One Reckless Summer (Palate Teasers)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Summer

“ L icking salt off my hand is going to help how, exactly?” I stare down at the shot glass, already dreading tomorrow morning.

“Here’s to bad decisions!” My best friend Dolly clinks her glass to mine, licks the side of her hand, tosses back the tequila and sucks on the lime in one fluid motion.

She slams the shot glass down on the black laminate high top with a resounding crack, raising her fists in victory and drawing the eyes of every man in this north of nowhere bar as she swipes the backs of her fingers over her plum-colored lips.

“Yeeeeeehawwwww!” She yelps, shaking her head while sucking air through her teeth. “That’ll wake ya up in the mornin’ boys, won’t it?”

Dolly draws attention wherever she goes, with legs to her neck, a jet-black Uma Thurman circa Pulp Fiction bob, and a face that could launch a thousand bar fights. But here in Ompotomic, Michigan, where they are more bears than people?

Every guy here must be thinking they’re not in Kansas anymore.

Neon beer signs and horrible fluorescent lighting give everything in here an odd green glow, and there is clearly no regular cleaning schedule for the restrooms.

And don’t get me started on the floors. It’s like walking on the sticky side of duct tape.

“What are you waiting for?” She rounds her mouth, squinting one eye at the trembling tequila shot I’m holding a few inches in front of my lips.

“Christmas?” I suggest, screwing up my mouth on an unsteady exhale.

“Well, Santa’s coming down your chimney right now.” She smiles, easing the glass toward my lips. “Lick, swallow, suck,” she says on a snort. “That’s not always the right order, but with tequila it is . You’re the one who wanted a reckless summer before we start adulting for real next year. Don’t pussy out on me now.”

She tosses a wink at the two ruddy-looking farmers sitting at the table next to us, as I shake my head, looking up at the bowing, water-stained ceiling tile above our table.

She’s right, I did ask her to join me in one last frivolous choice before we head in our different directions this September. That choice turned out to be Camp WanderLust, a wilderness adventure park in the wilds of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where she’s been a counselor since our freshman year at Michigan State.

She said it’s been taken over by some new high-adrenaline adventure type, and this will be the last summer for kids to attend. There was some nostalgia there for her, so I signed on, making her promise me she would sweep my cabin twice a day for spiders.

Besides, getting as far away from my ex as possible in a place with limited to no cell service made Dolly’s proposition more appealing.

Still, I’m a fish out of water here, and I haven’t even gotten to the camp yet. The only stars I’ve ever slept under are the ones my nightlight used to project on my ceiling when I was a little girl, and my idea of roughing it is staying in a three-star hotel with no room service.

And I know there will be spiders but Dolly can talk me into almost anything.

Lick, swallow, suck , I repeat in my head, doing my best to emotionally prepare for my first tequila shot.

I do a mental countdown, 3, 2, 1 , curl my toes inside my cowboy boots, take a swipe of the salt from my hand with my tongue, and go.

I immediately know this is going to be a night to remember.

Or forget.

Holy shit.

My gag reflex kicks in, nearly expelling the shot all over Dolly’s black AC/DC tank top before she shoves the slice of lime between my bared teeth.

“Suck!” she yells, delivering a smile to the farmers again, who haven’t taken their eyes off her since we sat down.

I do as I’m told, desperate for anything to replace the taste of the poison in my mouth, as sweat breaks on my forehead and my upper lip, while a wave of heat cascades and prickles over my skin.

“Oh, my gawd ,” I choke out through the burning in my throat, fumbling my attempt to slam the shot glass onto the table like she did. It clicks against the laminate in a sad roll onto its side spinning toward the edge, where Dolly catches it on a laugh.

“Not sure I’m cut out for a reckless summer after all,” I hiss, as the liquor reaches my stomach, and bile tickles the back of my throat.

How am I here? I didn’t even own a backpack or a pair of hiking boots before last week.

I like manicures and lash extensions and body glitter.

Don’t get me wrong. I respect the boho, quirky, ‘I just never fit in’ girls and the darker emo version of such as much as I support the Botox, IG, bikini wax crowd. I’m an equal opportunity queen supporter.

You do you, I’ll do me and may we never disagree.

“You did good , girl.” Dolly rubs my back as I drop my head between my legs like they teach you to do when you think you’re going to pass out.

“I almost threw up all over you,” I mumble to the floor, trying to distract myself by counting the blobs of gum flattened on the sticky black linoleum.

Blood rushes through my ears, into my head, warming my cheeks as my liver sucks up the alcohol, making the world wavy around the edges.

Just as I’m starting to feel pleasantly woozy, dread returns, as my Dolly shouts, “Who wants to buy us two more?!”

This little honky-tonk bar erupts with excited male voices, as my stomach lurches, and I grip the edge of the high top, pulling myself upward. Walking on the wild side with Dolly is nothing new. You know that friend you always seem to be with when trouble comes calling?

Yeah, that’s Dolly.

But for all her craziness and tough love, she has a gooey soft center and is my ride or die, one hundred percent. We met in kindergarten when Bobby Malloy was teasing me about my Hello Kitty backpack with matching shoes and lunchbox. She showed up in her black combat boots and Slenderman t-shirt and took him down with one punch, and we’ve been yin and yang ever since.

Willie Nelson’s slow melodic drawl streams from the ancient jukebox on the side wall. An older couple probably close to eighty, wearing matching polyester baby-blue wranglers and plaid snap-up shirts, spin and side-step on the small dance floor, alongside a handful of thirty-something women holding each other up, eyes glazed, with the one in the center wearing an “I’m the bride, again” satin sash.

The drive up to Ompotomic took twelve hours, six am to six pm, and when I got here, I crashed before the sound of Dolly banging on the door to my room at the bed and breakfast woke me from a dead sleep.

The Black Swan B & B is the best this town can manage, which isn’t saying much, but for one last night of luxury it’s better than nothing. The room was a pleasant enough surprise, with a squishy soft queen-sized bed, a bathroom with one of those white cast iron clawfoot tubs, and a good view of the wooded mountains that will be my home for the summer. Plus, nary a spider web was found even under the bed. And, trust me, I checked.

Dolly knows the town well from her years at the camp and she told me there’s only one place where a couple of girls could kick back and have a little memorable fun.

And that’s how we ended up at One Horse Earl’s, dressed like cowgirl strippers. Dolly can talk me into almost anything. Including the most uncomfortable pair of Daisy Dukes ever created.

Every head turned when we walked in. I wanted to go hide in the corner, but instead Dolly draped her arm around my shoulders and sashayed us to a table in the center of the room under a spotlight that should be pointing toward the dance floor but surely got knocked off-kilter in some chair throwing brawl.

But, for all my uptight reticence, and the foul-tasting shot, I am having fun. Letting loose in a town where you know no one, and anyone you might get to know you’ll never see again, has a certain freeing effect I hadn’t expected.

“Here you go.” The smiling waitress nods toward a couple guys slugging back long necks at the bar as she slides two whipped cream covered shots in front of us.

Outside of some White Claw and overpriced craft beer on occasion, I’m not much of a drinker, but seems tonight that’s going to change.

Dolly nods, holding up one of the shots to our benefactors. One of them nods in return, clearly eye fucking her from across the room, while his friend with a clean-shaven head and dirty t-shirt looks away, more annoyed than interested.

“You get first dibs.” Dolly tosses back the shot, while I opt for a fake first taste, as my brain starts to buzz. “Why wait? This place has got v-card punchers of all shapes and sizes, ready and willing to serve. You know what I say, the best way to get over an ex is to get on top of someone new.”

“God, no. Not tonight.” I shake my head, blowing my long bangs from my cheek, as Dolly tips the bottom of my shot glass upward.

With a hard swallow and a swipe of my hand over my mouth, I take in the selection of men in the small space.

I push the toes of my…well, Dolly’s …cowboy boots together, along with my knees, wondering if my summer goal of losing my virginity is such a good idea after all.

The night before I left my parents’ house in Bloomfield for our camp adventure, I spent the night bingeing on rice crispy treats and Red Vines, watching all the classic summer virginity losing movies I could find.

My mom always told me she wanted to be Kristy McNichol or Tatum O’Neal when she was a teenager. Over the years, she made me watch The Bad News Bears a hundred times and Little Darlings a hundred more.

Now, here I am, a twenty-one-year-old virgin about to play out her own summer camp cherry-popping story, but from what I can tell, there’s no Matt Dillon in this crowd.

It’s not that I’m disinterested in sex. I have…urges.

My ex-boyfriend—slash implied fiancé—Greg would probably beg to differ on that, but I trusted my gut thank goodness, and after I found out he was skimming my bank account to support his CS’GO addiction, I found the courage to get off that ride.

That’s the thing about virginity. It’s a one-shot deal. If you ‘give’ it to someone with some emotional attachment and then, bam, you find out they’re a Greg , it feels like you’ve been punked.

So I decided to lose it to someone who won’t be some long-term disappointment. This way, it can be on my terms. A hot one-night stand or a short summer fling, and that’s it. No strings, no long sappy goodbyes.

No expectations.

That was the plan, at least. But the shine is fading already. Maybe I’ll wait until I start my master’s studies at NYU in the fall. There has to be some hot grad student in the speech therapy program that would happily take the honors.

I peel my thighs from the sticky vinyl seat cushion, adjusting myself as I grip the edge of the tabletop for support.

Our shot-buying benefactors are walking our way as Dolly shoots me a wink, leaning an elbow on the table, cocking her hip and swinging her leg forward and back, scuffing the bottom of her black cowboy boot on the linoleum floor.

“Which one do you fancy?” she hiss-whispers as they come closer. “You get first pick.”

My urge to bolt toward the door clutches at my throat. I look ridiculous in this cowgirl stripper outfit. I tug at the tied-up knot on the front of my shirt, the flesh of my belly pooching out, and there are dimples on my thighs where they push against the seat. I’m happy with my body, but right now I just wish I was wearing something a little less…obvious.

The next half hour is a blur of whipped cream covered shots and awkwardly watching my best friend flirt, while the taller guy with the shaved head tells me I should smile more. I grit my teeth and stay civil, because Dolly looks like she’s in hog heaven. The other guy seems genuinely interested in her and honestly is not a complete douche. He even bowed down and kissed the toe of her boot when she lifted it for him.

In another life, I think she’d have made one hell of a pro-domme.

I, on the other hand, am dreaming of a bubble bath back at the bed and breakfast, with my v-card living to see another day.

“Hey, give me a little smile.” Bald guy leans his meaty forearms on the edge of the table, his entire hulking weight tipping it off balance, spilling my bag and all of our drinks onto the floor around his feet as he steps back. “Jesus, fuck! Watch what you’re doing!”

His hands fly upward, spilled beer drenching the front of his jeans. His condescending sticky-sweet mask drops as anger digs into his ruddy features, red creeping over his face, making him look like a volcano ready to blow.

By this time, Dolly has transitioned to the dancefloor with baldy’s friend, smiling and spinning on her cowboy boots like she’s the hoedown queen of Ompotomic.

“ You leaned on the table,” I snap, hopping off my chair and dropping into a crouch in a rush to salvage the contents of my bag from the beer and whiskey dripping down from the tabletop.

I play through the excuses I could use to get away from him—or get him to go away without cock blocking Dolly’s good time.

I swallow down the curses gathering in my throat, as he kicks at the broken glass around his feet, slapping his hands down the front of his grimy t-shirt as I pinch the corner of my dripping wallet on a grimace and shove it inside my bag.

“You’re not even my type.” He scowls on a disgusted grunt. “I was just being nice because my friend had a hard-on for your girl.”

He jerks his thumb toward the dance floor, making no effort to help me pick up the contents of my spilled bag, when a new pair of worn work boots strides into view from my left.

“That’s a shitty thing to say.” A low, gravelly voice that’s attached to the new boots cuts through the chatter and twang of a Hank Williams song. “And pretty sure you aren’t my sister’s type either.”

His sister?

I start to look up when my eyes catch the shimmer of three gold-foil packets lying only inches from the tip of the deep baritone guy’s left boot.

Shit.

I snatch them from the floor, shifting back onto my heels, my canvas bag in one hand, the strip of three condoms in the other, intending to hide them before anyone can see, but when my gaze lifts, I freeze.

There’s not just the size difference in the two men’s feet, but the knees of the guy attached to the boots are a good six or eight inches higher than baldy’s. I continue my visual trek north, taking in thick thighs that fill out worn denim, while further up something equally thick has a heat wave moving over my skin as the award-winning bulge challenges his zipper.

He doesn’t shift when I stare, and suddenly I break out of my trance and look up to see dark eyes inspecting me from under a cinched brow. He lowers his hand with a click of his teeth. His face is hard lines and smoldering intensity, but there’s a softness to his magnificent lips that I want to explore with my tongue.

“Stand up, sis, you’re going to cut yourself.” He moves his tongue around the inside of his cheek, flicking his fingers in a gesture for me to give him my hand. I do, and he lifts me from the floor onto legs as wobbly as a newborn foal.

When I find my feet, I take in the rest of him. Black sort of canvas button-up shirt, open at the neck, showing enough of what’s underneath for me to appreciate he’s clearly a man that works for a living. His hand is rough, just like his low growl.

I strain to look up, taking in his face and the dark, wavy hair left to fall as it chooses. His clean-shaven angular jaw and unwavering gaze have my nipples perking up as dull contractions tighten my center.

“Your sister? ” Baldy grunts, narrowing his eyes as I offer a silent shrug and a smile, because I’m not sure what exactly is going on here, but I do know I want more of it.

“My brother is very protective.” I glance at the enormous stranger, playing into whatever game this is and realize his eyes are a dark jade green, such a vivid jewel tone that it looks out of place with the rest of him. “Thanks, bro,” I manage, delivering a playful punch into his shoulder.

My knuckles are met with rock hard muscle. My throat and mouth turn to a desert while my palms turn clammy.

His eyes leave mine, centering on Baldy as he points toward the floor. “Pick up the rest of her stuff. You made the mess, you clean it up.”

He releases my hand, tapping two long, thick fingers onto the wet table-top, nailing the now confused-looking local with a glare that has him bending without a word, picking up my keys, a hairbrush and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Then my unexpected brother turns his attention back to me, and my nipples give him a sharp salute.

“Pack it up, sis. It’s time to go.”

He dominates the space like a century old oak, with a sturdy voice to match.

In silent irritation, baldy tosses my belongings onto the table, leaving with a final muttered grumble, stumbling as he turns, trying to gather what’s left of his pride as he saunters back toward the bar, yelling for another beer.

Heat and wetness invade the seam of my shorts as my ‘brother’s’ gaze shifts, and, to my horror, I realize I’m still pinching the three pack of Trojans between my fingers. The alcohol is making everything warm and fuzzy as the flush from my face creeps down my chest.

“You have a big night planned?” He cocks a brow as my face flames.

“No, I mean, I’ve never…this is just…” I stutter. “These aren’t for me , I don’t wear them.”

Please, mouth, stop.

Tequila and whipped cream shots did this to me.

I shake my head, mumbling unintelligibly to myself as he stares down in silence, his fingers balling and releasing.

“Got it. I’m pretty sure you couldn’t hide anything from me in those.” He gestures with a nod toward my shorts, and I glance down, tugging at the outside seem in an attempt to lessen the way they are creating a definitive indent between my pussy lips. As I fuss with my shorts, his exotic eyes take a slow walk down my legs to my boots, then back up again, lingering for a beat on my chest as he shakes his head.

He snatches the condoms I forgot I was holding from my hand, flinging them toward a trash can against the wall where they obediently fall into the pile of red solo cups and empty pizza boxes.

The way he looks at me has me rocking back on the heels of my boots, that newborn foal feeling taking hold again.

“Let’s go before I have to hurt someone.”

“Hurt someone?”

His forearms flex, and wetness floods my lower forty making me rethink the opportunity that has just presented itself.

“Yeah, you may not be my sister, but I’d take on this whole bar for you, Daisy.”

Daisy?

Lust billows through me, and never in my twenty-one years have I had this sort of reaction to a man. Nothing I felt with Greg even came close. I spent four years with him, and even with all the dry humping he seemed to enjoy so much while keeping his eyes on some live Twitch feed, I never came close to what this tall, dark and erect stranger is making me feel. My heart, my head and my tingling girl parts are awake all together for the first time, and reckless ideas start ping ponging around inside my alcohol addled brain.

“What’s your name?” I manage, swallowing the gathering saliva under my tongue, shooting Dolly a look over my shoulder to find her looking like the cream in the middle of a hoedown cookie, with a new sexy guy rocking her on his thigh and an equally sexy brunette rubbing her tits on her back while nuzzling her neck.

“Big brother,” he answers in a hoarse grunt, as Dolly catches my eye, giving me a double thumbs up, then an A-ok sign, which means, I’ll talk to you later.

“So, okay, big brother … No real names? Works for me,” I say, pausing a beat to think through what I’m about to say, then finally decide it’s time to take the bull by the horns. “How about you buy me one more drink?”