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Goddamn is she beautiful. The kind of beautiful the bright clear light only outlines in greater clarity.
Once she’s finished, she pauses. “What did I say—it was good, right?”
“What?”
Calling what sexual magic just happened between us—because that’s what it was, nothing less than fucking magic—the hottest, craziest, wildest, in a word—best—sex that I’d ever had—calling that ‘good’ seems absurd.
A chuckle. “The pot. It was good, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I grumble, my voice gravelly in the morning, “but you still can’t do it here again.”
Harley makes a face. “I only brought one joint anyway, Mr. Storm. I’m not some pothead. But I’ll be seeing you?”
She’s already off a few paces before it occurs to me to respond. “Don’t call me that!”
She just laughs. “See ya!”
I glare blankly at the horizon, the sun already beating down mercilessly. We’re in a clearing now, but hopefully the trek won’t be as hot as I am here.
What the fuck just happened?
A series of caws has me direct my glare at the fat toucan perched on the leafy ceiba tree overhead.
How did I go from staying in control to losing it all? How could I fuck up so badly?
Only… was it that much of a fuck-up? Harley seemed cool about it, and the sex was spectacular. As long as we don’t get caught, we should…
“Fuck!” I hiss, remembering myself.
Ass-naked, less than a minute’s walk from the camp. Have I lost my dumbass mind?
I leap up and begin throwing on my clothes as fast as I can, muttering curses at myself. Luckily, no one ventures over, and by the time I get back to camp, people are just starting to get up.
Russel, of course, is still perched by the fire, wearing what looks to be a Hawaiian lei-covered toga, working away at a mashed conglomeration of food that I probably don’t want to know about. “Howdy, Greyson. Aren’t you looking like a mango in a banana field this fine morning.”
I don’t know what his weird saying means. I don’t want to know what it means.
I yawn and stretch, hoping it’s believable. “What time is it?”
“Little late,” Russel says smoothly, with a wink. “10:15.”
I frown. “That is late. Very late.”
“It is,” he agrees cheerfully.
Something about people who are overly cheerful in the morning, especially after bad news, has always pissed me off. Right now I’d like to upend that stupid food mush on Russel’s stupid head.
Instead, I take a breath, then grumble, “Good everyone got some extra sleep since we’ll be pushing it hard today. Though that’s it for the sleeping in—we have to get going.”
Russel nods sagely, giving his strange dish a smack with his spatula.
I feel like a bit of a hypocrite calling to the others still in their tents, “Let’s go guys! We should be trekking in 30, so let’s get eating and packing up.”
Especially since it was my lazy ass that slept in too. Still. No reason to hold everything up even longer.
I go off to check my phone quickly before helping with the packing up.
I’m surprised it still even works, but I did pay an extra hundred with my phone company to ensure uninterrupted service. After all, I am still the president of Storm Media.
Although there doesn’t seem to be anything work-wise, I do have a few texts from Landon.
How’s it going so far? No good updates about the tax records—I’m stumped.
I scowl as I type out a quick response: All good, you’ve got this. Both lies, but now isn’t the time to unload just how off-plan this has gone so far.
My back teeth grind together with frustration. My suggestions to hire a financial advisor or a plain old accountant were unanimously dismissed by my brothers. They were convinced whoever we hired would discover major monetary infractions on Dad’s part, maybe even fraud. And Landon was sure he would be able to make the books balance.
But now… it’s not looking good. Landon’s making as shitty progress as I predicted. If Dad really was fudging the books, I don’t see how Landon will be able to fix it, aside from committing fraud himself. For all that I’m the big brother and the boss, my younger brothers listen to me precious little.
I make sure to tie a ribbon at the edge of the path to mark our way. Everyone has helped out with the ribbon tying, although it’s an annoying delay when you’ve been trekking for hours and are dead tired. Still, it’s a wise precaution.
It takes another, louder call to get the others straggling out of their tents. First is Manuel, wrapped in mosquito netting and yawning sleepily. Jorge looks better, beelining for the food and eating the strange mash that Russel calls ‘My Special Recipe’ with vigor. Samantha is next, smiling and giving me a little wave before digging in herself.
I scowl in the direction of Harley’s tent. Still not out. Maybe just sleeping off last night, but maybe she… No, she better not have gone off by herself again. Even in broad daylight with all your senses about you, it’s dangerous.
