(Braden)
“What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?”
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU, “WALKING”
After almost two days on the road, last night I finally made it home, completely exhausted from the long drive. When I walked inside, evidence of Amber having crashed here was scattered about, from her thank-you note on the kitchen table to the empty peach Snapple bottle she left sitting beside it, likely giggling to herself when she did. In my bedroom, I found one of my T-shirts neatly folded at the foot of my bed and—since I’ve apparently become a total fucking nut job—I actually sniffed it. Strawberries, of course.
Once I skulked through the house like I was on an Amber-themed scavenger hunt, I dropped into bed and crashed for a good ten hours. All my restlessness, and the disquiet I couldn’t shake when I was in Oregon, feels long gone when I wake up. Maybe using the Amber-scented T-shirt she left on my bed as my own personal pillow sachet helped. If so, then Mr. Creeper, party of one? Your table is ready.
It was too late to text her when I got in last night, but it’s all I can think about the moment my eyes open this morning. I drag my phone off the nightstand and shoot her a message.
I’m back in town. Need help?
Her reply takes a bit, but just as I start to drift off into another strawberry-induced slumber, my phone beeps.
What? You’re back? You filled your tag already? You are SUCH a show-off. I want to punch you . . . or maybe do other things to you. I’m not sure. DO NOT GLOAT. I’m too tired to deal with that.
A sleepy grin slinks across my face. Feisty and frustrated. A combustible combination that would make for a good time if she were in my bed instead of on a mountain. I tap out a reply.
No gloating. Decided to come home early. Send me your coordinates. I’ll come help you.
I start to worry when five minutes pass. Then ten minutes. Eventually, twenty minutes, then just as it nears thirty, she replies.
I want your help . . . I do. And if you’d texted me yesterday, I would have taken you up on the offer. But I can’t. I have to finish this out on my own.
A string of sad-faced, teardrop-soaked emojis follow the last sentence. Everything in my chest sinks and what feels like rejection stings. Deeply enough that the selfish jerk inside me wants to fire off a rant about my hunt, the one I sacrificed, all to come home to her. Followed by a guilt trip about the vacation days I save up every year for, which I’m now going to spend stuck in my house, crawling the walls.
But I count to ten and take a deep breath, all to keep from doing anything stupid. Reason wins out when I finally start to type.
If you change your mind, text me. I’ll keep my phone on. And keep me updated. I want to know you’re safe.
Her reply?
More fucking emojis.
Well, there it is. A new low.
Charley is pissed at me.
Not that I can blame her, really. Too many days spent around the house, fussing like a cranky toddler while trying to keep busy but available just in case Amber reaches out, means I’ve become the worst version of my already-prickly self. Poor Charley normally acts as a salve to my disposition, but even her furry charms can’t salvage my current mood. She’s kept to her bed for most of the day while giving me some seriously ticked-off side-eyes. So much for unconditional love. New low. Seriously.
Launching up from the chair, I toss the book I’m reading onto the side table and set off for the kitchen to check on the wild turkey carnitas I have braising in the oven.
I spent all day yesterday trying to decide what to make for dinner today, because it’s the last day of season and Amber will be off the mountain no matter what. Based on the updates she’s sent me, she’s had a tough time finding elk, and when she finally did find a decent bull, a change in the wind blew her chances. But she’s determined to hunt straight through until the last minute, and short of a scenario in which she shoots an elk late in the day, she’ll still be here for dinner, and I want to be sure she has comfort food waiting for her. Something other than the freeze-dried meals she’s been subsiding on, because after a long hunt you’re too tired to cook but all you want is real food. Knowing that, I went into town earlier and picked up some corn tortillas, avocado, red onion, and sour cream at the store so we can use the tender shredded meat to make tacos, then grabbed a six-pack of a Mexican beer to go with it.
After taking a look at the carnitas, I set the lid back on the cast-iron pot and shut the oven door, then grab a few dog biscuits from the pantry in hopes I can buy back Charley’s affection by plying her with snacks. The rattle of the box is enough to get her attention and she skitters into the kitchen, tail wagging and all her grievances long forgotten. If only biscuits worked this sort of magic with people.
My phone beeps just as Charley nudges her snout to my hand and I slip her the biscuit while digging my phone out of my pocket with my free hand. I swipe open the text, knowing it’s Amber and hoping she has good news.
Packing up camp and heading out. I had a good bull at 30 yards. I missed.
“Shit,” I wince.
That is not good news. She missed. At thirty yards.
For an archery hunter, yardage is everything. Without the luxury of the firepower that comes with rifle hunting, hunting with a compound bow demands a closer range. Experienced hunters will sometimes take a shot on an elk at fifty yards if everything is perfect, but most of us feel far more comfortable at half that range. Thirty yards, though, is a sweet spot—close enough to help ensure shot consistency but far enough to stay undetected. You can’t ask for much more when it comes to the spot-and-stalk scenarios of elk hunting.
That being said, we all miss. It doesn’t matter how much you practice, how much you commit, how well you normally shoot. We all miss. Sometimes we miss for reasons we can explain—poor form with your bow or shitty follow-through when you take your shot—but sometimes we miss even when everything seems to have gone the way it should. Those are the worst. You’ll replay the moment a million times over, trying to figure what went wrong and why, blaming the wind, your bad luck—or yourself. It will drive you out of your mind if you let it.
Which is why I’m already in my truck, headed for the trailhead. I want to be there when Amber arrives, even if all I can offer as comfort is me.
Amber emerges three hours later, burdened by her pack and what looks like the weight of the world given the sag of her shoulders. She sways a little as she takes the last few steps down trail, lurching to an unsteady stop when her feet meet the asphalt of the trailhead parking lot. When she sees me, I have to fight the urge to barrel over there, wrestle the pack from her body, and then carry her back to my truck.
Once she gathers what may be the last lump of resolve she can muster, she strides my way, stopping ten feet away from me, all of her features rigid and tethered. The message is clear: now is not the time for coddling. I attempt to look casual, even when I’m anything but, leaning against the side of my truck with my forearm resting on the top of the bedside, hoping she doesn’t notice the way my hand is balled into a fist.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” Amber returns flatly.
The game warden in me asks the one question I need to. “Was it a clean miss?”
“Clean miss. It landed in the dirt about ten inches away from his front hooves. He probably thought it was a skinny tree limb that broke off in front of him.” She raises a weary fist pump. “Yay for that, I guess.”
No response in the world would be right, so I keep my mouth shut. Amber’s arm wilts down and swings at her side.
“I’ve had seven miles to think. I don’t want to think anymore, Braden. I want you to take me home, feed me, fuck me, put me in a warm bath, and make it all go away for a bit. Can you do that?”
I lift a brow. “In that order? Because I’m thinking warm bath first, food second, and then the fucking. You’ve been without running water for days, and even if I can’t smell you from here, you have to reek. Probably best to address that first. But I am open to switching up the order of the food and fucking.”
I’m rewarded with a tired smile. Amber’s shoulders sag again, but in relief this time.
“I can’t tell you how much I love that you get it. All of this. You are the only face I wanted to see right now. Because you get it.”
I try to hide the way her words hit me square in the gut, how much I want to take all her troubles away. Instead, I approach her slowly, unbuckle the waist strap on her pack, loosen the shoulder straps, and gently work the pack from her shoulders. She lets me, without putting up a fight or a protest. I set her pack in the bed of my truck. Taking her face in my hands, I put a kiss to her forehead, and Amber slips her hands around my waist with a sigh.
“Now let’s get you home and into that bath, mountain sprite. I was right. You reek.”
“I liked your house before, but now? I love it. I love this couch, especially.” Amber uses one hand to tug up the wool blanket I draped over her earlier so it’s bunched up under her chin. “And this blanket is the best blanket ever made. I’m also a fan of this T-shirt of yours that I’m wearing. And this pillow. And these socks you lent me.”
One of her feet sneaks out from under the blanket and she wiggles it onto my lap. She’s stretched out on her back, slumped against the arm while I sit in the center. I take her foot in my hands and rub gently, careful to keep my touch away from her ankle because I saw the blisters there when she stripped down to sink into the bath I drew for her.
I chuckle. “What about the three beers you drank? Are you a fan of those?”
“Yes,” she drawls. She’s not drunk, but she’s limbered up, for sure. A hot bath helped her onto that path, and the comfort food and the beer only hastened her travels. Before I can offer up one other surefire suggestion for further relaxation, Amber is casting off the blanket and slithering onto my lap. Guess my suggestion would have been beside the point. Amber draws her hands up over my chest, across my shoulders, and links them behind my neck.
“Confession time,” she says. I widen my eyes a fraction. She leans in and mock-whispers. “I already wore this shirt. When I was here before.”
She’s wearing the shirt I found folded up on my bed when I got home. It’s cute on her, but equally enormous, so she’s swimming in the fabric that hangs down nearly to her knees.
I lean in and whisper the same way she did. “I know.”
Amber grins goofily and suddenly my entire world becomes nothing but the space between us, so I pull her closer and slide my hands up the back of the shirt. She’s bare beneath—no bra, no panties—because when she stepped out of the bath, she wanted nothing but to dry off and eat, and so my shirt was as far as we got with clothing. Nothing but her warm, soft skin under my palms. Amber purrs a little, encouraging my hands to continue exploring, up her rib cage and lingering just below the swell of her tits. She tips our foreheads together and lines our lips up so she can speak against my mouth.
“Confession time again. But this one’s on you.” Amber’s body presses closer to mine, her core meeting squarely with my dick, which responds by thickening beneath her. “Tell me something. Did you come home early just so you could help me?”
My breath catches. I hoped the second round of confession time would follow the format of the first, maybe something along the lines of Amber whispering all the wickedly hot things she did to herself while wearing my shirt and lying in my bed. Instead, she’s calling me out on truths I’m not entirely comfortable owning—at least not out loud. My heart is beating wildly and heat is crawling up my neck, but when Amber whispers my name softly and rubs her pussy across the ridge of my cock, I give in.
“Yeah.”
She purrs again, and this time it sounds like a thank-you. Especially when she follows up by sneaking her hands down to my waist and toying with my belt.
“And were you mad when I didn’t take your help?”
I feel my belt slip loose, the button on my pants flick open, as Amber’s fingers begin teasing over the zipper. Was I mad? Kind of. But if this is her way of making up for that, she’s already forgiven.
“A little,” I admit. “But not mad at you. Not really. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I wanted to help, make sure you were OK. It was frustrating that you wouldn’t let me.”
“I wanted to, so much. But I couldn’t.” She sighs. “I’m sorry that you missed out on your hunt, baby.”
In the time she uttered those words, she’s managed to unzip my pants and work my boxers down enough to take me in her hands. My head drops back to the couch when she twists her fist over the head with just the right amount of pressure.
“Nothing to be sorry about. I was where I wanted to be. Here—just in case.”
When Amber lifts her body up, I know she’s about to sink down on me at any second, and before she does, I have to use my non-beer-addled brain to make sure we’re safe, so I take advantage of our position and slink my hand into my back pocket to extract my wallet. Grabbing the condom I stowed inside, I toss the wallet onto the couch. Amber snorts.
“I thought you didn’t carry condoms in your wallet? That’s what you said that day we ended up off trail.”
The wrapper tears under my teeth and I send it to the ground before working the latex over my length.
“I didn’t. And I don’t, except when you’re in town. I wasn’t sure if you’d come down off the trail wanting a go, so I made sure to show up prepared.”
Amber curves away to give me some room, watching as I stroke my hand down to the base a few times. Then she bats my hand away and doesn’t delay, taking me deep in a slow push that forces my eyes shut, letting out a grunt from behind my teeth. Once she’s taken all of me, she leans back but doesn’t move. I open my eyes, taking in the way she looks languid and already sated.
“I’m glad you came prepared. Too bad I could barely stand up, let alone have a go.” She rolls her hips, slowly and just once. “But there is one thing I want from you that I decided while I was on the trail.”
I wait for her to tell me what she wants. Every second that passes making it harder to keep from grabbing her hips and getting her to move the way I want her to, or just do the work myself and fuck straight up into her, hard and fast. She must see the frustration on my face because she tilts her head and starts to ride me in a slow rhythm.
“I want you to come visit me in Austin. Drive down, bring Charley, stay with me for a few days.”
Whatever I thought she was going to say, that wasn’t it. My body reacts by lighting up from the inside out, and it’s a sensation I haven’t felt in so long I can’t be sure what’s happening—if I’m simply falling for Amber in some new way or if this is merely a cardiac situation brought on by wanting to fuck her so hard she screams. Hell, maybe it’s both.
“Will there be barbeque?” I ask. “The sort that proves your Texas superiority complex about brisket isn’t just some statewide delusion?”
Amber tosses her head back on a laugh.
“Damn straight. One bite and you’ll want to burn True Grit to the ground.”
Her tits are moving gently under the T-shirt, and even if I might normally want to strip it off her so I can see, touch, and taste without anything in my way, in this moment, I want her just like this. She isn’t trying to put on a show and neither am I; we’re just two people caught up in the sweet intimacy of fucking someone you know and love, still half-dressed but not holding back. No bells or whistles, no lingerie or luxuries. Just her pussy taking my cock deep like she owns it and me not giving one fuck that she does.
I grab her hips to halt her. Amber whimpers.
I kiss her once. “Then count me in.”