myself,” she says stubbornly.

  “Me too,” says a deep voice next to me. I look up into the soft-green eyes of my best friend and lover.

  “It’s not that easy,” I say. “I don’t even like being around myself at night. I would never ask someone else to be.”

  “But you’re not asking. We are.” Ireland squeezes me tighter and then slips under my arm so she can peer up into my face. “Please, Ben? Can we try it?”

  What man on earth could resist these hopeful big blue eyes? This soft, pouting mouth? I’m nothing but weakness when it comes to her, and I think she knows it because her pleading expression starts looking more and more triumphant the longer we stare at each other.

  Finally I
heave a giant breath. “Okay,” I agree, and I know I sound reluctant as fuck—because I am. “We’ll try tonight. And then you’ll move in with us.”

  The firmness in my words leaves no room for argument, and it sounds more like a military command than a boyfriend asking someone he loves to share his life. But I don’t care. I don’t care at all because she gives me a sweet smile and an even sweeter “Yes, Ben.”

  And then breakfast is left to cool on the table as we yank each other upstairs to fuck in the bed we’ll all share tonight.

  The thought of tonight haunts me as I toil over the new floors in the tavern this afternoon. As I work, my mind fills with worrisome scenarios ranging from good-old-fashioned insomnia to the humiliating release of tears I sometimes wake to find on my face.

  It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal, I repeat to myself as I work on fitting and gluing the floorboards down. People sleep with their lovers all the time, and surely I’m not the only person in the history of human relationships to have trouble sleeping. Ireland and Caleb love me, I remind myself and feel the tight anxiety in my chest loosen a little.

  I want to make them happy. I want to be closer to them.

  I can do this.

  I’ve survived years of bullying in school, and I’ve survived war zones that have since become legendary for how hellish they were. Fists and bullets and fire—I’ve lived through it all.

  I can survive the night snuggled against someone I love.

  The tavern door opens, letting in a welcome rectangle of warm sunlight and fresh air, and I look up to see Ireland in the doorway wearing the short skirt Caleb and I beg her to wear all the time and a blouse thing tied around her waist, showing off a tempting tease of pale skin. With her blue lipstick and colorful clothes, she’s like kissable, lickable city-girl candy, and I want to wrap my fist in all that dark, silky hair and press my mouth against all her sugar. My cock is pulsing to life just looking at her.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm and get to my feet, taking off my work gloves so I can grab at her and kiss her. She giggles as I do, fussing about her lipstick and halfheartedly trying to keep her distance from my sweaty, sawdusted body, but she eventually gives in, letting me crowd her against the wall until she’s moaning into my mouth and arching her soft breasts into my hands.

  The door opens again and Caleb walks in. “Oh fuck, you guys,” he says in a husky voice. “Fuck yeah.”

  “No, no, no,” Ireland protests as Caleb joins us and starts in on her neck. “We just fucked this morning. Twice!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I mumble, brushing my thumbs across her hard, needy nipples. My cock is raging to be inside her, and with her short, flirty skirt, it’s all too easy to push my hand between her legs to find out if she’s wet enough to fuck.

  She is.

  She moans again as I slide my thumb under her panties and start rolling it against her stiff little clit.

  Caleb’s already grinding his erection against her hip, taking up where I left off on teasing her nipples, and I whisper in her ear, “We could do it a third time…and a fourth time…and a fifth time…right here against this wall. You coming so hard on our cocks that you can’t even hold yourself up…”

  Her eyes are fluttering almost all the way closed, and for a minute, I think she’s going to agree, but then her phone buzzes in her skirt pocket and she jolts.

  “You guys,” she admonishes, pushing us back with a flat palm to each of our chests. “I’m supposed to meet a reporter from the Star at any minute, and I can’t do that with lipstick all over my face and a used condom in my pocket.”

  “Well, obviously we’d throw the condom away after—”

  Her hand moves from my chest to my mouth. “Your talking privileges are suspended for the time being.” Her half smile fades a little. “It’s important to me, Ben. My pictures of Holm and all the rebuilding that’s been happening here could be the start of something exciting, and I don’t want to fuck it up. Now where can I fix my lipstick?”

  Caleb points her to the bathroom—which has running water and a mirror, even if it’s still trashed from the storm—and then turns back to me with a thoughtful expression. “You think we should go with her to meet this reporter? Like emotional support?”

  I’m already walking toward the bag I’ve got sitting on a makeshift table made out of sawhorses and plywood. I rummage for a clean shirt and wipe the sweat and blue lipstick off my face. I’m thinking of her anxious, hopeful expression just now, and also about the way she’s been all over this town taking pictures of both the tragic and the hopeful.

  I wonder again why she isn’t already doing something she obviously loves so much.

  “Yeah. I think we should.”

  The reporter and her accompanying photographer are friendly and engaging. The reporter interviews Ireland for a good forty-five minutes as we stroll around the recovering but still visibly scarred Main Street while the photographer drifts away and back again to take pictures of various buildings and piles of construction materials. Caleb and I more or less hang back, and I’m sure we look like country boy versions of bodyguards as we trail behind our girl and cast looming six-foot-plus shadows along the street. The photographer seems a little nervous around us, but the reporter is just curious, peeking back over her shoulder and then back at Ireland, as if trying to guess if we’re related or something. It’s strangely irritating, but I force myself to remember that two is not the usual number of boyfriends to have. And also that Ireland wants to impress this person, so it won’t do her any good if I spend the rest of the afternoon scowling.

  Ireland herself is adorably oblivious to our presence as we go, so used to us following her around like overgrown—and overprotective—puppies that she only spares us a glance every now and then. But each glance is elated and grateful and makes me fall in love with her all over again.

  “Well,” the reporter says, hitting stop on her phone’s recording app and giving Ireland a warm smile, “I think that’s probably all I need. We’ll just get some photos of you and then head on out.”

  Ireland freezes, and I can see the moment the panic hits her like a lightning bolt. She swallows, and there seems to be effort in keeping her voice light when she says, “Photos of me?”

  “Of course!” the reporter chirps. “I think it will really drive home the point of the piece, which is all about the girl behind the camera, you know? The face behind the pictures that everyone’s been talking about.”

  It’s astonishing how fast the well-kissed, confident, animated woman taking them around the town vanishes. In her place is a woman who looks terrified, tugging unconsciously at her hemline and rounding her shoulders ever so slightly, as if she’s trying to hunch into herself.

  As if she’s trying to hide.

  I don’t understand it, but every protective instinct in me roars to life, and they must be in Caleb too because he’s already taking a step forward, as if to put himself between Ireland and danger. Danger in this case being a chirpy, five-foot-four reporter.

  I step forward too and put my hand against Ireland’s back.

  “Do you want your…friends…in the picture?” the reporter asks, looking at us with avid interest.

  “Boyfriends,” I correct automatically and then realize I’ve made a mistake. Ireland stiffens against my hand at the same time as the reporter’s eyes gleam with unmistakable delight. I can practically see her brain whirring with ways to work this juicy tidbit into the story.

  Shit.

  “Boyfriends?” she repeats and gives us the oh cool, uh-huh, uh-huh, I’m pretending to think this is totally normal nod and smile. “And you met after the storm?”

  I can feel the deep breath Ireland takes. “Actually, no,” she answers, and she answers with a lifted chin and the confident, cheerful smile I’ve come to know and love. “We met before the tornado.” And she gives a charming and PG-rated account of how we all came to know each other and how the storm brought us together.
>
  The reporter can’t hide her excitement. “This is such a cute story,” she gushes. “Can I make it part of the feature? I mean, with a picture of the three of you…”

  I’m about to say no on Ireland’s behalf. It’s clear there’s something about being in a picture that makes her uncomfortable, and I won’t have anything making her unhappy, but she beats me to an answer.

  “Yes,” she says, and while I can sense her bravery, I can also sense her pride. “You can put it in the article, with a picture of the three of us.”

  And when Caleb and I arrange ourselves around her, our arms crossing behind her back to wrap around her waist, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Not just the holding of her between us, which isn’t new, but doing it publicly.

  I give her a kiss on the head between flashes of the camera.

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  “I’m real proud for the world to know I’m your boyfriend,” Caleb adds quietly.

  Ireland flushes a happy flush, and her smile for the camera goes brighter.

  “Okay, I think we’ve got it,” the reporter says cheerfully after the photographer gives her a nod. “I’m going to work fast—we’re hoping to get this up by late evening!”

  It’s enough to send another nervous look flitting across Ireland’s face, but the reporter and photographer are quick with their goodbyes, and there’s no chance for Ireland to change her mind about anything. When they leave, she turns back to us, chewing on her blue lower lip. “Do you think I did okay? Did I talk enough about the rebuilding and the storm? And the picture—”

  “You did great, peach,” Caleb says, wrapping his big hands around her shoulders and dropping a kiss onto her hair. “You did perfect.”

  She sighs like she doesn’t believe him but isn’t willing to argue and turns back to the tavern. We follow, stepping onto the sidewalk right as Mrs. Parry’s nephew walks past with a bucket of paint in each hand, headed for the little volunteer library next to the tavern. I give him a nod, although something about the way the older man eyes Ireland has me pressing my hand more firmly against her back, those protective instincts still rearing strong.