Colt
August heat curls around me, pulling sweat from my skin as I lie spread-eagle on top of my bed, having just woken up from a nap.
Ideally, I’d like to chug a bunch of NyQuil or something to knock me back out, because my dream about Whit was so fucking close to getting real good.
After a full week since seeing her, I can’t seem to sleep, or shower, or be alone in bed without thinking of her.
While I slept, a text came through that Austin’s wife, Cecily, made sangria and everybody was going swimming. And since I have no sleeping medication to lull me back into Whit-filled dreams, an afternoon by the river sounds a hell of a lot better than suffering in the sweltering bunkhouse.
Never mind missing Whit, I’ve also barely seen Jonas lately, though he’s keeping busy with the women in the kitchen after he finishes his regular tasks.
The final push for haying, combined with excruciating heat, means Austin has us working god-awful hours.
I’m struggling to sleep during the hottest part of the day and working through the night, chugging Red Bull and singing along to country music to keep myself awake. It’s been miserable.
Eyes wet from my uncontrollable yawning, I amble down the winding, heavily treed path to the riverbank, counting down the seconds to when I can leap into the glacier-fed river.
Nearly the entire Wells Ranch gang is down by the water today, belongings scattered under the trees.
Even in the shade, and by the rushing water, it’s hotter than hell.
I slip out of my sandals and ditch my shirt beside where Jackson’s wife, Kate, and Cecily are stacking rocks with Kate’s kids. Rather, they were stacking rocks, but it promptly ends when Betty runs straight for Odessa and her tail destroys their hard work.
“Betty, you ass!” I yell through a laugh.
“Bad word,” Odessa shouts back without skipping a beat.
“Betty’s my accountant. Hit her up for swear jar money.”
A little farther downstream, a few guys are putting together a rope swing that looks pretty damn sketchy. The rope’s a little too frayed and the branch could stand to be thicker. That said, I’m not one to turn down a rope swing.
Hardly slowing my stride, I snag a can of beer from the massive blue cooler we’ve been keeping down here for the past few weeks—some sort of beer fairy keeps stocking it, and I keep drinking it.
The first swig’s smooth and crisp.
“Damn, what do we have here, fellas?” I sidle up next to Red and watch Denny give the rope a good tug to test the branch overhead.
“Denny feels like breaking his neck today,” Red says, kicking a pebble around with the side of his bare foot.
“As long as you let go over the water, it’s fine. There’s a big pool right here. The river’s deep as hell.” Denny’s hands slide higher up the rope so he can pull his body off the ground. Still, the rope holds. And he gives his onlookers a smug look.
Jackson shakes his head. “He wants another excuse to visit the clinic.”
“We’ve moved to house calls, my guy.” He shoots his brother a finger gun before gripping the rope and scrambling to the top of a boulder.
Standing above us and staring out at the water, he glides his palms along the tattered off-white rope.
With a yip, Denny swings forward and lands in the frigid water.
He hasn’t even surfaced yet, and I’m chugging the rest of my beer, darting forward to catch the rope on its limp swing back toward shore.
My bare feet burn as I hobble over the rocks to the same place Denny swung from. Looks like a decent distance to drop, but he survived, so it’s probably safe enough.
“You guys wanna see a cannonball pro at work?” I call out.
They must not have heard me, because nobody answers.
I go for it anyway. Raising my hands as high above my head as I can muster to grab the rope, I leap from the smooth boulder and fly through the air. It’s so reminiscent of George of the Jungle, I have to remind myself out loud to let go before I swing back and smack into the rock face.
The water chills me to the bone instantly, washing the salty sweat from my skin and easing the deep ache woven into my muscles from long days in the tractor. Finally surfacing, I inhale lungful after lungful of air.
To my chagrin, within minutes of stepping onto the rocky shore, I’m fully dry and my body temperature is skyrocketing. I nudge Denny and gesture for him to swing again. It’s way less fun if I’m the only one doing the rope swing repeatedly while everybody else sits around drinking beer.
“Bet you can’t do a flip.” I know Denny’s kryptonite. He can’t turn down a challenge.
“Fuck you, I can’t. Hope you’re prepared to lose that bet.” Denny’s already clambering toward where the rope’s hanging limp from the branch of a towering pine tree. When he notices the other guys looking, he says, “Best flip competition. Who’s in?”
“What does the winner get?” Red asks.
“Uh…” Denny scans the shoreline. “Rest of the beer in the cooler. And the loser has to…”
“Grow a mustache!” Kate yells, hands cupped around her mouth, from her lounge chair upstream. She gives her husband a little shove on the shoulder to encourage him to participate, which he reluctantly accepts.
“Hell nah, I’m not growing a mustache.” Red strokes his clean-shaven jaw. “This shit grows in fucking orange. And I don’t need my girlfriend thinking I’m any uglier than she probably already does.”
I give him a thumbs-down and a loud boo. “You only gotta keep it for, like, a few days.”
Five minutes later, we have the rules set up, Red willing to participate, and the women agreeing to judge, when Denny takes a crack at it.
And wouldn’t you know it, he can actually do a fucking flip.
The girls and kids cheer. Who knows what their scoring system really is, but they each hold up nine fingers.
Jackson does some kind of twist in the air that secures him straight tens from his kids, but a two from his own wife.
He storms the beach, wrapping his wet body around Kate and tossing her over his shoulder while she laughs hysterically.
He submerges both of them in the water, and still she comes back up laughing and swatting water at his face.
Distracted by the commotion in the water, my brain hardly registers three figures emerging from the tree line at the top of the riverbank. Betty barks, and I turn to give her hell when I lose my ability to speak or think in one fell swoop.
Blair. Jonas. Whit.
I swallow hard, reaching blindly for my can of beer—anything to calm my nerves and cool the sudden rise in body temperature. I train my eyes on a set of stacked rocks being lapped by a small current of water.
Wow. Great rocks. Really cool pattern there. Is that quartz?
I stupidly steal a glance in her direction out of the corner of my eye to catch her lifting her dress overhead.
Fuck, she’s taking her clothes off.
How do rocks get so smooth, anyway?
The saliva’s pooling at the back of my throat faster than I can swallow it. And actually, I’m insanely jealous of the way Rob can sit there ogling my girl without a fucking worry in the world. Yet if I so much as take notice of her presence here, I’m sure they’ll be on to me in an instant.
Maybe one glance…if I play it super cool.
I pretend as though I’ve lost track of my dog, scanning real slowly over the riverbank, taking my time to ensure she didn’t run off.
Fuck.
She’s in a black one-piece suit that dips dangerously low in the front.
Okay, I’ve spotted Betty. I give a little nod to myself that says I finally saw what I was looking for, then allow one more gradual scan of the crowd, lingering a bit on Whit.
On her long creamy legs, and the curve of her hips, and the sheen covering her breasts, and the way she tilts her face toward the sun.
I’m so in my head, I nearly miss Red calling me over for my turn in the competition. My vision’s hazy, and I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my hand on the awkward stumble toward him.
Sliding my hands up the rope to just above a knot Denny added for grip, I swing.
When the clear blue sky is visible among the tree canopy, I know I’m over the river.
Fearless, I let go and give in to the free fall for half a second.
My stomach and heart seem to switch positions on my backwards tuck.
Smack.
The near-freezing water slaps my back, knocking the wind from my chest with a sharp, painful implosion that I know I’ll feel for days.
Instantly my skin’s stinging from the impact, and I fight to upright myself in the river’s current so I can locate the surface.
Then I let myself stay six feet underwater, staring up at the sun’s rays dancing on the surface, until my body instinctively fights to save itself.
Though drowning might be preferential to facing Whit, who definitely won’t be interested in dating me after this.
“Yikes, man,” Denny calls the moment my head bobs above the water. “You good?”
“Fuckin’ ouch.” I carefully run the tips of my fingers over the tender spot in the center of my lower back.
There’s a collective wincing on my behalf. The searing sensation under my skin seems to get worse once I drag my ass out of the water. I refuse to make eye contact with Whit, though Jonas is causing a ruckus next to her.
Three points across the board. Even that feels like a pity score.
“Zero out of ten recommend doing whatever the hell that was,” I say, taking a slow, wobbly seat on a rock.
All my limbs work, so I didn’t get too hurt. Pride took a hell of a beating, though.
Oh, yeah. And it looks like I’m growing a damn mustache now. I’m going to look like my dad’s younger doppelg?nger.
“Honestly, man.” Denny slaps a hand on my shoulder and passes me a beer. “I think I might grow one with you for the hell of it. Last time Blair and I dated, I couldn’t grow more than some patchy scruff on my chin. Maybe she’ll be into it.”
Is it weird to say I hope she is, because that might mean her sister also likes facial hair?
I don’t think that’s really how shit works.
Sisters don’t find the same things attractive, do they?
I chew on the inside of my cheek, mulling over the concept.
I mean, I think my brother’s girl is pretty.
Granted, she’s a famous country singer, so I suppose most of the male species finds her hot.
“Guess I’ll be offering mustache rides at the next rodeo.” I run a finger over my currently smooth upper lip.
Suddenly wide-eyed, Denny snaps his fingers. “You need a mustache ride T-shirt. Have it say ‘Free for MILFs’ or something.”
Wait. Does he…?
I look him up and down, waiting for confirmation that he knows about my crush on his girlfriend’s sister. Thankfully, there’s no indication he’s any the wiser.
I’ve been pretty careful not to tell any of the ranch hands that I’ve hung out with her.
I heard the shit-talking around the bunkhouse when Red was driving half an hour to Wells Canyon every day for his girl—and she was pregnant at the time.
Denny was a bit sneakier, acting like his shoulder injury was acting up and he was heading to the clinic.
Not that it lasted long before everybody noticed him ogling the shit out of her on the ranch day in and day out.
Nope. Instead, I let everyone believe I’m visiting my mom more than usual. Let them think I’m a mama’s boy—which, to be fair, I kind of am. And I keep my covert glances at Whit to a minimum, even when her dripping wet body emerging from the water makes it damn near impossible.
Doesn’t stop me from thinking about her nonstop, though. So much that her ears must start ringing; late in the evening Whit finally makes good use of having my phone number.
Future Wife: How’s your back after that crash today?
Colt: I think it actually fixed some issues I was already having
Colt: Pride’s been better, though
Future Wife: Your landing had pizzazz
Colt: Nothing like the razzle dazzle of a back flop
Colt: By the way, how do you feel about mustaches?
Future Wife: Are we talking Burt Reynolds or Michael Cera?
Colt: Is your answer different depending on which I choose?
Future Wife: Burt Reynolds’ 1972 centerfold?! I have nothing more to say.
Future Wife: Michael Cera’s pubestache? Call the police.
I stare wide-eyed and terrified at my bedroom ceiling.
There’s no turning Colt Campbell into Burt Reynolds—not unless they make Rogaine for the entire body and I start a serious bulking workout plan.
Though I’m not a godly man, you can bet your ass I’ll be praying nonstop for the next few days that my mustache isn’t anything Whit might compare to pubes.