CHAPTER SIX
CARTER
First thing the following morning, I call into town for shotgun shells. After all, what’s the point of having an unloaded gun lying around? Bluffing is all well and good, but if those goons come back it’s going to be with a more than a crowbar and threats.
I’m not sure whether the guy at the gun shop recognizes me, but he’s happy to take my money. Back in the Jeep, I keep an eye on my mirrors for the Sheriff, but clearly he’s too busy down at the local strip joint to be doing the community any service today.
Wren’s curled up by the fire when I get in, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
I place the shopping down. “How do you feel about s’mores?”
She turns to face me, smiling. There’s something about her in this environment that’s irresistible. “I haven’t had a s’more in years.”
“When was the last time you went camping?”
She turns back to the fire. “David wasn’t big on the outdoors.”
I take a seat beside her. “I remember. He was always worried the drop bears were going to get him.”
“And you and your father kept the lie going.”
“Until he was like ten. I think he still believed in Santa, too.”
“It’s nice here,” she says. “It’s quiet.”
“Not all the time. The local wildlife can get pretty loud when they want to.”
“The drop bears, you mean? What was it they sounded like?”
“A cat being strangled.”
“Right,” she laughs. “Hey, you never did tell me what you’re planning to do now you’re out?”
“Grow a beard and brood. I thought we cleared that up?”
She turns, raising an eyebrow at me. “You’re an idiot, but seriously. Tell me. Come on.”
I take a seat at the table. “An old teammate of mine owns the ice rink now, offered me a job driving the Zamboni.”
“The what?” Genuine puzzlement.
“You don’t know what a Zamboni is?”
“Is it any relation to a trombone?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I have to say, your lack of knowledge when it comes to the sporting world is still the most endearing thing ever. But no. It’s a machine, to clean the ice.”
She turns back to the fire. I’d do anything to get under that blanket, let the fire warm our bodies. “A steady job—That’s good, but what do you want to do long term?”
“Easy. You’re starting to sound like my father.”
“Sorry. I just think you have potential, that’s all.”
“You can have all the potential you want, but as soon as someone reads ‘penitentiary’ on your resume, they’re walking the other way.”
“What about playing again? How’s your knee?”
I pat it. “Never been better, but my skating days are over.”
“Why?” she questions.
It’s a good point. I’m in far better physical shape than I before I went inside. Working out was about all you could do to pass the time given the prison library consisted only of 1970s National Geographics.
“You’re looking…” Her eyes run over me. “Healthy, so why not get out there? It doesn’t have to be serious, but I think it would be good for you, to skate again.”
“You think so, do you, Coach?”
She pretends to blow a whistle. I’m wishing it was my cock instead. “It’s an order.”
“You’re thinking of the military, little bird.”
My pet name for her just slips out, but she doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, she’s smiling more than usual, and I’m loving it. Seeing her face light up like that makes me happier than anything else.
“Promise me,” she says.
“Or what?” I push back.
“Or I’ll make you get down and give me twenty.”
Lashes of my tongue, I want to add. I’ll get down, pry those beautiful legs apart, and lick until you’re tugging at my hair, begging me for my cock.
Thankfully, I manage to hold myself back. “Whatever you say, Coach. Speaking of the ice, I’ve got to head to the rink this afternoon. You’ll be okay here?”
She looks around. “I’ve got a blanket, a fire, a bear-skin rug. What more could a girl ask for?”
I’ve got an idea, but again I hold my tongue. “I’ll make some calls of my own today, see what I can find out about your situation.”
“Thanks.” She smiles.
“Any time.” I smile back.
*
Outside the rink, cell to my ear, it soon becomes clear any contacts I had before I went inside have since dried up or withered away entirely. I can dig no deeper than a cursory Google search.
And it is bad. David went too far this time. Dad hasn’t called, and maybe he never will, because this will cut him deep, his golden boy screwing the company like this.
It’s Mom who’s going to wind up the collateral damage here.
And Wren.
I don’t like leaving her alone at the cabin, but I’ve got no choice. I have to work.
The last of the kids’ session is clearing out as I head in, Steve handing me the keys to the place. “She’s all yours, buddy.”
He goes to walk away, but I take his arm, pulling him back. “Hey, Steve, I was hoping to ask you something.”
“Shoot,” he says with a smile.
“You think I could get out there a little, before I start up the Zamboni?”
He looks confused. “To skate?”
“It’s stupid, I know, but I’ve been thinking about it.”
Steve shrugs, places his hand on my shoulder. “Buddy, as long as that ice is clean come morning, you can host a damn orgy here for all I care.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
He walks away, switching off the front lights as he goes. “Have fun.”
I get my old training bag from the Jeep.
I lace up my old skates. It’s a strange feeling. Once they were part of my feet. Now they feel like strangers.
But the moment those blades touch the ice, from the very first push, it all comes back.
Like riding a fucking bike.
I skate into the center of the rink, my stick trailing along the ice, the slick sccchhhit of it is music to my ears.
I drop a puck onto the ice. It sits there waiting, an inky marker.
I draw my stick back high into the air, hunkering down on my legs for force.
Do it.
My stick collects the ice a good ten inches back from the puck, enough to provide the necessary flex to send the puck absolutely belting into the goal.
It’s fire and fucking brimstone, baby.
I’m back.
*
Later, I come through the door of the cabin elated.
Wren’s waiting at the table with two cups of coffee. She pushes a mug towards me. “It’s the best substitute for Gatorade I could find.”
I take it. “Thanks.” I notice she’s been crying, her eyes heavy. “Everything okay?”
I see her cell, a news site pulled up with the headline ‘White Group Shares Drop on Scandal.’
I place the coffee down. “You didn’t.”
She shrugs her shoulders, looking at her cell. “My finger slipped, and before you know it…”
“Oh, I’ve used that line before, but seriously, Wren? Looking at that shit ain’t going to do you any favors. It’s poison.”
She’s shaking her head. “I know, I know, but I thought maybe there would be some sympathy out there.”
“You thought someone would start you up a GoFundMe page, start a vigil?”
Too harsh, bro.
I shift closer. “This is going to be hard to hear, but as far as everyone out there is concerned, you are guilty by association.”
“But I didn’t do anything. I am the wronged party.”
I put my hands up. “You’re preaching to the fucking choir, but like I said.” I tap her cell for emphasis. “This is all the public’s got to go on, and boy do they love drama. Take it from someone who spent his share of time in the limelight.”
“I guess you would know.”
“You would be right.”
She attempts a smile, using her fingers for air quotes. “How was ‘training’?”
“Fun.”
She’s in her PJs, the top two buttons undone and no bra beneath. She’s becoming increasingly relaxed around here, which is great, but I don’t know how long my cock’s going to hold out before it starts punching holes through the wall. “So you got back on the ice?”
I shift again to hide my erection. “I did. Like you said, it all came back.”
“You didn’t glide out there and fall flat on your face, did you?”
I look at her sideways. “I suppose skating’s one of those things you never forget.”
“I never did skate enough to remember. I was too busy dreaming up ways to piss Dad off.”
It’s true. Wren’s mother got sick real fast, died less than a year after she was diagnosed. She took it hard, acting out, especially when her Dad found a new woman not six months later. I don’t think she’s ever truly forgiven him for it.
“You should come down,” I say, keeping the invitation open.
“To the rink?”
“Yeah. Take it from me, cabin fever is alive and well. Hang around here long enough and you’ll be Jack Nicholson running around with an axe.”
“I suppose I better come down then, lest I turn into a psychopath.”
There’s another pause. I hadn’t realized how close we were, my legs almost inside hers, the space between us closing, closing…
This is it, I think, starting to lean in, my cock bucking against my pants desperate to be released.
I see worlds in her eyes, wonders waiting to be explored, but as I begin to tilt my head, she pulls back, clearing her throat and standing. She stumbles on her chair, bending over at the waist to pick it up from the floor.
Her ass is right here rounded out in flannel, two peachy globes begging for my hands… or cock.
Down, boy.
She stands, muttering, red-faced once more. “I, um, I’m going to hit the hay. Are you sure you want to keep sleeping on the couch?”
I’d rather sleep with you. “My cell mattress was half an inch thick. I think I’ll survive.”
“Tomorrow,” she says, “at the rink.”
“At the rink,” I repeat.
She’s backing away slowly, shoulder bumping into the doorframe. “Good night.”
“Good night,” I reply. I watch her go, her door closing and with it yet another chance at the one thing in this world that’s seems always just outside my grasp.