CHAPTER ELEVEN
WREN
I lay stretched out on the bearskin rug in front of the fire. The flames lick at the sides of the wine glass sitting in front of me. I’m not drunk, but I’m tipsy enough to be low on inhibitions.
I know I shouldn’t be drinking in front of Carter, but he offered, and after all these orgasms I didn’t have the energy to refuse.
He straddles my back and applies the coconut oil, his strong hands pressing deep into my flesh, finding knots and points of tension I never knew existed.
“I can’t believe you’ve never had an orgasm,” he says.
“You’re telling me. Now that I know what I’ve been missing out on it’s going to be real hard to step back into the real world instead of holing up in bed with you twenty-four seven.”
“If only.”
Not once in three years of marriage did David give me a massage like this, even offer me a drink. I don’t know how it’s possible that two brothers, born from the same family, could be so different, but I’m slowly coming to understand it.
Coming, full stop.
“Was it everything you hoped for?” asks Carter, moving onto my shoulders. I’m Play-Doh in his hands.
“What’s that?”
“The big O.”
“Everything and more,” I moan. “I always thought it would be an exploding feeling, you know, but it was different. It was more of an implosion, the entire world crashing in on me.”
“You make it sound like a disaster movie.”
“Deep Impact?” I offer.
“Given what was happening below, I was thinking more like Volcano.”
It’s true I may have squirted—something, who knows what—in the throes of climax, not that Carter seemed to mind. “Yes, sorry about that.”
He scoffs. “Are you fucking kidding me? That was the single hottest thing I’ve seen, that I could make you come so hard you lost all control. And we’re only getting started.”
“We are? Are you trying to make up for lost time?”
“Let me tell you, a real flesh-and-blood vagina’s a lot better than a hand and a butter sachet from the lunch line.”
“And is my vagina up to your impeccable standards?”
He reaches behind himself, sliding a finger inside me. “It’s perfection.”
“We can’t stay here all day, you know?” I purr.
“Why not?”
An immediate excuse doesn’t come to mind. Would it be so bad to hide away in this cabin, just the two of us, no distractions and no outside world to interrupt our… sessions? “I don’t know if the hermit lifestyle is for me.”
“This isn’t Deliverance. Yes, we’re a little remote, but we still have phone reception, modern amenities.”
“You don’t even have a shower.”
His finger runs deeper, sliding in and out like a slim cock. “Why shower when you can bathe?”
*
Carter heads into town for supplies, leaving me to wander the cabin, my body still tingling from earlier adventures.
It’s funny. Carter was never this tidy as a kid, even when he moved away from home. I’d go over to his place and shake my head internally at the accumulated mess—the bottles, the pizza boxes, the random thong or bra he never thought to hide. Or maybe he wanted me to see, make me understand what I was missing out on. Whatever it was he was trying to tell me back then, I missed it completely.
Not anymore.
I move past the drawers in the bedroom, my hand running over the polished wood. There’s barely anything in here, which is another anomaly considering the stuff Carter used to own. I imagine he didn’t have much in prison, emerging now as something of a minimalist. I like that, the idea everything you own should be precious, have meaning. I was like that once upon a time, but with David I was swept up into the world of consumerism, constantly trying to keep up with New York’s finest Joneses, never enough couture in the wardrobe or copies of The Robb Report on the kitchen counter.
One day David arrived home with a brand-new Ferrari—in garish red, of course. It wasn’t the fact he’d bought it that annoyed me. After all, he was (I thought) making plenty of money. It was the fact he never discussed it with me, even brought it up. Such was our relationship, my role nothing more than the required arm candy.
I open the top drawer beside the bed. I shouldn’t, but I figure Carter and I shared enough last night to make it somewhat less immoral.
I don’t know what I expect to find—giant dildos, a murder weapon—but there’s only one thing inside. I take it out, holding it between my fingers close to my face.
It’s a tiny four-inch photo of Carter and me at Westminster Park. We must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen. I’d gotten this Fuji Instax camera for my birthday, a kind of modern Polaroid that spits out photos on demand. This was the first photo I took with it.
In it, Carter has his arm around me. I’m pulling my mouth wide, sticking my tongue out. We look like we’ve having a lot of fun, a natural couple, but as I look closer I see something else. In the background, faintly, stands David. He’s watching on with an expression that’s at first hard to place but on closer observation becomes obvious.
Jealousy.
Even back then?
I never noticed it. Was I really that ignorant of what was going on?
Probably.
To think Carter has kept this photo all these years… I imagine it pinned to his cell wall, maybe stuffed inside his pillow. He probably looked at it, thinking about me, Wilson in his hand…
Oh, yes. I’m sure he ‘thought’ about it long and hard.
I put the photo back where I found it and head into the kitchen for a snack.
My cell rings. I answer, thinking it’s Carter, but a voice I do not recognize comes on the line.
“Mrs. White? Mrs. Wren White?”
I hold the cell away, looking at the screen. The number reads ‘unknown’. The calls from the media have been constant, but I’ve been able to ignore them until now. I should hang up, but instead I reply, “Yes.”
“My name’s Matt Leroux. I work for The American. I was hoping for a comment from you on—”
“Sorry,” I spit out, cutting him off and hanging up, placing the cell down as if it’s suddenly become a biohazard.
They’re just going to keep calling, babe.
The door opens, Carter spilling inside with an armful of groceries. I help him move them to the counter.
He looks at me quizzically. “Everything good?”
I nod to the cell. “Another reporter.”
“Oh,” he says, taking hold of me. “They’ll go away eventually, move onto whichever reality star is locked up for a DUI or found banging the pool boy this week.”
I squeeze his butt. “I think you’d make a pretty good pool boy.”
He kisses my forehead, the hard lines of his face belying how soft his lips are. “With my big stick and sun-kissed body? Didn’t you get enough of that during our little skinny dip last night?”
“Ha!” I hoot. “It was hardly skinny dipping given the decided lack of water. Mud dipping? Is that a thing?”
“Only if you’re from Mississippi.”
His hand runs up my neck, into my hair. “I can tell you one thing I’d like to dip into right about now.”
“The extra tub of Nutella I just made you drive twelve miles for?”
He gives a little start, fingers lightly tugging on my hair, forcing my head back. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be using it on a sandwich?”
“A crepe?” I joke. “A croissant? Oui oui!”
He spins me around until I’m facing the bedroom, a tap on the ass sending me forwards. “Shut up and take your clothes off.”