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Jeb took my request seriously—with special emphasis on the ‘lots’ part of the requirement. He gave me a blow job in the truck as soon as he found the spot he wanted us to camp. Then, once he set up the tent, he said he wanted to ensure its sturdiness. Two hours of exhaustive acrobatic maneuvering tested its durability to its limits, but I’m relieved to say that it passed—it’s still intact and standing. Then, after dining on the foil packets of hamburger and vegetables Jeb cooked over the open fire, he introduced me to a dessert called S’mores. The delicious, gooey chocolatey dessert led to us both being covered in chocolate and taking turns licking it off of each other.
Now we’re laying on a bedroll in front of the fire he built, looking up at Jeb’s promised thousand stars. It’s so nice and peaceful here that I don’t even care about the slow satellite connection.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him. I don’t mean just for tonight, but for the hundred different experiences he’s given me. Experiences that never would have happened if he hadn’t introduced me to them.
That look of shyness crosses his face again, and I swear he fights the urge to bury his head in my chest to avoid looking at me in this moment. It’s like he’s only comfortable demanding praise and attention. When it’s freely given to him has trouble accepting it.
“How did you learn how to do all this?”
“What?” he asks, idly brushing his hand through my hair.
My eyes grow heavy at the relaxing pleasure of his touch. “The whole camping thing. Did you have to outrun the Canadian Mounties through the western provinces and pick up survival skills on the way?”
He chuckles. “No, but that’s a fun adventure I’d like to have.”
When he doesn’t offer an explanation, my curiosity leads me to another question. “Seriously, how did you learn to do all this?” I wave my hand at the fire and the tent.
I feel his muscles shrug. “I grew up in a pretty rural area. You pick up these skills the same way you learned how to ride the subway in New York.”
“Where did you grow up?”
He pulls his hand away from me and shifts slightly. “Whatever outdoorsman skills I didn’t pick up growing up, I learned at the couple of ranches I worked at,” he says, acting like he didn’t hear my question.
I know better than to push. After all, I didn’t share my past with him until I was having a complete meltdown. I switch to a subject that he seems more willing to talk about.
“I never thought of you as having any other job on your résumé but as a thief.”
“I was a thief from the time I was about fourteen, but it took time and experience to develop my skills. I picked up a lot of odd jobs while I traveled around, learning the tricks of the trade well enough to be a full-time criminal. I broke horses, worked at a surf shop, bartended, and crewed on a commercial fishing boat in Alaska.” He shivers as if transported back to the memory. “Too fucking cold for me. I’d rather be an outlaw any day.”
I raise up a little and prop my head in hand. “What made you want to be an outlaw?” I ask, hungry for any tidbit about him he’s willing to share.
“Cora did,” he answers, his face breaking into a fond smile.
I’m unprepared for the fire of white-hot jealousy that travels through me and settles in my chest with a clenching pain.Is Cora an old girlfriend? One he obviously still carries feelings for. Does he miss her right now while he’s holding me in his arms?
“Who’s Cora?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“The old woman who taught me how to be a thief.” He laughs. “A good one, anyway.”
At the word ‘old’, the ache in my stomach miraculously disappears. “How did you meet her?”
“I broke into her house.”
At my shocked reaction, he laughs again. “Weren’t expecting that one, were you?” he says, reaching out and grabbing my free hand in his and absently caressing my wrist with his thumb.
I really wasn’t. “What happened?”
“I started out picking pockets and thought I’d expand my skill set and try a little breaking and entering. So, one night, I broke into a big, two-story house on the rich side of town. I jimmied a window to one of the upstairs bedrooms open and found an old woman sleeping, hooked up to an oxygen machine, with her purse lying on the bureau on the other side of the room.
“I figured it was easy money, so being as quiet as I could, I crossed the hardwood floors, but just when as I had the purse in my hands, someone grabbed the back of my t-shirt with an iron-tight grip. ‘Drop my purse, or you’re going down,’ a raspy voice ordered from behind me.”
“Did you drop the purse?” I ask, completely caught up in Jeb’s story.
“Hell no. I ran for the window, but she tripped me with her cane.”
The picture of Jeb laid out by an old woman on oxygen sends me over the edge. I start laughing, and I can’t stop. Tears run down my face.
Jeb nudges me in the ribs. “You think that’s funny?”
