Chapter 6
Hank
“Kayaking?”Chastity looks at me nervously as we get out of my truck at the water’s edge. “I don’t know, Hank.”
She’s so damn sexy when she bites her lip like she is now. I don’t think she even understands how hot she can be.
I picture her that morning in my apartment in New Orleans, hair tousled, cheeks pink, throwing on her clothes and dashing out the door, offering me a last-minute blowjob. I hadn’t taken her up on it. Now, I’d give my right arm to have her sucking me, and that is saying a whole hell of a lot since I do the majority of my knife work with my right hand.
I try to focus on the current situation. She really does look worried. “What did you think I was suggesting when I said you need to wear a swimsuit?”
“Swimming. Soaking in a hot tub.”
“Those are too obvious,” I tell her. “Where’s the adventure in that?”
“I haven’t exactly been adventurous in the last few years.” She’s picking her way carefully across the gravel parking lot, clutching her bag to her chest. She’s wearing denim shorts and a lightweight sweater, and underneath that is a swimsuit.
I don’t know what kind of swimsuit, and I like the mystery of that. Is it a bikini? A more modest two-piece? A one-piece? The color options are endless, and who knows, it could be lace or crochet or something with cut-outs. I’ve envisioned every single one. I haven’t given this much thought to swimwear since I was fourteen and went to the waterpark with our whole freshman class. That day had been an exercise in not popping a boner in public.
Today might be the same.
“Do you want to be adventurous?” I ask her. “Or at least have a little fun?”
She nods. “I do. I’ve forgotten how, though.”
She also seems to equate having a good time with negative repercussions. Which makes for a boring life. I’m determined to change that mindset.
“You’ll get the hang of it.” It’s a hot day, almost eighty degrees. That’s how November in Louisiana goes. You never know what temperature you’ll get. I peel off my own sweatshirt and toss it over my shoulder.
I should have left it in my truck. That was my first purchase when I moved back. I’d traded my little city sedan for a big country-boy truck. The swamp roads aren’t built for low-riding cars lacking in four-wheel drive.
Given that it’s noon on a Thursday, one of her three days off, we are the youngest kayakers by about forty years for this time slot. It seems to be reassuring to Chastity.
“I think I can keep up with this crowd,” she says, sounding hopeful.
There are three couples. They enthusiastically introduce themselves.
We’ve got Otis and Betty. Bill and Mary. Red and Corky.
“I’m Hank Young, and this is Chastity DuBois,” I say, shaking hands. I use last names so they don’t assume we’re married and say something that will embarrass Chastity. I realize my mistake immediately. Everyone around here knows of my brother.
“Hank Young?” Bill asks. “Cash’s brother?”
“Yes, sir.” Cash is definitely a local celebrity, which is highly entertaining. My brother may be a pro football player, but he hates the spotlight and small talk. I love football and am proud of my brother and can talk stats for hours, but that’s not how I want to spend the afternoon with Chastity.
We’re getting loaded up into our two-person couples kayaks. Chastity stands in front of the kayak designated for us, just staring at it.
I hold my hand out for her. She shifts her gaze to my hand, takes a deep breath, and accepts it. The minute we touch, she sucks in another breath, and I know she feels exactly what I feel. Chemistry. We have it, and always have. It makes my shoulders tense and my dick hard as I fight the urge to wrap her hand in mine and tug her right on into the cypress trees and peel those denim shorts off.
The second she’s safely in the kayak and on the bench, Chastity drops my hand like it’s scorched her. The other kayakers are chattering around us about my brother.
“Seems like he’s playing alright this season,” Red says. “Though it’s a damn shame he isn’t here playing for us.”
Usmeans the Saints. I’m not going to point out that my brother seems pretty damn happy where he is. He fits in well with his team and loves his ranch outside of Nashville. His family is growing with his baby due in two weeks, and I don’t expect he’ll ever move back to Louisiana.
But no one here wants to hear any of that. This is Geaux Saints territory, plain and simple.
“Amen to that,” Corky says.
“You played ball in high school, right?” Red says.
“Huh?” I’ve lost track of the conversation because Chastity has peeled her sweater off, and I have my answer. The swimsuit is a bikini, and it doesn’t fit her. It looks like a holdover from a younger Chastity because that is a whole lot of flesh falling out on either side of that hot pink fabric.
“You were the quarterback.”
“Oh, right. Yes, I was. I was good enough for high school, but I didn’t play in college.” I manage to cough up the appropriate social response, but my eyes are still locked on Chastity.
The triangle cups look at overcapacity, and the strings are straining to hold it all up. She tries to adjust it, but the shifting just exposes different areas.
“I don’t think this fits me anymore,” she says, looking flustered as I pick up a paddle and shove us off from the shore. “I’ve gained weight in the last two years. I snack too much. Potato chips are my downfall.”
“Then thank God for the chip industry, because I think you look amazing.” She does.
She stops tugging long enough to make a face at me. “I guess I shouldn’t bring up my weight on dates, should I?”
“Probably not. But you can say anything around me, you know that, right?” I ask. I mean that sincerely. “We’re friends.” I have a real soft spot for Chastity. Yes, I want to take her up against the nearest tree, but I also want to take care of her. She seems vulnerable, like she could use an ear to listen to her and a hand carrying in the grocery bags, because she really does seem tired.
She is doing it all, and that isn’t easy.
She nods in response to me. “Thanks,” she murmurs.
“I’m serious, you know. You look gorgeous.” Her body is all full, feminine curves that make my mouth water. “Feel free to take your shorts off, too. I don’t mind.”
Chastity laughs. “You have a one-track mind.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Are you Art and Trixie’s daughter?” Betty asks Chastity suddenly.
The smile falls off Chastity’s face. “Yes.”
I’m trying to imagine how a woman named Trixie has the nerve to condemn her daughter for premarital sex.
“Oh. I see.” Betty’s expression is knowing. “I remember you now.”
Chastity clears her throat.
Betty looks like she’s going to say something further, but then we’re getting instructions from Janie, our kayak guide, and Betty clearly values safety over making other people uncomfortable with judgmental stares, so that’s something. We get our life vests, warnings about which way to travel given the current wind direction, and cheerful descriptions of the wildlife we might see.
Then we’re off, clustered together, and I’m paddling pretty hard because I want to get ahead of the pack for privacy. I also want to impress Chastity with my ability to outpace senior citizens. Or rather, not be humiliated if I can’t.
I manage it easily, but then Janie yells at me to slow down and wait for the group. I’m not sure why we all have to stick together, but she seems pretty adamant, so I ease up and let us glide over the surface of the water.
But if Betty says something rude to Chastity, I’m not responsible for whatever might come out of my mouth.
Chastity taps me on the shoulder. I turn, and she’s pointing to the water’s edge. “Look, a heron!”
The excitement on her face gives me immeasurable pleasure.
Our group of paddlers does not.
As everyone else catches up with us, Janie has us float in place to watch the heron. Except wildlife isn’t as interesting as gossip, apparently. I have a feeling this trio has actually traversed this route frequently. They’re not as interested in watching the shoreline as they are in peppering me with inappropriate and invasive questions about my personal life. Which, while annoying, is fine because I’d rather the focus be on me instead of Chastity. I can take it. She seems like she takes petty bullshit to heart.
“Aren’t you that Young boy who slept with his teacher?” Mary asks, clear out of the blue. “You know what, I’m certain you are. I’m convinced of it. It was that Rawlings girl. Her mother goes to church with my neighbor, and everyone was talking about it.”
Of course they were. I recall my own mother wasn’t particularly thrilled about it.
Chastity looks scandalized, which irritates me. I want her in awe of my charm and sexual prowess, not shocked by my somewhat misspent youth.
The brief relationship with Nicki Rawlings wasn’t the big deal everyone had made it out to be. “To be fair, that was three years after I graduated, and she was only four years older than me, so I don’t think that really counts. It didn’t happen while she was my teacher.”
No one appears to be buying it. Their faces are filled with judgment.
“Though she did teach me a thing or two, if you know what I mean,” I add, because lighten the fuck up everyone. I’m kidding. I’m clearly kidding.
No one looks amused.
“And I remember when you were in high school, you stole all those street signs, and we had tourists all turned around. That was highly inconvenient, young man,” Bill says. “The swamp tours took quite the financial hit that day.”
I’ll happily give the two tour companies in town a hundred bucks in restitution, which is what they probably lost, because the sign stealing was dumb, but me and my buddies had enjoyed ourselves. It was silly and mostly harmless and a teen-boy bonding experience. “Yeah, sorry about that. It was a senior prank.”
“You also broke the window at the ice cream shop, goofing off on your skateboard.”
What the hell, is this an episode of “This is your life, Hank Young?”
“That was genuinely an accident.”
Next, they’d be bringing up the time I got arrested for pretending to twerk outside of a bar. I’d been terrible at it, because why would I be good at twerking? I was also drunk and had managed to fall off a balcony in the French Quarter. I’d damaged the car I landed on and rolled off the hood and onto a pile of trash bags. Not one of my finer moments.
Chastity has her paddle across her lap and is just listening to all of this.
“And you flashed those bachelorettes on their tour boat.”
That is actually a fond memory. “I was twenty-one when I did that, so it was all totally legal.” I’d forgotten about the bachelorettes. I’d ended up in a threesome with two of the bridesmaids.
Otis nods. He’s falling for it.
Betty glares at me. “Exposing yourself is still against the law, even if you’re of age.”
“Wish I had known that then,” I say.
Chastity is shaking her head at me. But she’s smiling. She thinks I’m funny. Which I am. Life should be fun. Take that, Betty.
“Heard you’ve been living in New Orleans. Now talk about a place where evil flourishes,” Otis says. “Didn’t pick up a spirit, did you?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t. Sometimes I do get the urge to sacrifice a chicken, though,” I say.
They stare at me.
“In the kitchen. I’m a chef. I cook the chicken. Smothered chicken?” It’s a good dad joke.
“That’s not funny, son.”
Apparently not.
“You don’t want to mess around with voodoo.”
I’m trying very hard not to laugh. Who the fuck is messing around with voodoo?
I get my paddle ready because I paid to rent this kayak, and I want to spend time alone with Chastity. Janie will get over it if we split from the group.
“Bless your mother’s heart,” Corky says.
I try really hard not to roll my eyes at that.
“Speaking of mothers, did you know that Chastity is a single mother?” Betty asks.
Chastity sighs.
I hear the judgment in Betty’s voice, and this is no longer entertaining. They can take shots at me all day long, and I could care less. But now they’re picking at Chastity, and I’m not putting up with that.
“I do know that,” I say. “Since we’re dating. She’s amazing, juggling everything she does all on her own.”
I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell anyone we’re dating because we’re fake dating, but fuck it. Betty is on my nerves.
“I can’t say I’ve ever heard who the father is,” Betty says. “Chastity, who’s that boy’s father? I’ve never seen him around. Is he in prison?”
Chastity says flatly, “I have no idea.”
I’m just impulsive enough that I’m tempted to say I’m Josiah’s father, but I don’t want to make the situation worse for Chastity. I also want to tell Betty to fuck right off, but I’m not twenty-two anymore. I have grown and learned to shutter my impulsiveness. I want to give her a solid lecture on minding her own business and that evil isn’t only in New Orleans but maybe also lies in her pickled and sour heart, but none of that will solve the problem, so I keep my mouth shut. I’m cool. I’m mature. I’m a business owner and master of my domain.
“Hey look, there’s an egret,” I say, pointing with my paddle, going for the distraction technique. It works with my niece, Marigold. You throw a cookie at that kid, and she forgets literally anything and everything else.
I feel trapped in this damn kayak. If I paddle really fast, we can pull away, but then what? I’m not sure if Chastity will figure out what I’m doing if I suddenly try to jet off. She is a fantastic care provider, but she doesn’t seem to have a sly bone in her body or the world’s greatest arm strength. Her paddle was barely skimming the water as she let me do the heavy lifting.
The distraction technique doesn’t work on Otis. He says, “Maybe she doesn’t know who the boy’s father is.”
He says it while ogling Chastity’s chest.
That’s it.
I turn my paddle toward him and stretch it out so it’s almost tapping him on the chest. “Hey, look, there’s an asshole.”
Then I tip our kayak.
Add that to the Hank bank of impulsive moves.
It will give them something to talk about other than Chastity.