Page 9 of Muscle Cub

I glanced away to take in the view of the moon and the streaks of blue clouds over the dark woods, trying to buy myself some time to think of an appropriate topic of conversation. It was a gorgeous night with a pleasant spring chill. Perfect camping weather.

Beside me, Austin took a deep breath as if to say something, but then he paused. Before he could speak, he was interrupted by someone yelling his name.

“Dude. There you are.” It was a cute, preppy-looking blond, one of the guys he’d arrived with. “You coming back in to dance or what? I just requested the ‘Jolene’ remix.”

“Right on,” Austin said in his noncommittal way.

Here it was, the perfect moment, the perfect excuse to release me. The party was in full swing, he was all dolled up, and there were hundreds of men vying for his attention.

I expected Austin to make his excuses to me, but instead, he told his friend he’d catch up, and then he leaned in close.

“Hey.” His low, breathy voice against my ear raised the hairs on the back of my neck. “You wanna go take a walk?”

4

I wasn’t entirely sure if let’s go take a walk was a euphemism for let’s go fuck or not, so it took me a few seconds to realize my answer was the same either way. “Um. Yeah.” I hoped I sounded casual. “Let’s do it.”

“Need to tell your friends you’re leaving?”

I waved away his concern. “They’re probably too wasted to notice.” The truth was, given Eric’s cartoonish thumbs-up and extreme eyebrow waggling when Austin and I had left the bar together, I wasn’t sure what kind of a scene he might make over this development.

I followed Austin through the crowd to the top of the stairs, where he hesitated. “I may need you to go down in front of me. The soles of these boots are basically bricks, and my feet feel like they weigh about twenty pounds each.”

“That’s fine. Just… Why don’t you give me the damn beer so you can hold on to the railings with both hands?”

“How are you gonna hold on?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ve only had two drinks. I’ll be fine. And I’ll sacrifice the beers if I need to.”

As we reached the bottom, someone above us shouted Austin’s name. It was his buddy with the ginger mohawk. “Where the hell are you going?”

“On a little walkabout.”

“Don’t fuck up my girls!”

“I won’t!” Austin stumbled on the uneven gravel as he turned, and I reached out a hand to steady him. He draped his arm over my shoulders and pulled me close. “Sorry. I’m not that drunk, I swear. It’s the boots.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Gunner names all his shoes. Individually. I’m wearing Hedwig and Hagatha, but I have no idea which one is which.”

I managed a convincing chuckle, although ninety percent of my cognitive function was engaged in processing his scent and how much more of his body now touched mine.

Austin proceeded to stroll down the hill with his arm around me like it was the most normal thing in the world, pointing out the various buildings in this part of the campground. They called it the Village. In addition to the bar, there was a chapel, a barber shop, and a café. Farther down the path was a bathhouse with a gym attached to it.

“How long have you been working here?” I asked.

“Just a few weeks so far this season. I worked here last summer too.”

“You’re not a student are you?” I braced for the answer.

“No. I graduated from UGA. Go Dawgs!”

“Oh, okay.” Thank God. “So what do you do during the rest of the year?”

“I’ll show you.” He released me. The absence of his touch made me regret my attempt at small talk. He angled off the path to our left, and I followed him. On the door of the gym was a colored flyer with a picture of Austin, smiling, his impressive arm flexed in a classic Rosie the Riveter pose. A bold typeface read The Morning-After Drill with Austin. “My class,” he said unnecessarily.

“Ah. So you don’t just look like this for fun. You’re a professional.” It was the closest I’d come to flirting or overtly commenting on his looks, but he didn’t take the bait.

“A professional meathead.”

“Not a cheerleader, then?”