Story of My Life (Story Lake #1)

25. Face and ass first

25

FACE AND ASS FIRST

HAZEL

My hero was just kissing the life out of my heroine while pinning her to her front door with a deliciously obscene erection when my ringtone interrupted the music in my ears. Jolting, I blinked and yanked my headphones off.

It was daylight. My shoulders were full of concrete knots. And someone was knocking on my front door.

“Jesus, how long have I been writing?” I asked myself. My voice came out like the croak of a frog.

I grabbed my phone and got to my feet.

“Yeah? I mean hello?” I answered, shuffling toward the front door.

I was still in Cam’s shirt, for inspiration purposes, but I’d at least swapped contacts for glasses and added a pair of shorts and fluffy slippers when I’d come home before settling in at my laptop.

“If it isn’t my newest, favorite council member,” Darius chirped in my ear.

“Hi, Darius. What can I do for you?” I rasped, opening the front door, against which I’d had the bejesus kissed out of me only hours before. In real life. By Campbell “The Cactus” Bishop.

The boy mayor stood on my doorstep, phone to his ear. He grinned and hung up. “I came to personally escort you to bingo. And I see maybe I should have called ahead.”

My hand floated to my head, where I found a snarl of air-dried hair. My eyes felt gritty, my skin sticky. “What time is it?” I asked, squinting at the sunlight like a vampire just exiting her coffin.

“Just after one. On Sunday,” he added helpfully.

I’d stayed up writing all night. Because I was inspired.

“Holy shit,” I breathed. “I need to go check something. Uh, you can come in or whatever.” I left the door open and jog-shuffled my way to my office.

I jiggled the mouse and woke up my screen. “Holy shit!” I screeched.

“Everything okay?” Darius called. “Can I fix something or call someone?”

I jogged back into the hall and jubilantly slapped the kid in the shoulder. “I wrote ten thousand words! In one night!” I jumped up and down in an awkward victory dance.

“That sounds like a lot,” he said, gamely jumping with me.

“It is!” I said, pogoing around with him in a circle.

Campbell Bishop, the grumpy bastard, was my lucky charm. Gosh. What would happen to my writing if I slept with him? I stopped jumping. One kiss from the man had me marathoning scenes like I was Brandon Sanderson with a secret project. If I had sex with Cam, I might start sneezing out series. Or, more likely, die from too many powerful orgasms.

“So, bingo. Do you want to change before we go?” Darius asked hopefully.

“Okay. I’m confused,” I admitted. “Since when does bingo have spectators? And teams?”

We were sitting on the lakefront bleachers under a large white tent that flapped enthusiastically in the summer breeze. Before us, the pickleball courts had been transformed into some kind of bingo hall with folding tables and chairs.

Teams in matching T-shirts appeared to be actually warming up on the court, while most of the rest of Story Lake’s citizens filled in the bleachers.

“You’re thinking of regular bingo. This is ultimate bingo,” Darius said. “We invented it.”

“Of course you did.” I took a bite of the hot dog I’d purchased from Quaid, a tan, barrel-chested surfer type who had set up a grill and a cooler in the parking lot. The parking lot where Cam and I had gotten nearly naked last night.

Speaking of nearly naked Cam…

All three Bishop brothers strolled up to the edge of the pickleball courts. Shirtless. Their faces and chests were painted blue. With white letters that spelled out BI-SH-OP. Laura’s gigantic dog, Melvin, wore a blue Bishop T-shirt. I assumed they were fans of Pep and Laura’s team, All About That Bass— bass as in fish , not the musical instrument.

Cam’s gaze landed on me, and he gave me the cool-guy nod.

I raised my hand for an awkward wave. Then glanced around me. He could have been nodding at anyone. It probably wasn’t me. Right? Unless he was still playing book boyfriend. In which case, I entertained dueling fantasies of Cam taking my clothes off to do very naughty things to me and then me writing all about it. My heart tripped over itself, reminding me that even mild flirtation made me feel like I had gone from a dead stop to hitting triple digits on the autobahn of physical attraction.

I wasn’t ready for Campbell Bishop. I couldn’t handle Campbell Bishop. But part of me was really enthusiastic about trying.

I dragged my eyeballs away from the topless trio and pretended to be fascinated with the game that hadn’t begun yet.

“So what do the teams do?” I asked, watching as Laura wheeled up to a spot at one of the tables and Pep began massaging her shoulders like a boxing coach. Behind them, Laura’s three kids huddled up as if they were discussing strategy.

I’d played drag queen bingo on multiple occasions, but that hadn’t required team uniforms…or a row of spectators holding metal trash can lids.

“It’s kind of easier to explain as we go. There’s quite a bit of town history and local lore mixed in,” Darius explained.

“What part of town lore are the trash can lids?”

“Those are what we call the Sanitation Supervisors. They determine each team’s trash-talk bonus ranking. They also oversee cleanup after each match,” he said as if that made any sense whatsoever.

“Uh-huh. That doesn’t sound weird at all.” To be sure, I pinched myself in the arm. “Huh. Nope. I’m definitely awake, and this is actually happening.”

The man on Darius’s other side caught his attention with a question about the Labor Day trash pickup schedule, so I went back to staring at Cam’s muscular form.

“Hey!” Zoey plopped down next to me, holding a plastic cup of frozen purple liquid that smelled like all of the alcohols mixed together. “What the hell is this?”

“Some kind of mutant bingo,” I explained. “More importantly, what is that?”

She shrugged and held up the cup. “A couple of intoxicated ladies tailgating in the parking lot were making them in a blender. They said it’s called Mermaid Sharts. At least that’s what I got from the laughing and slurring. Wanna try?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ll pass.” Staying up all night writing had left me feeling vaguely hungover.

“Suit yourself. Anyway, I was heading straight to your house but saw these shenanigans and got nosy. Speaking of nosy. Why do you look good?”

“Um, ouch. Mean.”

She leaned into my face so close I could smell the onions she had for lunch. “You look happy,” she said with suspicion.

I scoffed. Twice. And then snort-laughed to cover the excessive scoffing. Even though two of Cam’s siblings knew about our fake date, I didn’t want to open my big mouth to Zoey about the kiss…at least not here, surrounded by the entire population of Story Lake.

“What? Me? Happy? No. I’m still miserable. But I did write ten thousand words in one sitting.”

“Seriously?” She shoved me in the arm so hard I nearly fell over.

Hmm. Maybe my heroine could be toppled from the bleachers and the hero could scoop her up in Book Cam’s strong, hero-y arms? The staring into each other’s eyes intently thing could be great. Although if she had already been fished out of the lake, maybe I should give her a break for a few chapters before pushing her off anything else.

“Hey. Where’d you go?” Zoey demanded, shaking me by the shoulders. “It’s creepy how you just zone out like that.”

“Book stuff,” I said by way of explanation. “And stop pushing me. I’ve already been shoved in the lake. I don’t need to get thrown off the bleachers in front of my constituency.”

“Who pushed you in a lake, do you want me to beat the crap out of them, and why do you look so damn happy about it?”

I was saved from responding by the crowd collectively getting to its feet.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“The opening ceremonies,” Darius explained as we stood.

The Story Lake Warblers, wearing patriotic T-shirts, marched up onto the bingo caller’s riser and performed a spirited a cappella rendition of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” After the last harmony had faded, the six teams faced each other and bowed formally.

Scooter Vakapuna separated himself from the Warblers and picked up the emcee mic. “Welcome, Lakers, to ultimate bingo!” he said, voice booming through the speakers.

The crowd went wild. Zoey and I shrugged and joined in the revelry.

“G55,” Scooter announced into the mic.

“Ted’s alive,” the players responded, slapping their hands to their faces Home Alone –style.

A whistle blew, and one of the supervisors stood up. “Five-point deduction to the Bottom Feeders. Willis didn’t use both hands for Ted’s alive.”

The spectators seemed divided on the decision.

“What was that all about?” I asked Darius.

“Back in 1953, Story Lake had a resident named Ted Branberry, who went fishing by himself early one morning. His boat was found floating around the lake, but there was no sign of him. He was presumed dead. Turned out he faked his death over a gambling debt and was found alive, singing backup for a lounge singer in Reno.”

“Wow.” I wished I’d brought my notebook.

“Oh, this is gonna be good! N31,” Scooter shouted triumphantly into the microphone.

“Get up and run,” the crowd chanted in response.

We watched in awe as the seated “stampers” handed off their daubers to their closest teammate and a bizarre relay race erupted. Team members were running interference and in some cases physically holding back other runners as they charged around the makeshift bingo hall.

“Go, Isla,” I yelled as Laura’s daughter ducked out of the reach of one of the members of Lake It or Love It and skirted through a traffic jam of bodies. With her brothers blocking for her, Isla’s lanky gazelle legs ate up the distance, bringing her back to her mother.

Laura grabbed the dauber and with a flourish stamped a card. “Bingo, bitches!”

The crowd, which was already at Super Bowl–touchdown noise levels, lost their minds, drowning out the Sanitation Supervisors’ salute to her trash talk. The Bishop brothers—and their father, who had closed the general store to be there—were jumping up and down, hugging each other. On the pickleball—er, bingo—court, Team Bishop celebrated by swinging their jerseys over their heads.

“This is the best sport ever,” Zoey howled.

I cupped my hands and woo-ed until my throat hurt as Team Bishop received a full trash-can-lid salute from the Sanitation Supervisors.

The bingo officiant raised both hands in a V. “The win is verified,” she announced.

“And that’s the game,” Darius shouted over the celebratory noise.

I found myself high-fiving everyone within a three-bleacher radius.

Spirits were high as the teams met at center court to link arms and partake in one final ceremonial shot. The bingo players faced the crowd and lifted their plastic shot cups. “Ultimate,” they shouted in unison.

Everyone around us shot their arms into the air and hollered. “Bingo!”

As if conjured by the chant, Goose soared majestically over the lake.

The crowd oohed. At least, they did until the giant bird spotted a kid with a hot dog and swooped in for the kill. Obviously a long-standing Story Laker, the kid threw the hot dog in one direction and ran in the other.

The Sanitation Supervisors clanged their trash lid cymbals together one last time. The applause was loud and long.

“Well, that was worth leaving the house for,” I said, clapping along with everyone else.

“This should be televised,” Zoey said to Darius.

He threw up his arms. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

Cam turned away from the pickleball court and swept the crowd with his gaze. When he locked eyes with me, I sucked in a breath and immediately choked on my own saliva.

Without looking at me, Zoey handed over her Mermaid Sharts drink, and I sucked some down.

Cam inclined his head toward the parking lot. I gave one last cough and pointed to myself. Me? I mouthed.

He rolled his eyes. Yeah, that was definitely meant for me.

“I’ll be back,” I said, leaving Zoey and Darius to discuss the finer points of televised bingo.

My progress was hampered by Lakers stopping me every few steps.

“Good to see ya, council lady.”

“Enjoy your first bingo?”

“That Goose sure ain’t dead, is he?”

I smiled, nodded, and returned the greetings all while keeping an eye on Cam, who appeared to be wading through his own greetings.

This was the small-town life I’d spent my career writing about. Where no one was a stranger and people stopped you in the street to chat. I liked it, I realized. Better than the anonymity of city life.

Cam had disappeared by the time I hit the grass. His brothers and father were still holding court by the fence. Well, Gage and Frank were. Levi looked like he’d had his fill of fun for the month and kept trying to back away.

I looped around the bleachers, where the crowd had thinned, and was just starting to think I’d been abandoned when a naked arm reached out and grabbed me, pulling me into the shadows like some bleacher troll in a fairy tale.

I let out a high-pitched squeak.

“Relax. It’s me,” Cam said gruffly. “Who did you think it was?”

“A bleacher troll.”

He shook his head. “Your mind is terrifying.”

“You have no idea.”

He frowned and leaned in closer. “You look tired.”

“And you look like a bodybuilding Smurf.”

“Don’t hate on the participation, Trouble. Why do you look like you were up all night?”

“Because I was. And when you stay up all night in your midthirties, your face tends to broadcast it.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, leaning back against a support and crossing his arms.

The blue paint only served to accentuate his muscled chest, those bulging biceps. I pinched myself again. Nope. Still not dreaming.

“I got carried away writing.”

“All night?” he asked.

“What can I say? When inspiration strikes, you have to follow it.”

Cam’s blue face became suddenly more smug. “Glad I could be of service.”

“I didn’t say you were the inspiration.”

“But I was,” he said, with the confidence required for face paint.

“You may have managed to plant a few ideas that I embellished,” I hedged.

“Then I guess you didn’t hate the kiss.”

I tried to laugh but snorted instead. “Did you have any doubts?”

Cam’s lips quirked. “Nope.”

“Aww. Are you checking in to make sure I don’t have regrets about our very brief make-out session? That’s adorable,” I teased.

It was his turn to snort. Unlike me, he did it on purpose. “More like I was making sure you didn’t fall in love with me and start designing wedding invitations.”

“It was nothing but research, buddy.”

“Research that kept you up all night,” he pointed out.

“Pfft. I’ll have you know, I have a wildly out-of-control imagination. You and your arrogance only served as a practically insignificant spark of inspiration. Besides, you’re the one who should be careful. I’m a delight. Spend too much time with me and you’ll be out chopping down trees to build a wedding gazebo,” I challenged.

We were bickering under the bleachers like a couple of flirtatious teenagers. A few weeks ago, the only bickering I’d participated in was yelling at a guy on the sidewalk for spitting in my purse.

His lips quirked.

“Did you…think about me last night?” I asked him.

He gave an arrogant one-shouldered shrug. “Only to wonder when I’m getting my shirt back.”

“It’s already in the washer,” I lied.

“So we’re good then?” Cam prompted.

“Of course. I haven’t given you a second thought since you left my house in gym shorts and a sport coat.” The untruths were piling up.

“Uh-huh. And your research is over,” he prompted.

There was a flutter in my nether regions that I was determined to ignore. “Absolutely. You’re off the hook. Thank you for your service.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“Great.” He was irritating me and turning me on at the same time. I didn’t know what to do with that.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around…my house,” I said.

“Guess so.”

It was time to leave before I did or said anything extra stupid. I spun on my heel and was in the middle of a haughty hair-toss retreat when he grabbed my wrist and whirled me back into him.

It was like careening into a concrete barrier.

“That fucking mouth,” he growled. And then Campbell Bishop was kissing me. Again. But this time we weren’t on a fake date, which was definitely a complication.

As if reading my mind, he took the kiss deeper. His tongue subduing mine with masterful strokes. I couldn’t catch my breath. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if I needed to breathe anymore. As long as Cam’s mouth was on mine, I wasn’t concerned with my survival.

We were spinning, and my back met cold metal. He devoured me, tasted me, annihilated me. And then his hands, those big rough hands, started to move possessively. He gripped my butt, hauling me against him until I could feel his arousal.

If he was touching me, I could only assume that I was allowed to do the same. So I shoved a hand between us and cupped his monstrous erection through his jeans. There was a lot to grab. I’d written several well-endowed heroes, but Cam was by far the biggest I’d experienced in real life.

He groaned into my mouth, and I felt like the most powerful woman in the world.

One of his hands abandoned my butt cheek and found its way to my breast. When I gasped, he plunged his tongue inside my mouth again as if to taste it.

I gripped him harder through the denim and felt the hypnotic pulse of him in my hand.

“Fuck,” he murmured before hoisting me up one-handed. My legs wrapped around his waist like hungry boa constrictors as his hips and erection pinned me in place.

He rocked into me, and we both groaned. I sank my teeth into his lower lip like I was some kind of talented sex expert. A sexpert. He retaliated by shoving his hand up under my tank top and cupping my breast again. One thin layer of fabric separated his skin from mine. My nipple pebbled against that strong, warm palm, threatening to shred its way through all barriers between it and Cam’s touch.

“This is a bad idea,” I said on a groan. We were in a public place. The entire population of Story Lake was within a hundred yards of our make-out session.

“Horrible. Hate it,” he agreed, attacking my mouth again.

“Damn it. Why are you so good at this?”

“Practice makes perfect,” Cam said before his tongue invaded and made me see stars.

“We should definitely…stop…kissing,” I panted.

“In a minute,” he growled, fitting his lips to mine once again.

It was right about then when I started thinking about clothing removal. It was also right about then that my phone rang from inside my back pocket.

“I hear her ringtone. She’s gotta be around here somewhere.” Zoey’s voice carried to us above the hubbub of the crowd.

“Shit,” Cam muttered. He lowered me to the ground and took a step back while I relearned how to support myself on my own legs.

“I guess that got a little out of hand,” I said weakly.

He had his hands on his hips and was staring at the dirt…or maybe he was eyeing the still-evident erection in his jeans.

“Cam?”

“Do not say my name right now. Not in that voice. Not when I’m concentrating,” he said.

“Concentrating on what?” I asked in exasperation.

“I can’t walk out of here like this,” he said, gesturing toward his crotch.

My phone rang again, and I quickly silenced it. “I should probably…go? Find Zoey?” I said, hooking a questioning thumb over my shoulder.

Cam was still scowling at his nether regions.

I took one step away but turned back again. “Quick question. Was this like a heat-of-the-moment thing? Or a gigantic mistake? Or did you think I needed more research? Because don’t get me wrong, it was awesome. You’re really, really good at kissing. So I’m definitely not complaining. But I’m just a little…confused?”

He finally looked at me. The heat coming off those gorgeous green eyes of his almost had me shimmying out of my shorts. “Why’s everything got to be so complicated? I liked kissing you, so I did it again.”

I nodded. “Sure. Of course. Makes sense. Follow-up question. Do you plan to kiss me again?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Cool. Great. Awesome. I’m just going to go then,” I said, firing finger guns at him.

Oh, God. Save me from myself.

“Hazel,” Cam called.

I stopped and turned around. “Yeah?” I sounded breathy and hopeful and desperately horny.

“Your face is blue.”

“Damn it, Cam!”

Using the inside of my tank to scrub at the paint, I scurried out from under the bleachers just as my phone rang again.

I found Zoey waiting for me near the parking lot.

“Hey. I was just catching up with some…townsfolk.” I sounded completely unnatural.

“Some townsfolk? What are you writing? A historical? And why is your face blue?” Zoey asked.

I gave my chin another scrub. “I must have…rubbed up against wet paint. Hey, do you want to grab some dinner?”

“Dinner sounds good,” she said as I headed toward my bike. “Is that a blue handprint on your ass?”

“What? No,” I scoffed, wiping at the seat of my pants. “I just…fell.”

“Face and ass first into fresh blue paint?”

“How about pizza?”