16. Casey
sixteen
Casey
M att didn't let me leave until we'd snuggled, showered, and he'd fed me breakfast and birthday cake, and I was still buzzing from sex as I walked back to my cabin. It wasn't until was at the front door that I remembered Oliver. I mean, I knew he existed, but I'd somehow conveniently forgotten that I’d ditched on my birthday, that I'd left him alone and worried about me and ignored him while he sent me frantic texts.
How could I have been so selfish? If that was what being drunk did to me, maybe I needed to hold off on the drinking. Oliver had probably waited up all night for me, and I’d been too wrapped up in Matt to even remember to text him and let him know I wasn't dead.
I was an asshole.
Apologies raced through my mind as I pushed open the cabin door with my hip, swinging the precious guitar case through the door in front of me. I felt a twinge shoot up from places I wasn't ready to think about yet. Matt Blackstone was a big man in every sense of the word, and my body still felt wrung out and used up in the best possible way. I was gonna need that dick again. And again, and again and again.
As I gently set my new guitar on the bed, I gave the case a reverent stroke, blushing again as I thought about how beautiful it was. Then, remembering my apology mission, I turned and studied Oliver for signs of worry, but saw none. He was sprawled across our threadbare sofa, glasses perched on his nose as he typed rapidly on his laptop’s keyboard, copying numbers from a notebook sitting next to him into a spreadsheet.
Maybe he was using work to distract himself from his overwhelming panic?
He looked up after a moment, eyebrows shooting up as he saw me. There was no anger or worry in his eyes.
“Is that beard burn?” he asked at the same time as I said, "I'm sorry!"
I rubbed my jaw. Why hadn’t I looked in a mirror before I’d left Matt’s place? "No. Of course not. Why would I have a beard burn? And before you ask, I am not falling for a lumberjack who lives in a tiny house."
“Was that what I was going to ask?" he asked.
“What I meant to say was, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” He tilted his head, frowning for a beat, before perking up, setting the laptop on the coffee table, and leaning forward. “So, was Matt's house really cool? Wade mentioned that it was beautiful on the inside. Efficient use of space and zero net energy. My dream home, really.” He was rambling in that science nerd way he did, not at all like a little brother who'd waited up all night, worried about me.
I stared at him, momentarily thrown off balance.
"That's your question? If his house is cool?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Not 'Where were you all night?' or 'Why didn't you come back to the cabin?' You don’t look worried at all!"
Oliver shrugged. "I mean, I was a bit irritated that you ditched me mid-celebration, but I got it. You’re 21 and alcohol gives you weird delusions."
"It does not!" I huffed.
"Remember that party at the LGBTQ+ frat where you did a keg stand and then announced you were going to fuck the entire frat."
I frowned, tilting my head. "That's not how I remember that night." Though the things that happened after the keg stand were a little blurry. A fumbling blow job maybe?
"Right. Well, I was there. And sober as usual, so I think my memory might be clearer. And you are not as good as you think you are at twerking."
I frowned. "I've never twerked a day in my life."
Oliver blinked. "You sure about that?"
"Whatever. Why weren't you worried about me? I could have been roofied!"
"You're oddly fascinated with being roofied. I wasn't worried because Matt texted me and let me know you were crashing at his place. He didn't want me to worry, and I knew you were in good hands."
My stomach did a weird flip. Matt had texted Oliver? To let him know I was okay? Something warm and unwelcome unfurled in my chest, and I quickly stomped it down. That was just Matt being responsible.
"Oh," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "That's... thoughtful of him."
"It was." Oliver adjusted his glasses, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "So? The tiny house?"
I sighed, carefully lowering myself onto the edge of my bed. My body was still reminding me, with every movement, of exactly what I'd been doing a couple of hours ago. "It's... yeah, it's actually amazing. All custom-built. There's this loft bed and these clever storage solutions and..." I caught myself sounding way too enthusiastic and clamped my mouth shut. "I mean, it's whatever. Just a house. A very small house. Not one I’d want to live in or anything. Not that he offered." Shit, why did I keep rambling? I was only digging myself deeper.
Oliver's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Anyway," I continued, pushing myself up from the table with a barely concealed wince, "I'm just here to change. I need to be at the music cabin in like twenty minutes."
"On a Sunday morning?" Oliver asked. “This weekend was your last day off until the campers arrive."
"I need to finish setting up the—" I stopped mid-sentence, seeing the knowing look spreading across Oliver's face. "What?"
"Nothing," Oliver said innocently, turning a page in his notebook. "Just interesting that you're rushing back to work for the guy you're not falling for."
"I'm not," I insisted, hobbling a little as I made my way to our shared dresser. "Why would I be falling for him? All we do is fight. It's just work. The campers arrive in four days, and there's still a ton to do to make sure this arts curriculum is a hit."
"Case," Oliver said, his voice softening. "You know it's okay if you like him, right?"
"I don't like him," I said, my voice frustratingly shaky. "I mean, sure, he's hot. Like, objectively speaking. And the sex was..." I trailed off, remembering how the sex was. Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. Possibly ruinous to all future sexual encounters.
"Ah," Oliver said, and I could hear the smile in his voice without turning around. "So there was sex."
I spun around, wincing again at the movement. "That's not what I—" But Oliver's knowing expression stopped me mid-lie. "Fine. Yes. There was sex. But it was just birthday sex. A one-time thing. We don’t even get along. You could call it a hate fuck."
"Hate fuck," Oliver repeated. "With your boss. Who you're not falling for."
I grinned, hoping it looked confident. "Exactly."
"Did he give you a guitar?" Oliver asked, nodding toward the case I'd deposited on my bed. I chewed on my lip to stop myself from gushing about the guitar, because Matt had given me the most beautiful instrument I'd ever owned. The memory of his nervous smile as I'd opened it made something twist painfully in my chest.
"It's just a birthday gift," I said, the defensiveness creeping back into my voice. "A kind gesture from my boss. It turned out he had a surprise party planned, and the message never got to you that you were supposed to bring me to the lodge, which is sweet, but in a boss-like way, right? I mean, sure, he also happens to be good in bed. Really good. Like, surprisingly good for a camp director who wears flannel year-round." The word vomit was spilling from my mouth uncontrolled. "Did you know he has piercings? Like, multiple piercings. In places that—"
"TMI, Casey," Oliver cut in, holding up a hand. "Seriously."
I felt my face burning. "Anyway. Not falling for him."
Oliver returned to his spreadsheet, looking unbothered. "If you say so, I believe you. There’s nothing wrong with a fun fling with your hot boss," he murmured, scribbling something down. "What kind of guitar is it?"
In spite of myself, I felt a smile tugging at my lips. "A custom piece by a small guitar maker. You wouldn’t have heard of them, but it has the best materials — mahogany back and sides, Sitka spruce top with this gorgeous inlay. The sound is so rich, with this punchy treble..." I trailed off, knowing I was geeking out, remembering how my fingers had trembled when I'd first strummed it. How Matt had watched me with those piercing blue eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. How he'd remembered what I'd said weeks ago about my old guitar being on its last legs. "It's perfect," I finished quietly.
"That sounds expensive," Oliver observed.
I focused very intently on a loose thread on my t-shirt. "He said it wasn't a big deal. He has a friend who makes them."
"So your boss, who you're not falling for, bought you an expensive custom-made guitar for your birthday, planned you a surprise party, then rescued you when you were drunk, made sure I knew you were safe, and then…"
“He didn't fuck me until the morning, when I was sober,” I interrupted, just in case Oliver was thinking the worst of Matt. "Just so you don't think there was anything shady there."
“Wouldn’t expect anything less from Matt. He’s not the type to take advantage.”
"Look, the sex was just—" I paused, searching for the right word, but all I could think about was how Matt's hands had felt spanning my waist, how his lips had traced patterns down my spine, how he'd whispered my name like a prayer when he came, deep inside me. How I shivered thinking about the fact that his cum was still in me, marking me as his. "It was just really good sex," I finished lamely.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Just good?"
"Not that I've had that much to compare it to, but excellent." Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. Life changing.
Oliver's expression softened. "Case, you know it's okay to like him, right? Even if he is your boss. Even if he is older than you."
"Not that much older, it's totally an acceptable age gap," I said automatically, then cursed inwardly. "I mean, it would be, if I liked him. Which I don't."
"Right," Oliver said, unconvinced. "And that's why you keep touching your neck where he gave you a hickey."
Shit, there was a hickey? My hand, which had indeed crept back up to my neck, dropped to my lap. "It doesn't mean anything," I insisted.
"Anyway," I said, straightening my shoulders, "I need to get changed. I really am going to be late, and unlike some people, I actually care about being punctual for work."
"Sure," Oliver said, returning to his notes. "It has nothing to do with wanting to see a certain Camp Director again."
I flipped him off as I headed to the tiny, shared closet that sat in the little alcove by the bathroom. My clothes hung in a neat line, a rainbow of faded t-shirts, jeans, and shorts that screamed "broke college student" rather than "competent music teacher." I needed something that said I was a professional who had not just been thoroughly fucked by the boss. I settled for a crisp, newish black t-shirt and a pair of shorts that hit just above the knee. Not my usual bright colors, but maybe today, it’d be better to not draw attention.
"There's laundry in the basket if you need it," Oliver called, not looking up from his notebook. "I did a load yesterday at the camp laundry room."
I grunted in acknowledgment, grabbing my clothes and a clean pair of tiny rainbow briefs, not because Matt loved me in briefs, but because they were comfy, and ducked into our tiny bathroom to change, blushing as I remembered the way Matt had cleaned me up in the shower, his mouth tracing down my throat as he whispered gruffly about how good it had been.
I peeled off my t-shirt and caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked... different. My hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction despite my earlier attempts to tame it with my fingers. My eyes were bright, almost feverish, and there was a flush to my cheeks that had nothing to do with the summer heat. And there, spanning the junction between my neck and shoulder, was the purplish mark of Matt's mouth.
I touched it gently, remembering the moment it happened.
Shaking the strange feeling off, I quickly stripped off the rest of my clothes, wincing as I bent to remove my shorts. Every movement was a reminder of what we'd done, of how thoroughly Matt had taken me apart and put me back together. I dressed in the clean clothes as quickly as possible, not wanting to think too hard about any of it. When I emerged from the bathroom, Oliver looked up, studying me with that analytical gaze of his.
"You're full of shit."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Oliver said, adjusting his glasses, "that people who are genuinely not interested in someone don't usually have to announce it repeatedly. They just... aren't interested. No declarations needed."
Heat crept up my neck. "I'm just making sure you understand the situation."
"I understand perfectly," Oliver said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You're not falling for him because that would be inconvenient and complicate things and maybe even make you vulnerable, which is your worst fear."
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. Sometimes I forgot how observant Oliver was, how he could see through my bullshit with surgical precision. It was both his most annoying and most endearing quality.
"I'm not afraid of being vulnerable," I managed, but the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"Sure," Oliver agreed, clearly not believing me. "And I'm not afraid of spiders."
I glared at him, snatching my guitar case from the bed. "I'm going to be late."
"For your non-date with the guy you're not falling for?"
"For work, jerkface," I muttered, picking up the guitar case and slinging the strap over my shoulder.
"Love you too," he replied cheerfully. "And Casey?"
I paused, hand on the doorknob. "What?"
"Your shirt's on inside out."
I looked down and, sure enough, the seams of my black t-shirt were visible. With a groan of frustration, I set down the guitar, stripped off the shirt, turned it right-side out, and yanked it back over my head.
"Better?" I asked through gritted teeth.
Oliver nodded, then pointed to my neck. "But now your hickey's showing again."
I slapped a hand to my neck, then saw the smirk on his face. "You're such an asshole."
"An observant asshole," he corrected. "And for what it's worth, I think Matt's good for you. You seem happier."
The simple observation landed like a punch to the gut. Was I happier? Had one night with Matt Blackstone really changed something fundamental in me? I didn't want to examine that too closely.
"I'll see you later," I said, picking up my guitar again and wrenching open the door.
"Have fun not falling for Matt!" Oliver called after me as I stalked out of the cabin.
I didn't dignify that with a response, just slammed the door behind me with enough force to rattle the windows. Oliver's laughter followed me down the steps, and despite my irritation, I felt a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. Annoying as he was, my brother might be onto something. But I'd rather eat my new guitar than admit it to him—or to myself.
Right outside the cabin, there was a tall figure leaning against one of the big ponderosa pines, scrolling through his phone, the sun glinting off the gold in his hair.
Matt.
I stopped in my tracks, heart hammering against my ribs. He hadn't seen me yet, which gave me a moment to take him in. He wore faded jeans that hugged his thighs and a simple gray t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, revealing the edges of the tattoos that I now knew covered much of his upper body. His feet were clad in worn hiking boots, and his face was tilted toward the sun, eyes closed, a small smile playing on his lips.
He looked relaxed. Content. Gorgeous.
He straightened and pocketed the phone, and his eyes found mine, as if he'd sensed my presence. Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a quirk of his lips that wasn't quite a smile but something more intimate.
"Casey." My name in his mouth still sounded like a revelation.
I forced my feet to move, closing the gap between us with steps that I hoped looked more confident than they felt. "What are you doing here?" I asked, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
Matt straightened as I approached, unfolding his arms. "Waiting for you."
The simple honesty of it knocked me sideways. There was no pretense with Matt, no game-playing. He'd wanted to see me, so he'd come to where I would be. Simple. Direct. Terrifying.
"I have work to do. I’m heading for the music cabin," I said, stopping a few yards from where he was standing and looking up at him. The height difference made me feel small in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Not now that I knew how he could manhandle me, anyway.
"I know," Matt said. His eyes tracked over me slowly, taking in my damp hair, my black t-shirt, and the way I was standing off-center to accommodate the lingering ache in my body. His lips curved into a knowing smile. "You told me before you left. I wanted to walk you to work."
The gentleness in his voice made something in my chest constrict painfully.
We stood there for a moment, the morning sun warming the space between us. I should say something. Something professional and appropriate. Something that would establish boundaries and make it clear that last night was a one-time thing.
Instead, what came out was: "I'm not falling for you."
Matt's eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners as a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. I was so screwed. "Come on, the counselors arrive soon, and the campers will be here right after that. It's almost done, so we need to get some work done before dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Your belated birthday party."
"And?"
He hauled me against his side and bit my ear. "Another party in my bed?"
"Holy shit, that was a cheesy line."
Matt waggled his eyebrows. "You want it, though."