Chapter 13 #3
There’s a pause as they all process the statement, then Pierce cuts through the quiet with a lighthearted, “All right, Romeo. Whatever you say. But all you fuckers”—he points around the circle accusingly, eyes narrowed—“better put a finger down.” And they all do.
Even Forty, though he looks a little wistful as he folds his thumb toward his palm.
Grace’s head is drowning in the echo of Crew’s words.
She tries not to be too terribly obvious that she’s watching him, but it can’t be helped.
Once the attention has moved away from him, he leans back in his chair and exhales, then tosses back a healthy glug of whiskey.
There’s a melancholic tinge to his features now, and Grace wonders if it pains him, being honest like that.
Vulnerable and open, especially with those he’s entrusted to lead.
He stares at the fire, looking but not seeing, and idly taps his fingers against the side of his leg.
A not-small part of her wants to tell him that she gets it—what he said about casual sex. Though it isn’t something she’s ever put into words, she understands what he means about bodies in repetitive motion.
But, if she’s being painfully honest with herself, she didn’t really think there was an alternative.
Sex, for Grace, has always been a favor, a box to check, an unspoken rite of passage that would allow her to cross over the threshold of girlhood.
It’s never been something to truly enjoy, or relish, or look forward to.
It’s never brought her closer to someone.
It’s never been something she’s done because she’s in love.
Her thoughts begin to take the shape of something she’s never known—something that has her stomach tightening and her cheeks blooming with intrigue.
A man and a woman coming together again and again, learning each other, loving and talking and laughing.
A current of pleasure so strong it runs through them both, pulling them under the surface and into a pool of golden warmth.
Dark hair twined within her fingers; freckles spread out unevenly, unpredictably over muscular arms; a smile so slow and hard-won that it melts her into a puddle of want.
Grace leans toward him slightly, gearing up to speak.
What will roll off her tongue is anyone’s guess, but she has to say something.
She has to know what he means when he says not checking in and out of a motel of intimacy.
She has to understand how it can ever be more meaningful than that, and if giving it meaning gives it the power to actually feel good.
Because it has never felt good, and she’s had nearly a decade of thinking it simply isn’t supposed to.
He notices her before she can utter a single word, and she must be absolutely radiating her fascination and curiosity, because he gives her a soft, barely there smile, as if already aware of the thoughts racing through her brain.
Her nostrils flare under his gentle gaze, and whatever unintelligible mess was about to leave her lips is stymied entirely by this look—this comforting, reassuring gaze.
Does he already know? Has he already figured out that she is just like him? It seems impossible, and yet—
She gives in and hopes for the best. “Crew, I—”
“Okay, Grace,” Pierce interrupts joyfully, loudly, “your turn. And remember: no PG-13 bullshit. We want the stuff they keep behind the beaded curtain you can’t get to without showing your ID.”
“You really show your age when you talk about video stores,” June says.
The circle seems to wait with bated breath, much like they did for Crew, and Grace begins actively trying not to panic.
She could make something up—they wouldn’t know, couldn’t verify.
But it feels wrong when so many turns have been taken with such intimate, personal details.
The group doesn’t seem to hide much from one another, and she likes being part of the group.
Something enters her field of vision, and she looks down to see the Jameson bottle.
Crew holds it out for her, encouraging her with a nudge.
“This will help,” he says quietly. “At the very least, it’ll stop you from remembering what you fessed up to in the morning.”
Grace nods, taking the bottle and immediately tipping it back to guzzle down a couple of warm, bitter mouthfuls.
She winces upon swallowing, but the burn is almost immediate and surprisingly pleasant.
Then, she clears her throat, racks her brain for a good fifteen seconds, and sighs.
“Okay,” she says to the circle. She stares at the dirt, at the kindling at the base of the fire curling at the edges, the ashes of logs that have already succumbed to the heat.
If she tells them what she really wants to say, what’s at the forefront of her mind in giant, neon letters, it would reveal something about her that she’s never told anyone.
It would reveal her bad habit of swallowing her voice when she should speak up, and that she’s never been brave enough to fight for the satiation of the gnawing hunger that’s been lingering in her gut since she was a teenager.
But the whiskey must be working its magic quickly, numbing her conscience and punching holes in the barriers of her truth, because—
Fuck it, she thinks, then finishes her statement, clear as day and as unashamed as she can manage. “Never have I ever had an orgasm.”
The reaction, or the lack thereof, is not what she’d expected. Hardly anyone moves, let alone speaks; they all seem to be processing the bomb she just dropped. They stare at her for a beat, and then awkward eyes begin to dart in different directions.
June is the only one who speaks up, and only once she has turned her entire body to face Grace with an incredulous expression. “You mean, like…with someone else, right?”
Grace takes another good, long sip of whiskey. She’ll need as much as she can handle if she’s going to have to answer follow-up questions. With a wince and a sigh as it settles in her stomach, she shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Oh, honey,” June says, and the pity in her voice makes Grace want to sink into her chair and disappear.
From across the circle, Caleb barks, “What kind of selfish bastards you been sleeping with?”
The sound of mumbled agreements ripples through the rest of the guys.
As they all stare at her, it feels a bit like she’s a subject in a lab, being so thoroughly studied like this, poked and prodded to see what reactions may occur.
Grace won’t let things get too personal—can’t let the questions go any deeper than this.
So, she manages a wry smile and says, “Only ranch hands, actually. In my experience, y’all aren’t the giving type. ”
Caleb puts a hand to his chest, wounded by her statement, but it’s Mikey who asks the million-dollar question, or at least attempts to. “And what about by yourse—”
Maybe it’s on her face, a flash of terror or shame that signals she does not want to get into this, and she regrets even bringing it up, because June cuts him off quickly. “What a lady does in her alone time is none of your business, Michael Chapman.”
Mikey’s mouth, hung open and ready to finish his question, promptly snaps shut.
Grace takes another swig. She’s pleasantly numb and warm now, embarrassment dulled in her belly and a blooming affection for June in her chest. Especially when June snatches the bottle from her and says, “My turn.”
The guys all shift their attention from Grace to June without further comment.
They smile and wait for whatever is about to be revealed, and it’s suddenly completely fine that Grace has shared something so private, so revealing.
Because while they may be curious, they aren’t altogether interested in understanding the logistics.
Not a single one of them gives her a second glance once June has the floor—no appraising looks, no curious or hungry eyes scanning her, mapping out the ways they could remedy this… ailment of hers.
“Never have I ever had sex while someone else was in the room,” June declares, a slow grin spreading onto her face.
Multiple heads dip down in shame; multiple fingers fold down, and groans of disgust sound from everyone whose hand remains unchanged. Those innocent of this seem to recall the exact situation that makes the others guilty, and are evidently still as put off by it as they were when it occurred.
“Naughty, no-good boys,” June tuts, shaking her head. She tosses back a sip from the bottle and then stands. “I’m beat, y’all. Let’s continue this tomorrow.”
Some protest, but enough are in agreement that the game is put on pause.
Pierce puts the fire out as Harrison and Caleb toss empty cans and paper plates into trash bags.
A couple of guys wander off to relieve themselves.
When Grace stands to join the exodus, she realizes very quickly how drunk she is.
Just rising from her seat has her tilting over, nearly plummeting into the dirt, but then there’s a hand at her elbow, keeping her upright.
She glances up to see Crew, who isn’t even looking at her, but has somehow managed to keep her steady nonetheless.
She studies him unabashedly, the hard set of his jaw, the stoniness that bleeds into every line of his face as he watches the last golden ember in the pile blink out and turn to gray.
Grace snorts, then chuckles to herself. Crew looks at her, his brows pulling together to make him look even more serious than he did seconds before. It makes her laugh even harder.
His eyes narrow. “What?”
She catches her breath and says, “Well, it’s just…” She looks at the ashes, barely visible in the moonlit night. “We can build another fire tomorrow. You don’t have to look so upset about this one being put out.”