Chapter 41 Blake
BLAKE
THE LAKE HOUSE HAS CLEARED out of everyone but me, Wyatt, and our parents.
In other words, the most uncomfortable configuration of people you can ask for.
I’d kill for an AJ and Beau fistfight right about now.
But the Golden Boys are gone, Gigi’s not here to back me up, and Wyatt’s been acting weird the past couple days, leaving me on my own to field constant questions from the dads about our relationship.
Making my mood worse, I feel myself coming down with a cold, so I’ve been trying to take it easy today. I work on the puzzle with Wyatt, then go for a walk with my mom.
At dinner, we talk about our fall plans and lament about how there are only a few weeks left to summer.
My parents are going to Paris in September to visit my grandma, Josie.
I’m envious because I’d way rather go back to Paris than to Briar for my senior year.
I still can’t muster any enthusiasm for this broadcasting major of mine.
Or school in general. And my goal of figuring out what the hell I’m going to do after graduation remains unmet.
At this point, I think I’m destined for mediocrity, and I should just accept that.
Beside me, Wyatt pushes his chair back to get seconds, glancing at me as he rises. “You need anything from the kitchen while I’m up, freckles?”
“More water would be great, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
When he returns, he sets a full glass next to my plate while planting a sweet kiss on the top of my head.
I think it’s a reflexive action, because he then abruptly straightens as if remembering he’s supposed to be the cool and collected Wyatt Graham.
Mr. Bad Boy with his messy hair and chunky rings.
As he retakes his seat, I notice our two fathers beaming.
“This is amazing,” Garrett declares.
“Everything I’ve always dreamed of,” Dad says happily.
“Oh really,” I challenge. “Suddenly you’re A-OK with this? You didn’t speak for three days.”
“We were always speaking in our hearts,” Dad says. “I don’t understand why they don’t get it, G.”
“They’re small thinkers,” Garrett agrees. “They can’t relate to big thinkers like us.”
I stifle a sigh while our moms laugh.
“What’s everyone up to tonight?” Mom asks the table. “Should we play a game? Monopoly?”
“Oh, we’re going to see the Spencers,” I tell her. “They’re heading back to New York tomorrow, so we’re hanging out with them on their last night.”
“Are you sure you want to take the boat out?” Mom frets, studying me. “You’re looking pale. Still trying to beat that bug?”
“It’s fine. We won’t be long.” I glance at Wyatt. “Just a couple hours, right?”
He nods. “Yeah. But you know what, let’s take the car. The drive’s longer, but you do look a bit pale. Don’t want you getting seasick.”
While the parents hang out on the deck, Wyatt and I clear the table and clean up, then make the drive to the Spencers. We’re not even halfway there when he suddenly pulls off onto the shoulder.
I look over with a frown. “What are you doing?”
He has already flicked the hazards on and is climbing into the back seat. “Quick. Hop on.”
Despite the laughter that sputters out, I waste no time wiggling out of my denim shorts. We haven’t had sex since the night we caught Beau and Tara, and I am going through major withdrawal.
When I join him in the back, naked from the bottom down, I notice he’s already got a condom on. “Were you wearing that the whole time?” I demand.
“No, I put it on while you were taking off your shorts,” he says with a snort. “I’m not that much of a sex maniac.” He pauses. “With that said, sit on my dick, baby.”
Laughing, I straddle his lap, and he’s instantly all over me, gripping my waist, caressing my sides, my breasts. His breath is hot against my neck as he kisses me there.
“I’ve been thinking about your body all day. Thinking about how good it feels under my hands.” His voice is low, rough, sending chills down my spine. “Your body was fucking made for me, Blake.”
My heart races. His words ignite something deep inside me, that wild side he coaxes out of me so easily. I sigh as his lips trail down to my collarbone, and I can feel the heat between us rising fast.
There’s no foreplay save for his tongue on my nipples and his hand cupping my pussy to test my readiness.
He finds me wet and aching for him, and we both moan eagerly when I sink down on his dick.
Pleasure rockets through me, seizing control of my hips because I need to move.
I ride him fast and hard, racing toward the orgasm I’ve been craving for days.
My favorite kind of orgasm—the one when his cock is so deep inside me it feels like he’s part of me and his fingers are in the place where we’re joined, stimulating my clit.
He rubs that throbbing spot and whispers filthy words in my ear, and it isn’t long before the knot of pleasure detonates and sends a rush of bliss coursing through my veins. I keep riding him until he’s shuddering, squeezing my waist as he thrusts upward and finds his release.
I would’ve preferred a lot more than a quickie, but it’s difficult to be alone (or quiet) in the house, and we can’t constantly be banging behind the boathouse like animals. Sometimes a girl needs a bed.
Wyatt pushes his hair out of his eyes, breathing hard. “I needed that.”
“Me too.” I lean in to kiss him, but all that bouncing made me a bit nauseous, so I reluctantly ease my mouth away and fumble for my shorts.
The first thing Little Spencer says when he lets us in ten minutes later is, “You have sex hair, sweetie.”
Grinning, I check my hair in the hall mirror.
He’s right. It’s a disaster. I finger comb the messy strands and tuck them behind my ears while Wyatt drifts into the kitchen to say hi to Big Spencer.
They set out a cheese and fruit plate on the cedar counter, but I don’t partake.
I lean against the stove while the Spencers chat with Wyatt for a few minutes before Little Spencer suddenly clears his throat.
“So,” he starts, his sheepish eyes seeking out mine. “One of the reasons we invited you over tonight wasn’t just to say goodbye. We…um…sort of did something.”
My suspicious gaze travels from one Spencer to the other. “Oh God. What have you guys done?”
“Okay. Well. Hmm. So.”
“Stop speaking in monosyllabic riddles,” I order.
Big Spencer takes over for his stammering partner. “I know you wanted to listen to the guest episode and watch the video before we finalized it, but we uploaded it already.”
“And you can’t be mad at us because the video has more than a million views,” Little Spencer blurts out.
Shock slams into me. “What? What do you mean over a million?”
“We mean over a million,” Big Spencer says, chuckling. “And the podcast has about a hundred thousand downloads. It’s free to subscribe, so we don’t earn much through downloads, but—”
“You put it online without asking me?”
Anxiety ripples through me as I try to remember everything we talked about. Damn it! They were supposed to let me approve the final edited cut. And they uploaded the video too? Oh God. I don’t even remember what I was wearing that day.
“What was I wearing?” I demand.
They blink at me. Even Wyatt gives me a strange look.
“What? You can’t just put a girl on the internet like that,” I moan. “I didn’t even wear makeup that day. This is so embarrassing.”
“Focus,” Little Spencer says, snapping his fingers in front of me as if I’m a parakeet whose attention he’s coveting. “One million views, Blake. And it’s through our ad account, so do you realize how much money we made? Ten thousand dollars! Half of which is yours, obviously.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“It’s the most we’ve ever made on one of our videos. And the comments are all positive. All of them! That’s unheard of. Usually there are at least a dozen saying how annoying I am.”
“A million people listened to us talk about Darlie and Lake Tahoe?”
“Yes,” Big Spencer confirms.
I feel dazed. It’s unfathomable to me that so many people watched—and enjoyed—me and Little Spencer chatting about our silly ghost story.
“If you really want, we’ll take it down,” Little Spencer promises. “We did a shitty thing putting it up without your permission.”
“We’re really sorry,” Big Spencer says with genuine remorse.
“Say the word and it’ll be taken down. Or…” Little Spencer tips his wineglass, taking a dainty sip before setting it down. “We can make it official.”
“Make what official?”
“The podcast. There are so many comments asking when episode two is coming. Like, this can be a real thing.” Little Spencer is practically bouncing with excitement. “We even have a name for it!”
His partner nods and says, “Fringe Benefits.”
“We thought we could structure it in seasons. You know, like every season we discuss one topic. Season one: ghosts. Season two: aliens. There’s so much cool shit we can do with this, Blake.” Little Spencer implores me with his eyes. “Please say yes.”
“I have to go back to school,” I remind him.
“We can do it while you’re in school. New York isn’t far from Boston. You can take the train, stay for a weekend. We’ll knock out a bunch of episodes, stockpile them, and stagger the releases. Or we’ll do a video call setup. We’ve got options.”
“We can make a lot of money,” Big Spencer says, which is definitely a selling point.
“And you’ll have fun,” Wyatt says quietly, finally joining the conversation.
He’s right. I will have fun. Because all the research I’ve done about this one measly mystery?
I’ve had more fun this summer than in my three years of college combined.
The only time I enjoyed doing schoolwork at Briar was when researching and writing papers about topics I was able to choose myself.
The rest of the time, it’s been a boring chore.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
Little Spencer’s eyes light up. “Okay as in yes?” He gasps. “Are you accepting my podcast proposal?”
A smile springs free. “I think I am.”
“Oh my God!” He claps his hands together. “This definitely calls for a champagne toast!”
Although I’m not feeling a hundred percent, I can’t resist accepting the wineglass he hands me. This does feel toast-worthy. Our Darlie episode earned us ten thousand dollars. Even if we never get a fraction of those views again, that is still pretty fucking cool.
“To our new venture,” Big Spencer toasts.
“Oh, you’ve gotta dream bigger, honey,” Little Spencer chides. “To our new podcasting empire!”
The four of us clink our glasses. But the moment the champagne slides down my throat, my insides rebel. Oh no. My stomach starts to gurgle, and I gag when I feel the bile burning a path up my throat.
“Oh shit,” I blurt out. “I’m gonna be sick.”
Gagging, I shove my wineglass at Wyatt and sprint to the hall bathroom. I shut the door and proceed to empty the contents of my stomach.
And as I curl over on my knees, retching and hugging the toilet of Spencer and Spencer Hanz, paranormal podcasters, it occurs to me that my period is two weeks late.