Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  There’s one beautiful image of Emma, at fifteen months old, cradled in Cam’s arms, sitting in the rocker in her bedroom. He’s giving her a bottle, gazing down upon her. She has a heart monitor attached to her, but otherwise the photo appears like any normal father-daughter moment that might have transpired, anywhere in the world. A tired dad, feeding his precious first-born.

  Camden slowly turns the pages, his eyes moist with recollection.

  “Jesus, how did you do all this?” he asks, paging through to the newer images, photographs I began taking when I arrived on the ranch this past autumn. “How did you find the time?”

  “Digital printing makes it possible,” I say.

  He gives me a look. “I do know some things. I might spend all day on the ranch, but I’m familiar with photo calendars and all that. But this is beautiful. It took a lot of time.”

  “It was my pleasure.” I try not to hold his gaze too long when I look at him, for fear this moment might shatter and break into a million pieces. Like it was never real, like none of it was ever meant to be.

  “Without Emma’s mom around, I don’t have time to do things like this. Not this nice, anyway.”

  “I ordered a few of them. I’m giving one to your mom, too.”

  “Thank you,” Cam says, touching the pages reverentially.

  The last portion of the book is all stuff I captured. Emma playing. Emma riding. Emma on her way to or from pre-school. Emma with her grandmother, her father, with Amanda, and Jacob. Emma at dinner or breakfast, or eating a peanut butter sandwich. All the images are basically Emma being herself, free of the complicated medical implications of her earliest years. She’s better now, and it shows. She’s also a happy little girl, thanks to her doting daddy and the very big life he provides for her.

  Camden likes his gift. That pleases me beyond measure.

  “Come here,” he insists, sliding the book off his lap onto the bed, pulling me onto him. He situates me on his lap, facing him, with his hands wrapped around my hips, his blue eyes peering up into mine.

  “What am I gonna do with you?” he asks, “You and all your secret projects, and secret talents. You never stop surprising me.”

  “You’ll figure something out,” I quip, sliding my arms over his broad, muscled shoulders. I love the way he feels. His physicality and strength is breathtaking, and the fact that he’s so blissfully unaware of his own remarkable beauty is even more so. Most guys with his presence and looks are narcissistic dicks. But Camden—once you get past his ‘strong, silent type’ defenses—is as sweet and tender as a kitten. He’s easy to snuggle.

  “I can think of a few things to do with you,” he purrs, nipping my lip. Then he pulls back, his expression shifting, recalling something important. “But not before I tell you some news.”

  His news is the titillating bit of intelligence related by his uncle about the Rocky Mountain Breeder’s Association. It’s easy to see by his animation as he tells me the story that this is a big deal for him, but I only begin to understand how it affects me when he says,

  “I want you to go with us to Big Sky. I’m sure they’re having the thing at some fancy resort. They always have a band for the Breeder’s Ball, with lots of people from all over, all dressed to the nines for the night. We’ll dance ‘til our feet hurt, then go sit in a hot tub and make love ‘til the sun comes up.”

  He wants me to be his date? At the biggest social event in his world?

  That’s not keeping us on the down-low.

  My expression betrays me.

  “Oh, come on baby, we can’t keep this thing under wraps forever,” he almost whines, absently squeezing my butt-cheeks with his strong hands. “I’m so proud of you, I want to show you to the whole world.”

  What will that mean for us? What new pressures will it put on our arrangement? Will Emma think I’m trying to be her mother? What will Cam’s mom think? She seems to like me, but that could change overnight if she thinks I’m trying to move in, forgetting my place.

  “Cam, I don’t know. It just complicates everything…”

  He shakes his head at me. “Life is complicated,” he says. “But some things are simple. I’m crazy about you. And I’m tired of sneaking around.”

  If he didn’t care about me—genuinely care—I don’t think he’d be willing to out us. What was it Kara said? That I should give him a chance to show? He’s shown me plenty. He’s still showing.

  What am I hiding from? What am I afraid of? What’s the worst thing that can happen?

  “Okay,” I relent. “But I don’t have anything to wear to a ball. I’ve never been to a ball, and I don’t know how to dance.”

  Camden grins at me, “We can solve the dress problem pretty easy. And baby, I can teach you how to two-step in about fifteen minutes flat.”

  His confidence is astounding, and infectious, too. For some reason, I’m inclined to believe he can teach me to dance.

  * * *

  I’ve never been much for playing dress-up, but I’ll admit, getting cowgirl formal for the Rocky Mountain Breeder’s Association shindig, has been a lot of fun.

  Camden gave me his American Express card and told me not to come back until I had everything essential to making a big splash in a room full of people he wants to impress. Amanda, Cam’s mom, and I, went to Missoula for the weekend and we had a blast. Between hitting every decent dress and boot shop in town, we also managed to eat and drink our way into the hearts and minds of half the men in the city.

  Cam told his mom he asked me to the Breeders Association gala. To my surprise, she was happy to hear it. When we were in Missoula, a little tipsy from downing half a pitcher of Margaritas before the appetizers even made it to the table, Beck told me she knew that Cam had taken a particular shine to me, but she didn’t know how long it would take him to get around to acting on it.

  Amanda sat with us, her ears perked but not saying a word. I knew when our eyes met that she knew already, and I wondered how. She told me later that Tyler figured it out at Christmas, and Camden admitted it to him then. That’s the same night Cam asked me to go to this thing with him. I guess he realized there wasn’t much point in trying to keep our secret if people were already putting it together.

  I ask her if anyone else knows, and she says she doesn’t think so. Then she tells me that it won’t be long before the whole town knows, because Beck Davis likes to talk, and her son is her favorite topic of conversation.

  “Take some advice from someone who’s known Cam a long time,” Amanda says as kindly as she can. “Take it slow. Give yourself time to get to know him and let him get to know you, before you start thinking down the road.”

  I nod appreciatively. It’s not advice that’s necessary, as I’m not thinking down the road. I think the world of Camden, and of Emma, but I know that the universe laughs when I start making plans. For now, I’m just the babysitter with benefits. Emma starts school in less than eight months. My contract is up then.

  I tell Amanda that I’ll be surprised if I make it that long.

  “Why do you say that?” she asks, puzzled.

  I tell her the truth, what I honestly believe.

  “He needs a wife, and a mother for Emma,” I say. “He probably wants more children. He needs a partner to help him expand the ranch. I haven’t the first clue about horses or ranching, or even how to ride well enough to be a decent companion to Emma.

  “Cam and I… well, it’s fun right now. But you know… When all that wears off and he gets bored, he’ll see how different we are, and he’ll realize this was just a passing diversion to get him out of his rut and back on the path toward finding someone better suited to the life he wants. I’m good at managing my expectations.”

  Amanda’s expression turns thoughtful. She shakes her head a little. “Oh, darlin’ you really don’t know Cam. My advice to take it slow was for his sake, not yours. What I was trying to say is that if you’re going to let him down, do it easy. Let him see it coming from a long way off.
Otherwise, it’ll break his heart in two, and he’s already had enough heartbreaks to last a lifetime.”

  Now there’s something new to consider. Maybe Cam’s friends measure heartbreak differently than we do back east. Or maybe there’s more to Camden Davis’ golden boy past than I know about.

  Yet.

  * * *

  Jim Burke—Tyler’s father, who owns a big spread on the west side of Mission Valley—and Camden, along with two other horse breeders in the area, including Cam’s uncle, Bryant Campbell, all pitch in together and charter a private jet to Bozeman for the weekend. We climb on board the luxurious, leather and teak adorned thing, its metal lines sleek, reeking of excess. The party begins before the hatch is pulled closed and safely secured.

  With all of us together, there are eight on the plane, plus the crew. It’s crowded and loud, and the engines haven’t even fired up.

  “So, this is the filly your Mamma was going on about,” Mr. Burke says, shaking Cam’s hand as we take our seats facing him. His eyes scan me head to toe, then he takes my hand between his two and holds it. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder you’re saddled up next to this upstart punk here.”

  He winks at Cam and then erupts into laughter, pleased with himself.

  There’s a uniformed hostess on board who begins pouring drinks as the jet taxis slowly toward a clear runway. Everyone here knows everyone else very well, so there’s no lull in the conversation from the time the wheels lift-up until the time the plane rolls to a stop at the Bozeman-Yellowstone airport. The trip takes just over an hour, arcing over the tops of snow-capped mountains so close outside my window that they look as if I could reach out and touch them.

  Between Mr. Burke and Mr. Campbell, every detail of our accommodations is addressed. We’re met at the absurdly tiny airport by two chauffeur-driven vans bearing the Yellowstone Club logo on their doors and rear panel. The first portion of the hour-long drive to the resort is accomplished without much to recommend it, but soon we’re in the mountains on a winding, two lane road following a rushing, cold-water river up the grade into the peaks of the Rockies. The higher we climb the more astounding the views become.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Cam whispers in my ear, leaning close. My eyes are fixed out the window, but I’m grateful for his arm around my shoulder. The heights outside are dizzying and the road is winding.

  “More beautiful than I ever imagined.”

  And it is. Even from inside the dark tinted windows of a livery van, it’s breathtaking.

  When we arrive at our destination, I understand why this place is named Big Sky. It’s situated on a mountain peak high in the air, overlooking what appears to be the rest of the continent below it, with massive mountains encircling it in every direction.

  “Welcome to the Buffett Glenn Lodge, folks,” the driver announces, swinging the van around into a circular drive. I get my first glimpse of the place, and it’s magnificent. It’s a sprawling pile of granite and massive wooden beams, crowned with steeply sloping, gabled roofs reminiscent of the cascading mountains surrounding it. It’s at least five or six stories tall, but it’s difficult to estimate its full scale, as it’s built into the side of a mountain peak, wrapping around it, with wings pouring off the edges and turrets climbing into the sky.

  I don’t know much about fancy, private resorts, but it occurs to me that this place doesn’t cater to the rabble. The few people I spy as we pull up to the shining glass and polished brass main entrance, are well-dressed in expensive ski gear, looking like they just stepped out of an Winter Olympics qualifying round.

  When the van stops, I see a large placard placed between the two big doors. It reads, ‘Welcome Rocky Mountain Breeders Association 100th Anniversary, Banquet and Ball.’

  “I’ve already tagged your bags,” our driver informs us. “We’ll have them to your rooms shortly. You can check in at the main desk.”

  A doorman opens the door as we stroll inside. Cam looks down at me with a big smile, then slips his arm around my waist.

  It’s like he knows what I’m thinking and says it before I can get the words out.

  “It’s a little bit much, but the people-watching will be fun.”

  He’s spot on.

  Chapter 12

  Camden

  I had to do some serious horse trading to get this place.

  Since I waited until the last minute to decide we were going to the RMBA gala, all the good lodges and chalets were booked solid. The best I could do on my own was a hotel in Bozeman; that’s no romantic destination. I want to show Grace something she’s never seen before. I’m willing to admit it—I want to impress her.

  My uncle Bryant rented a five-bedroom condo at the lodge, reserving it more than three years in advance when he knew the gala was going to be held here. The lodge held a block of one and two-bedroom guest apartments for the RMBA. They sold out within a few weeks of the invitations to the event going out, nine months ago. Bryant offered to put up the Kicking Horse crew at his condo, which he’s using as an entertainment suite between events. I took him up on it for Jim, Tyler, and Amanda, but I asked him if there was any way he could pull some strings to get me and Grace somewhere a little more private.

  After making a few phone calls, he managed to work a trade. Another member who had one of the guest apartments, agreed to give it to me in exchange for my spot in Bryant’s condo, plus a thousand dollars. I talked him down to six-fifty over the phone.

  “You’re Camden Senior’s son through to the bone,” he said to me. “I’m still out fifteen grand for the weekend, and now I get to deal with the party crowd, and Bryant Campbell, laughing at all his own jokes. Son, you drive a hard bargain.”

  Grace looks around the small apartment, with its big-window view of the mountains beyond. The place is nice, with glowing hardwoods, a big stone hearth, and a king-sized bed in the master bedroom, opening onto a private deck with a hot tub.

  I can tell by her wide-eyed expression and her silence, she likes the place.

  “I’m sorry it’s so small,” I say. “But it’s cozy, and we’ve got it all to ourselves for the whole weekend.”

  She turns, looking at me as if I’ve uttered some outlandish tale.

  “Cam, this isn’t small.” Her eyes roam up to the cathedral ceilings, then around into the granite-top, outfitted kitchen. “This is like somebody’s house. This is incredible.”

  It seems small to me, but then again, I’m used to my rambling old house, and I wasn’t raised in city apartments, like Grace.

  If she’d stay with me forever, I’d build her a log cabin nicer than this place, up on the ridge overlooking the Kicking Horse. That way we could fool around in the hot tub while I keep one eye on the horses turned out in the pastures below. The best of both worlds.

  The little apartment is decorated with lots of snow-skiing themed imagery, from paintings on the wall, to a pair of antique wooden skis mounted over the mantle. It’s clear that most of the Lodge’s visitors come for the slopes and the speed, not for the riding trails or wildlife.

  “Do you ski?” I ask Grace.

  She shoots me a look like I’m crazy.

  “No,” she replies flatly. “Do you?”

  I shake my head. “I have horses to get me up and down mountains. Never saw the need to learn.”

  “Thank God,” she laughs, relieved. “I thought I was going to have to learn a whole new death-wish sport just to keep up with you.”

  She keeps up with me just fine, which she demonstrates to me before dinner. We christen the sprawling king-sized bed with the shades wide open on the mountain view, making as much noise as we want for the first time since we’ve been together.

  When she cums the first time, she doesn’t hold back. Instead of clenching her teeth and stifling her whines, she sings out, her tight walls sucking my cock so hard it almost makes me cum just watching her, hearing her. When it’s finally passed by, she starts laughing, completely
taken with the moment and the way we feel together, and by the fact that we’re alone and don’t have to hide what we’re doing from anyone.

  We take our time together, using the hours to relax and be real, without worrying about who might see us, or what might be overheard. When six o’clock rolls around and twilight has fallen over our outdoor view, I hate the idea of pulling myself away from the bed and Grace’s naked flesh cradled against me, but we promised the others we’d meet them for dinner at seven, and we both need a shower. Badly.

  We shower together, which is distracting and counterproductive to making it to dinner on-time.

  Grace and my mom went shopping a few weeks back, and while I was curious, I didn’t ask to see what she bought, and she didn’t offer to show me. Watching her get ready, I understand why. She was saving the surprise.